The Verizons Convention

Note: All accounts and descriptions contained herein are entirely fictional and any resemblance to real events and people are purely coincidental.

If you want a comprehensive and cutting edge overview of the psychedelic renaissance, go to the Verizons convention.

The term ‘psychedelic renaissance’ sounds as annoying in person as it does in writing.

If Lord Farquad himself told you that the psychedelic renaissance had arrived in Duloc, it would somehow sound more agreeable than hearing a Michael Pollan doppelgänger say it while thanking Michael Pollan for introducing the world to psychedelics.

If you ever feel like the planet is going to shit, just sit through a panel where a pasty old white dude in a $3000 suit says “I’ve been a psychedelic CEO for three weeks now” while fumbling through a power point presentation about the value chain his biopharmaceutical company is creating around drug development pipelines. Instantaneously, you’ll understand that the psychedelic renaissance is here to help us all pull our heads out of our asses.

Then you take your eyes off of him and the searing blind spots - er, bald spots with blinding glare from the house lights - and you scan the audience for any signs of diversity or spirit, but all you see is a 22-year-old ketamine company CEO surrounded by his posse of yes men looking straight out of a scene from Succession.

After the fiduciary interest disclosures are glossed over, our ex-Pfizer executive and current psychedelic industry spokesperson on stage launches into a riveting exposé about the future of psychedelic medicine - which promises to be exactly as revolutionary and transformative as any other biotech play that the local hedge fund manager beefs up his portfolio with.

But fret not - after three soul crushing days of Waspy clout men unleashing their commodity fetish on psychedelics and speaking more about shareholder revenue and clinical trials than ego deaths and social justice, there is in fact one day of the conference dedicated as a diversity hire tax write off.

This day platforms perspectives on psychedelics in the Global South - fittingly delivered by more white guys. Finally, an equity initiative I can get behind - back to back panels of different white anthropologists speaking about the plight of the indigenous people they studied as part of their PhD research! Nothing screams ‘equity in psychedelics’ like a British man explaining the nuances of tribal culture.

Beyond the panels and the almost free chocolate being given out in exchange for your data and support as a foundational member of another disruptive psychedelic organization, the nightlife at Verizons is where the magic happens. It’s like the first day of high school all over again - exclusive invite lists, cliques, and people in designer drip unironically dropping the label ‘psychedelic ecosystem’ every other sentence.

After going to town on the Camembert cheese and foie gras because you’ve been eating dollar pizza in Queens all week, you bump into a psychedelic pharmaceutical executive and accidentally cause him to spill some of his Dom Perignon. You quickly put your head down and maneuver around his bloated entourage, hoping that the dim lights and the general haziness of those in attendance shields you from being thrown out of the party before you can grab more Camembert and some organic Turkish figs for the metro ride back to Queens. Everyone else at the party is staying in Soho, but as long as you keep quiet and maintain your whiteness they might mistake you for one of their own and eventually drop some money on you.

Someone at the party recognizes you. This is exactly what you didn’t want to happen. They launch into their ninth elevator pitch of the night and ask you if you’re interested in investing. Nine elevator pitches - one for each of Dante’s nine circles of hell. Thankfully, they mistook you for someone else - the ketamine they just railed in the Art Deco bathroom probably had something to do with it. It’s time to get out of here and get three hours of sleep before going back to the conference and pretending like we’re all doing something important here.

On the way out the door, you notice a VC that’s been blowing up your LinkedIn feed with self-aggrandizing narratives about the tangible impacts of the multi-million dollar fund he manages. You immediately notice the polish on his exotic leather shoes. You’ve seen these shoes before, at a fashion house in Paris. The cut and the sheen are unmistakable: They’re made from baby elephant ears, a choice of footwear so rare, that it’s illegal to own them if you have a net worth below 50 million dollars. This is why you flew internationally using credit card points and commuted an hour each way every day to this conference while third-wheeling it in a Queens apartment that you still somehow still don’t have the money to afford a week’s stay at: to give this VC douche bag a flat tire on his elephant leather shoes on your way out the door with pockets stuffed full of Camembert and prosciutto, through the brisk autumn night and down into the subway station below ground with the rest of the cretins who standby waiting for the psychedelic renaissance to collapse under it’s own hubris.