Category Archives: Drugs

Amphetamine of the Year

We, at 23rd Street, cannot go idly by when a post is dripping with this much speed:

Amphetamine of the Year [Motherboard]

1437071464139736

Also, our ridiculous degree of love for VICE & Motherboard, et al apparently knows NO bounds. We exist in a benevolent metastatic spread of delight & elation.

Happy Friday!

Advertisements
Tagged , , , , ,

David Chang is my Hero

WoW! This blog hasn’t received any amount of love in forever. I’m not sure I even remember how to do this. I feel it only appropriate to provide it some love:

Watch it until the end.

Tagged , , , ,

How to Sell Drugs

Ohhhh, vice.com, how much do we love you?

How to Sell Drugs (vice.com)

 

Tagged , ,

Why Big Pharma is Causing the Adderall Shortage

Why Big Pharma is Causing the Adderall Shortage (thefix.com)

Adderall is, as we’ve mentioned before, “Dexedrine but dirty. Like an STD infested hooker, instead of an escort service.”. But still, this whole thing affects all ADD stimulant drugs.

Tagged , , ,

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

This blog has, recently, become less specifically ‘drugs’ and more ‘whatever idea or soundbyte sort of makes sense and somewhat justifies my existence at this point in time or justifies from a moment in the past my existence now’.

And I remember. Buzzing about Manhattan. Between Job #1 and Job #2 [which were technically the same job in different locations] or Job #1 and School… or Job #1.5 and the crack shack [home]. This time that exists in between… that one has to ‘kill’ we spent in the Barnes and Noble on 6th Avenue. The Barnes and Noble that doesn’t exist anymore. Shooting up in the bathroom, then finding a calm but buzzing about internally.

See, I was still a writer then… and as I writer, I read. I DEVOURED books. And in the air-conditioning, in the Barnes and Noble on 23rd Street and 6th Avenue,  I killed the time that actual life wasn’t fit to kill. Walking amongst the stacks, opening the books, on a quest to find something that was good enough to be read… but really, on a quest to find something, anything [like now] that either makes sense or somewhat justifies my existence.

In so doing, I came upon, “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”. I felt above it or just like, ‘no’, somehow. I think it was written by a 13 year-old or something and it was probably really meta-. A young would-be writer writing about writing with words in a book that he’s written. I opted instead for “Well” by Matthew McIntosh. A novel told in a stream of consciousness manner about the sadness of the pacific northwest [one or two pages stained with a mixture of a squirt of blood/saline/some drug]. Anyway, I probably really just felt angry and resentful that this sort of thing (“Perks…”) could be on the shelf all popular and shit. …that this sort of watered-down bullshit could pass these days as meaningful. But mostly, I probably was jealous.

Anyway, so now, it’s a film. A thousand years later.

And so a million years later. And Ezra Miller is my boy… Logan Lerman & a short-haired Emma Watson, not bad, either. It reminds me of “The Mysteries of Pittsburgh” in tone [the book, not the movie]. …yes, there was a film.

And well, I can never not fall in love with a coming-of-age story.

Tagged , , , , , , ,

The Crackcident

Because this sort of accident is always welcome at 23rd Street:

but, really, not oops ….because its awesome!

Tagged , , , ,

What Did We Learn on the Show Tonight, Craig?

meeewww?

There may be a correlation between the amount of writing done here on 23rd Street recently (none) and the degree to which we feel that we are ‘out of the woods’ as it were (the woods of substance abuse and drug addiction). This is, of course interpretive, based on denial and fueled by the expansion of time (i.e. distance from relative cessation of the hardcore substance abuse) and sealed into a pretty little envelope by the fact that we have come to believe that we are finally ‘normal’.

Then, all of the sudden, Craig Ferguson comes around to remind us that, you know, “remember the time when you were high all the time?” Nothing against Craig Ferguson at all. I’ve actually become acutely addicted to the non-sequitur slinging, late-late night Scotch-American. He’s awesome. In addition, there is nothing aggressively drugged-out about him, either. But, once in a while, he will regale the audience with a half-tale of his version of the 1980’s or just make known the fact that he has been sober 20 years or something. Then, back to regular shenanigans.

So, that is all good & fine. right?

Well, see now, part of my absolute affinity toward Mr. Ferguson is the fact that he was once a hardcore, falling-down hedonistic drunk person. Why?

I mean, one could probably easily connect the proverbial dots (as this is a sort of “addiction” blog-ish operation that we have going on here). But the answer to the aforementioned is much messier and possibly a lot different than the easy page of connect the dots would have one believe. In addition, just because ‘affinity’ is a positive affectation, doesn’t mean that everything that it manifests is positive.

