As I recall, the average human is immune to the pixie dust unless the experience is mediated by (A) childhood—anecdotal evidence suggests that merely by having an urchin in tow a mild "contact high" can be achieved, or (B) a few hundred micrograms of a once-popular indole alkaloid. I tried the first approach in 1957 and again in 1965; the second on half a dozen occasions between 1969 and 1971. On one of these latter expeditions a companion thought it would be droll for us to ride through the über-treacly "It's a Small World" attraction. The machinery stalled, and our car was stuck in a chamber with a hundred demonic singing manikins warbling the ride's eponymous ditty. I was wearing a watch; the twenty minutes seemed like...well, in that condition the twenty minutes passed v-e-r-r-r-y slowly. mmoffit would have been grimly pleased. It was a couple of chastened and trembling teenagers who emerged at length from the exit.

cordially,

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