Monthly Archives: April 2011

‘…like crack’

Or rather:

 …like crack : pseudo-hipster “the office”-style.

aka 

The ‘When Drugs & Hipsters Collide’ Ultimate Super-Post!

Awesome! …and also the reason (though an interesting point has been brought up) pseudo-hipsters and hipsters are douche bags.

I mean, I’m not offended when anyone says ‘like crack’. I love it. I wish it spreads and generations and cultures of people start comfortably throwing it around… I mean, like the proverbial grand mother at Thanksgiving or the African kid (that doesn’t speak English) at his tribal gathering.

Nothing would make me happier.

…with the exception of crack.

Brought to you from the crack vault beneath 23rd Street (it’s kind of like a wine cellar for crack. …well, there is wine there, too).

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Hollywood ASST

So, again, the author here is going crazy posting semi-off-topic things. I am not trying to alienate. But, to be honest, roughly one-third of my time I was tweaked and wined-calm was on a desk of a Hollywood exec. Which, now, that I think about it is not that uncommon in Hollywood. Maybe a bit uncommon for an assistant. But my most mild, ‘controlled’ and last hurrah was on a desk talking to a client of one of three bosses I had at the time on Mid-Wilshire. Lest we not forget the long ago and faraway “…this took a bit more planning” (which incidentally has been updated with a small time and space thing and makes it a total !must-read!). Well, then, there was that interim thing that I had shortly after.

Why am I telling you any of this? Well, it’s possible to carry-on as a functional human being… furthermore, excel at the human being/efficiency stuff while on meth and 2 buck chuck at 8AM in the morning. And long hours, man. You gotta love what you are doing. Tweaked and balanced-down, I was happy as a clam. Also, gregarious-enough and insightful and able to bring it back around to the parts of the business that related to the parts of art in film. And because I’m going to post this video. You see, even though I am once again, in the city that never sleeps, I will always miss my years in the city that never cares. It was quite serendipitous.

[vimeo http://vimeo.com/3265420]

This is a relatively old video, but the folks at 23rd Street love the occasional reminiscing. We promise that we will get back on track with the self-loathing after-drug stuff soon.

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‘…like crack’

Or rather:

 …like crack : pseudo-hipster “the office”-style.

aka 

The ‘When Drugs & Hipsters Collide’ Ultimate Super-Post!

Awesome! …and also the reason (though an interesting point has been brought up) pseudo-hipsters and hipsters are douche bags. The ultimate when Drugs and Hipsters Collide Super-Post!

I mean, I’m not offended when anyone says ‘like crack’. I love it. I wish it spreads and generations and cultures of people start comfortably throwing it around… I mean, like the proverbial grand mother at Thanksgiving or the African kid (that doesn’t speak English) at his tribal gathering.

Nothing would make me happier.

…with the exception of crack.

Brought to you from the crack vault beneath 23rd Street (it’s kind of like a wine cellar for crack. …well, there is wine there, too).

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[post-blissed-out] quote of the day

I haven’t quoted a movie since my days in the land of bliss, but I thought that this may be something?

 …sometimes, I wonder how I got to be this person. you have a version, in your head, of who you think you are… and then, one day, you realize that you are just this sum total of a bunch of bad decisions and stupid behaviour. 

the high cost of living

It’s from this film called “The High Cost of Living” (obviously) that I haven’t actually seen. …so, I don’t know if it’s any good. But then again, it’s saturday, so… you know.

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I am a whore [cont’d]

Part I of “I am a whore” can be found by either clicking on the link or scrolling down ever-so-slightly.

So, Tom, dictionary.com and my logic have determined that I’m not, indeed, a whore. Though, to reiteriate, this is only due to the fact that I’m sexually stunted… sort of. To explain, I’m not a virgin or anything… that would be kind of randomly fucked (ha! see what I did there?). However, I’ve never actually had sex while sober. This tends to happen when one is consistently high and/or drunk for 10 years. This brings up the fact that I may not actually remember all of my sexual encounters. So, there’s that, but what can one do in that regard? eh…

By sex, I don’t mean oral or some sort of kiddie ride version of sex… but actual sex. 

On with the story:

In addition, I’ve never had sex with one person more than once. That, in itself, totally sounds: whore! The aforementioned with the exception of Mr Leaving West Hollywood. Whom, you may remember from his brief appearance in American Idiot (the musical) & Me (the liar). And with Mr Leaving West Hollywood, the sex was basically constant, as he is insatiable. But again, it was a very sad sort of pickled-liver alcoholic craziness.*

*wait, not only Mr LWH, possibly (I feel most likely)… lets call him Mr. Not-Alive-Anymore (aka Dead Phil). Now, the not-alive-anymore-part has nothing to do with either the author or drugs. Literally, some kind of freak accident. He was sweet and probably (literally) saved my life more times than I can remember. These were the days of primo-primo-junkie-meth. This is 23rd Street. I am young and wide-eyed and blissed beyond the imaginable. In NY, that particular summer, there was a massive brown-out. This is the only time that I remember the goings-on (in flashes)… and Mr. NAA saving my life. I know it was bad. And I know that I am alive. But that is another story. (and I will tell it… as much as I can remember because he did save my life). Anyway, for “I am a whore” purposes… he, like Mr LWH was someone that I believe that I’ve had sex with more than once. But unlike Mr LWH, Mr NAA wasn’t a crazed sex-fiend .

And, so there’s that. I mean, as far as sexual history goes… that’s what you’re gonna get right now.

Whatever the above amounts to, though, we’ve decided that, at least literally, I’m not a whore. However, it doesn’t explain anything about the fact that I feel like one.

So, he pays for everything, he is a thousand years older than me and I probably wouldn’t hang out with him, if he couldn’t help me (job-wise) and/or pay for everything. So, on the surface, atleast, it all looks very “whore”. I must say that I do enjoy his company and can actually have an interesting conversation with him… but then again, if one is pouring alcohol down my throat, I can probably have interesting conversation with a turtle.

But mostly, this is the complete opposite of my M.O. I don’t get random things for being eye-candy on someone’s arm. Simply because I am not eye-candy. I like my rapscallion homeless vibe. This is one thing that I have a hard time reconciling.

Again, to be continued. Sorry.

Though, to backtrack here, from a self-professed whore, here is another definition:

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I am a whore

My friend Tom says that I’m not a whore because one has to sleep with (fuck) the whore-er to be in consideration for the position of whore. I suppose he might be correct. But I still feel covered in a veil of metaphorical whore-ity, if you will. Let us defer to dictionary.com.

whore

[hawr, hohr or, often, hoor]
noun, verb, whored, whor·ing.
–noun
1. a woman who engages in promiscuous sexual intercourse,usually for money; prostitute; harlot; strumpet.

hmm… apparently, dictionary.com says that I’m not a whore, either… though I must say, strumpet sounds like something that I would be (it sounds like a cute, homeless chick that you found in the woods). But unlike Tom and/or dictionary.com, I take liberty with words. And by ‘take liberty’, I mean, not know what a word actually means and rather than looking it up, “feel what it should mean” and then use it in this capacity. It works. Well, it’s never not (yay, double-negative!) worked. I have considered myself and have been considered by others, a writer. My grave inability to speak (or rather, the slow slow process of retrieving thoughts from my brain to my mouth) forced my communication skills to align with the written word, rather than the spoken word.*

*this brain-to-mouth process would also be a huge catalyst behind my theoretical need/acquisition & usage of/subsequent addiction to methamphetamines… but this is another story.

In addition, I understand the fact that time and culture can morph words into things that are, though at their core still the same, a very different animal. I also understand the fact that the word “whore” is thrown around these days like America’s dirty rag-doll. I totally throw it around all the time. …and I enjoy it!

But, then again, I do take liberty with words.

And here is the unreconcilable nature of whore/non-whore: by this definition, I could never be considered a whore.

You see, as much as I brandish around and revel in my position as a high-level, extremely knowledgable and versatile drug addict… I would probably say that I am a college grad; possibly entry-level at best, sex person.

sex, drugs and rock n roll, baby.

Certain things go hand-in-hand, or are rather, frequently associated with one and other. Drug addiction, self-destructive tendencies, sexual promiscuity, blahblahblah. But frequent association is just that. This is why “the syndrome” is so retarded. Medical professionals taking symptoms that frequently co-occur and bunching them together and naming it something-syndrome. But I digress.

If we take “whore” in it’s most literal iteration of whore = sexual promiscuity… I would never be a whore.

As awesome and fun and socially-reinforcing as I can be… it could be said that I am also, for lack of a better word, afraid of people. I like controlling my own thing, being self-sufficient and choosing to self-destruct by myself, on my own… or not.

And thus, enter whore-ity, stage left. Drinks. ghey. “Lets do drinks”. ghey. Unfortunately, this is sort of a requirement in the entertainment industry. Fortunately, in the absence of hard drugs, I’ve become quite the alcoholic. And the condescending sounding vernacular moves aside while I step in to order a vodka and something. But to ease for mere seconds back into the category of condescending ghey once more, there is an art to Drinks as chronicled, in the best possible way, in this article from stuffhollywoodassistantslike.com. Read it. Its kind of awesome.

Anyway, whether one is in whatever city they are in, if one works in the entertainment industry… ‘drinks’ are kind of a requirement. In so saying, new again to New York… I decided that accepting the offer to have aforementioned ‘drinks’ with talent manager A was probably a good thing (-martha stewart).

Martha!? Was it a good thing? Was it really?

I am poor and after the project I was working on was done, I am also unemployed.

Why would Talent manager A even want to have drinks with random, who the fuck are you-me? There was an email exchange that made him think that I had integrity. Apparently, integrity is the end-all, be-all with this guy. So, there’s that. Also, at the time, I was working for one of the most respected people in this field. Furthermore, three or four people that have been Boss A’s assistant in the past, have gone on to be retarded-successful in their own rites.

As my first instinct is to steer clear of people (either that or the exact opposite, to go balls-to-the-wall) plus this job, the schedule and my sanity… I basically ignored him. But his persistence and because of Martha Stewart’s words of wisdom, I decided that one drink after work wouldn’t kill me.

I never thought, though, that it would make me a whore.

But it didn’t kill me. Two drinks. The end.

…or I thought.

Another penciled… and I mean very lightly penciled in theoretical drinks were to be on the books. Months pass. I prolong as I’ve prolonged before. Then, as I was still unemployed coupled with the fact that he made it clear, in no uncertain terms that he would pay for everything all the time (He used to do this with Boss A… in his own words, smiling, he said, “she used me all the time. Whenever she wanted to see a show, she would call me up and I would pay for it”) I went.

And this is where something goes a bit awry. I have become quite the bottomless pit of alcohol. He pays. I drink. We talk. It’s fun. But just because I can hold my grey goose doesn’t mean that I don’t fall victim to my own rose-colored social glasses that accompanies excessive drinking. I can talk about everything, everything is interesting… the world is my oyster, anything is possible… and I think that I kind of agree to be a girlfriend-ish person.

…to be continued.

I am aware that the “to be continued” phrase on 23rd street is almost always a lie, but I believe this will actually be continued.

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Random Posts from the Interwebs

and so it is...

…just another refreshingly sad image found stumbling around on the interwebs.

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Dr Drew Sucks

he is a media whore and compulsive workaholic.

…but there is a part of me that is fascinated in the manner of rubber-necking on the freeway… need to see the bloody bloody accident like biting tin foil and the electric charge that happens when it hits your tooth… not comfortable in any way… but ultimately comfortable because the semi-painful electric charge reinforces everything.

because you control it.

plus, there is this retarded feeling that I want him to be my father.

I hate him.

But he is incorrect, you know. Read and listen:

lies, lies, lies

Its funny… I’m still a speed addict and a speed user. But what I am currently taking is not abusable. dextroamphetamine spanules. WTF is a spanule? It’s a fucking thing that you can’t take more of. You can, but not in a junkie way. I guess that it may be the lack of immediacy and the time-release mechanism. Crushing and snorting does nothing.

But, in the end, he is wrong.

The ADHD pills have made me functional without being a crackwhore. It’s still speed. Always. But it has helped. It’s stretched time in a way I’ve never thought possible.

So, in the end, what is wrong with that? Swallowing the pill like a vitamin in the morning. What is wrong with that?

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American Idiot, Universal & the Big Leap

Contrary to appearance, this is not a Green Day and/or American Idiot blog, by any means. The folks at 23rd street merely happen to become a bit specifically obsessive at times. Though, it must be stated that this… blog (in it’s earliest incarnation) did start out as an experiment by a would-be/was writer trying out this blog game after one last hurrah in meth-wine-country. At this time, it was an unfocused voyage into the land that would meet at the intersection of drugs + various art/psychology/culture/hollywood/new york/whatever-avenue and all.

Currently, the folks at 23rd Street have decided to focus with the dexedrine and make this primarily a drug abuse-ish blog. However, aforementioned folks would be remiss if they didn’t mention, again; American Idiot.

I work in ‘the industry’… as cheese-tastic and sell-out-ish as that makes me. So, I know that Universal is in negotiations with Playtone and Michael Mayer is to direct with Dustin Lance Black writing. This can go many different ways. But I am hopeful rather than frightened. And don’t worry, I’m currently on my knees on the floor, picking up all the names that I’ve just dropped.

Billie fuckin’ Joe as St Jimmy kicks ass. As for other casting news, I got nothing. Original cast would be nice… the best choice. I make an exception for Lou Pucci. I love… though, I have reason to believe he cannot sing… either that or he cannot do an Irish brogue. But I digress. Or Ezra Miller. NY talent, bitches!

This has quickly become about nothing that has to do with drugs.

Thank you, drive thru.

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An American Idiot moment

I’m currently suffering from an American Idiot (the musical) moment.

Uncharacteristically and uncomfortably dressed like someone that works in a business office furiously typing away about unimportant things. You see, I used to have an ensem that is basically the same as the ensem that currently burns my soul. It’s the shirt. Well, to be more accurate, it’s the business-jackety thing.

…to be continued…

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