Tag Archives: los angeles

I miss LA [aka culture and where are my pills, NY?]

Where are my fuckin' Pills, NY?!

Where are my fuckin' Pills, NY?!

Yes, sometimes when your author is blandly killing time in a CVS listening to popular music over the speakers that she would never admit liking… she feels a sort of longing for Los Angeles. There is a version of quiet in LA that is unique. Somehow, all of the sudden, one desires being in this slow, visually saturated, lonely Wong Kar Wai town. Laconic and alone, soothing self-introspection blended in via comforting and song-like voice over. To be clear, we use “Wong Kar Wai” as an adjective here. Somehow, one just wants to be there. Its a strange subtly self-effacing desire. Probably not much different from what I’ve felt before about living in Manhattan and effectively being a cog in a larger world. There is a difference, though. In Manhattan, there is no separation between person and city… it’s like one becomes a charcoal drawing who’s arm can with an accidental swipe of the artist’s hand, slowly disappear into the atmosphere… shading out. The mood can reach similar heights in both cities… the weight and/or cohesive, singular solidity of an individual will always remain on opposite spheres. One is definitively a separate entity in Los Angeles. …which makes a moody, lonely night with very little breeze and perfect temperature all-the-more striking… all-the-more alienating in a comforting manner.

I mean, as a good friend once said to a young author yet to experience Los Angeles, “Its everything that everyone says… it’s a place that one does not need to experience to  really know what it is”… or something like that. Great weather, vapid Hollywood stuff, you have to drive, blonde chicks, blahblahblah. This is all true. But there is longing for what I can only describe as a desire for true loneliness that one can only understand after experiencing it.

So there is that.

Now Los Angeles has also been known for its desperation. But it’s a desperation that lives just beneath the surface of the entire town. Quietly but solidly rumbling away. This is what happens when the weather is so comfortable and people smile all the time. Now, New York is also know for desperation. New York desperation is visible and tangible. Everything is just more difficult here. More difficult, more expensive, more extreme, more uncomfortable in a physical sense. Basically, you really have to want to live here. And this creates a city of very passionate people. Intense. But, man, sometimes you just want to chill for a second, even.

…and maybe you want to get an Rx for pills that are basically entitled to you in Los Angeles. And this story goes:

Part of this comes down to culture. There’s no one thats really “Old School” in LA. LA is the land of the eternally young. Regardless of if one is young or not, one aspires to appear youthful and relevant. You know, health and jogging and plastic surgery and yoga and whatever is the ‘new’ thing. This obsession with the ‘new’ probably contributes to what others attribute as a flatness to the place. The card-board cut-out-ness of it all. It almost destroys time up until this point (even though that is impossible).

Thus, there are no real old guys that have been, say a dentist, forever and therefore have that “in my day…” attitude.

Fixing everything with a pill and quick fixes are relatively new things. As such, they are things that this city [LA] has subscribed to with much gusto.

The theoretical Old School NY dentist (with possibly a stereotypical bit of east coast attitude) would subscribe to the notion of pain with a ‘tough it out’ sort of philosophy. Unimpressed or just unaware of the ‘quick fix’ as an option. Nothing needs to be fixed… it’s just pain.

This equals no pills.

No pills = boo!

Theoretical case in point: One goes to the multitude of dentists in LA (most, in my experience, East Indian… and some, of course, extremely fit and relatively good-looking) and for anything even minutely interpretively painful, one is almost expected an Rx for something recreationally abusable. A basic tooth extraction is guaranteed some vikes (I mean as it should be. Basic or not this is the ‘pulling teeth’ of actually pulling teeth). Even the suggestion of pain and small request gets an LA dentist pulling out his prescription pad. This author can tell you that she was novicained and nitroused up for a cleaning. A cleaning. A fuckin’ cleaning!!! Why does anyone need nitrous for a cleaning? Who the fuck cares?

One goes to the proverbial dentist in say… Queens, NY… one gets a basic wisdom tooth extraction (of an otherwise normal though cavity laden wisdom tooth… not impacted the root is not infected). Basic extraction, yes… but you are pulling a bony structure from inside a socket in one’s mouth. Yes, it didn’t really hurt, what with the novacaine and all.

“It may start to hurt when the novacaine wears off. If that happens just take 3 Advil.” – Dentist.

Trying not to sound like a drug seeking individual, “What if it really hurts?” – author.

I proceed to gently prod him in the direction of an opioid pill Rx. I leave with nothing except one less tooth and bloody gauze in my mouth. I give it a few for the novacaine to wear off (and it does hurt… on a scale of 1 to 10, I would say, 2?… but it does hurt), I call the office…

“It really really hurts… I didn’t know that it would hurt THIS much” – author.