The easy version of connect the dots would draw a picture of identification, I suppose. And this would be true.

I’ve never had “drug-friends”, even whilst doing drugs. And after it all, since I’ve never been in recovery… I’ve never had to sit in a place with chairs and people that tell stories of ‘rock-bottom’ and such. I’ve never viewed the recovery process or have any real concept of it, especially as it applies to an actual person, in real life. It could be all ‘unicorns and plastic chairs and little paper cups with withdrawal pills’ for all I know. Everyone has a minute concept of AA or whatever. I am no different. But my concept of it is exactly that: minute. Books and television. For a once hardcore long-term drug user, I have no more an accurate picture of recovery than a person that can use a remote control.

As such, it is identification.

The more detailed version (the messier version) involves the reminder. The reminder of, “remember that decade when you were high every day?”. Because it is a reminder… because you forget. Again, believing that we are finally ‘normal’ and have been normal for a long time. Its about the fact that recovery (or whatever we are doing at 23rd Street) really requires a shaving away or dulling down. Things, once turned up to 11 have to be dialed down to some volume and frequency that creates a sustainable way of life. So, one doesn’t, like… die. The thing is: this sucks. Its a horrible notion and even more horrible practice. Especially in the beginning. This exceedingly grey-ness of life. This grey-ness that one has to practice… until one forgets that they are doing anything at all…. until one forgets that grey-ness sucks.

And that is all well-and-good. …Actually, as mentioned before, it sucks. But it is what it is. We could stop there, but the fact is, there is more going on beside this uncomfortably antithetical forced changing of behaviour. With the voluntary-ish behaviour change that brings upon this grey-ness… conscious of it or not, at least in our experience, we are killing something. Something is dying. That part of one’s life or certain beliefs or that part of one’s person. Most likely, some cocktail of all of these things. I would be surprised if most people didn’t do it this way. Thinking about it, now, lets say …5+ years after the fact, it just seems easier to dial that shit down if some part of you allows certain things to “die” and accepts the fact. And long after one feels a bit physically in a different place, there exists this period of mourning for that thing that one consciously still has no clue one has killed.

I mean, that’s how death (however, metaphorical) works, I think, no? However it does work, apparently, no one ever really gets over a death of something they believed in so whole-heartedly & loved. This sounds trivial but I loved meth. I suppose I can’t say it that way because I still love meth. The fact that I haven’t done it in forever doesn’t change the fact. The fact that I was able to dial it down to a semi-sustainable level and ‘forgot’ about it in a visceral manner doesn’t change the fact, either.

Nothing does.

I guess on some level, I knew this. And so, the object was to forget. With the increasing passage of time, this sort of thing becomes easier and easier until it becomes more of a cognitive thing. The fact that you know that you love meth. The fact that you were a hardcore meth user. But the drug has been removed from any sort of visceral feeling.

Until that is some random late late show host reminds one of the visceral.

Its strange, this was the first time, possibly ever, that I felt the visceral excitement of being an addict since I’ve stopped the drug. I felt like one of those people in cocaine studies that are shown pictures of paraphernalia as their dopaminergic centers or where ever light up in their brain as if they were high.

This is where it gets a bit messy. This pseudo-high (as pseudo as it may be) is a pleasurable feeling. And all of these things that I thought that I killed (that haven’t been felt for years) come flooding back in a lovely saturated sweet tangerine segment burst in your mouth.

And it has nothing to do with being afraid of becoming a junkie again or anything. I have absolutely no fear of that happening. Its just… with this reminder comes this anticlimactic notion of, “so, here we are”.

Here we are, because, really, where can we be but here? But what is ‘here’?

In addition, it reaffirms the notion that you are different… not normal. And only certain people will be able to understand this part of you. This is no longer catastrophic as you’ve been able to detach meth and meth-life and needles from your personality. You’ve been able to detach the degree of passion and positiveness and importance as it applies to you, inherently.

I suppose this may be a good thing. Well, neither specifically good nor bad. Rather time’s affect on objective introspection?

And so it goes.

-just another extremely sloppily written post from the folks at 23rd Street

Tagged , , , , ,

dirty dirty cops

Those Drugs? They Came From the Police (NYTimes.com)

Yeah, the folks at 23rd Street have once again become periodically inconsistent link-bitches.

It happens.

Too much thinking about menial bullshit coupled with not enough time to actualize aforementioned menial bullshit in a meaningful (or merely authentic) manner via written language. Your author, here, is fuckin tired (physically). And in a Joseph Heller manner, in a Catch 22, as it were. I mean, is there any other manner to be in a Catch 22? Probably not.

Whatever.

And so it goes…

Tagged , , , ,
%d bloggers like this: