The Horse Fair

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Note: This story is NOT safe for work or for those uncomfortable with graphic descriptions of male-on-male sex.

“Red blindfold or white blindfold?” asked the bouncer wearing ass-less chaps and a T-shirt with a logo of a horse’s ass above the name ‘Fickstutenmark.’ “Red means bareback is ok. White means Condom only.” This was the second thing asked of me at The Horse Fair — the kinkiest, craziest, sexiest, scariest thing I have ever done in my life. The first question the bouncer asked me was, “Have you read the FAQ?”

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The Time I Shit Myself On A Balcony In Prague

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The trouble began in Bratislava.

Something in the Slovakian water? The hand-tossed salad I ate at the bus depot? Whatever the culprit, my stomach was queasy by the time my Flixbus pulled in to Prague Central Station on a Friday at 6:00 PM. I wrote it off as travel fatigue, a low-grade cold — something to push through and not slow down my itinerary. I had a whole city to see!

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Smoking The Toad

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My ears were ringing and I was rushing away from my body; I was losing control of myself; I was shouting the word “Surrender! Surrender! Surrender!” in my mind — but my mind was being shattered and flung into a nameless void that was infinitely dark and infinitely bright at the same time.

This was the onset of me smoking the crystalized venom of the Bufo Alvarius toad on the floor of a chic apartment on the Upper West side of NYC. Also known as the Sonoran Desert Toad, this little sucker secretes a venom containing 5-MeO-DMT (four–six times more potent then synthesized DMT). This chemical is the most powerful psychedelic known to man (it should be noted the toads are not harmed in the milking of the venom, and the venom is physically harmless to humans so long as it is vaporized). I had elected to blow my mind apart at the well-furnished home of a healer I’d met on my recent Ayahuasca experience. I wanted to see what was on the other side of my ego.

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Airbnb Nightmares

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Want to watch this story performed live (AS A SONG?), click here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lUdGuUInnvE

For a time, I sublet a spare bedroom of mine in Brooklyn on Airbnb. I was a Superhost, which meant I sported a listing with great reviews and provided a quality stay in New York City. But, every success story is a product of surviving nightmares. Here are my three favorite Airbnb tales:

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Michael The Realistic Mystic

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“You’re not as good as you think you are,” Michael The Realistic Mystic told me in the French Quarter of New Orleans.

I was in NOLA for a friend’s wedding. On the night before it, I’d drunkenly walked past Michael without noticing him in his beach chair on the sidewalk. I was lost in the humid, hedonistic spirit of the city, as well as the contents of my to-go cup filled with Coffee and Kahlua milkshake. But my friend Julia, who has an eye for mischief, saw Michael and tugged the back of my purple-beaded necklace to halt me. “Look,” she said, “It’s Michael The Realistic Mystic! Should you get a reading, Flybot?” Julesbot and I had known each other long enough to have robot nicknames for one another.

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How to Bathe to Robyn's Album: HONEY

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It’s cold out. Let’s take a bath to Robyn’s latest album HONEY:

  1. Procure and place the following items next to your bathtub: one waterproof speaker, one bag of your favorite scented Epsom salt, one towel of at least Wamsutta quality, one rubber ducky (ideally the one you’ve saved since childhood), and one jar of all-natural, local honey.

  2. Ensure you have nothing to do for the next 40:18 minutes. Light your bathroom appropriately with a candle, disco ball, or color-changing LED lights on a pre-programmed loop. Load up HONEY, Robyn’s latest album, on your streaming platform or musical library of choice. Remove your clothes.

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The Four Traps

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As an artist and a human being, I’ve found four emotions that trap me:

Pity: no one wants pity you. It’s seductive to want pity, to be consoled, to be told nothing’s your fault, and the world isn’t fair. But the truth is: no one really wants to feel sorry for you. And you don’t want someone to pity you, as much as you may imagine you want it. It’s humiliating. Pity is a useless emotion. Nothing comes from pity — no release, no catharsis. It just wastes everyone’s time.

  • What is the antitode to Pity? Anger. As a 65-year old man in a clown outfit named Lunatic at Burning Man told me once, Anger is a transformative emotion. You can do something with anger. You can write your anger, sing your anger, create from your anger. It transmutes your depression into something tangible, and whether or not you share what you create with the world, it leeches the poison out of you. Honoring your anger is part of honoring yourself — warts and all. Anger is valid and helpful and it’s part of your human dignity. Best of all: it can lead to something — it moves the pain and releases it.

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