The receptionist tells me to give it time and let the Advil take effect… if it still really hurts in a few hours, then call us back.

A few hours pass, I call. This time NY dentist gets on the phone. I, in no uncertain terms, describe the “pain that is radiating in my eyeball and head”.

“Take more Advil. I’m surprised that it hurts at all… You know, because these Tylenol with Codeine won’t even… [Won’t even WHAT?!]… no, Your best bet if the Advil doesn’t work is to take extra strength Tylenol.” -Dentist.

Okay, apparently, you don’t like my liver. I wasn’t even talking about Tylenol 3 which is a bullshit high.

So, drug-seeking-behaviour-seeming or not, someone’s gotta say it: “What about Vicodin?” – author.

“No, that wouldn’t even do anything for this sort of pain.” -Dentist.

What?!

Um, I’m sorry, yes it would.

You don’t need a degree in dentistry, in medicine, you don’t even need to know how to read…. you just need to have taken Vicodin one time in the past.

Stunned into silence, I hear myself utter, “Are you sure?”.

“Yeah…” -Dentist (as he goes back to his extra strength Tylenol stance).

Lies!!! And thus a HUGE piece of me wants to be back in LA where the weather is warm, pilot season is a-brewin’ and I don’t have to go thru this bullshit to obtain a valid prescription for valid pain for a mildly narcotic pill that I don’t end up getting anyway. All that I need to do is ask… and have a dental procedure.

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Why the Simple *snap* Hair Clip is a Drug Addict’s Best Friend [pt II]

For Part I, please see Why the Simple *snap* Hairclip is a Drug Addict’s Best Friend.

Innocuous, inexpensive, but mostly multi-functional is what the silver hair clip is. And such a serendipitous discovery, at that.

You see, not all cotton-candy pink wigs are created equally. Actually, though this may be true, what will carry us eventually to the point is that not all cotton-candy pink wig-wearers are created equally.

What does this mean? It means aforementioned gamine finds a way to make even wig-wearing a comfortingly repetitive entailed procedure. And one that somehow eventually becomes, for a while, atleast, absolutely neccesary, at that. To explain, for whatever reason an action is carried-out the first time, at this time, said action (this first time) is merely an action. The 2nd and 3rd times, even… one can consider said action merely an action. Conversely, at this time, it may already have developed into a sort of “habit”, if you will. “Whatever reason” may no longer be “whatever”, rather “whatever-though-deliberately-carried-out”.

It’s difficult to know exactly when said wig-wearing started to  become so necessary to the heroine of this story, but the folks at 23rd Street know that the individual actions to adorn said wig was increasingly becoming rigid, procedural & much, much too routine. Part of the ever-increasing routine’s rigidity involved the silver hair clip. Though, to be fair, the simple clip had been in heavy rotation in general, both before & after any wig-wearing took place.

An extremely simple piece of equipment it is. Even before the crystalline connection, so simple but in a pinch, so useful.

It’s a hair thing. 

But we digress.

Around the same time the wig-wearing becomes a routine, aforementioned young gamine had (by our account) already been an experienced self-administrating IV user for years. Though specific dates & specific substances are still in question (laying in the hands of 23rd Street’s research department), we can generally say that wig-wearing started somewhere around 2003. The IV Cocaine entered it’s preliminary out-phase in early 2002 (due to a septic infection & subsequent drug-testing, but that is another story). While the IV coke (and any coke for that matter) fizzles-out, more-or-less, the IV meth entered it’s in-phase approximately late autumn of 2002. …meaning the IV meth usage & wig-wearing did meet each other in time and space but were not necessarily connected. Rather, they were more-or-less mutually exclusive co-occurring “habits”, if you will. Furthermore, the IV meth usage will continue for a long long time after the wig-wearing will stop.

Okay, hair clip.

One day, as aforementioned young moppet takes a break from serving salad to patrons & employees of the 30 Rock building and enters the Rockefeller Center concourse level bathroom, she discovers, to her dismay, that though she has all her “gear” with her, she had nothing in particular to scoop the crystals from the bag onto the spoon. Not a huge deal, of course. One can always tap, tap the baggie on the spoon as the crystalline wonder falls on the waiting spoon. But then, a thought. The hair clip that secured the cotton-candy pink wig to the left side of her head had the perfect slight curve and small size to function as a measuring device as well as a scooper from a small illicit drug baggie. And it was metal thus easily sanitized by a quick isopropyl swipe.

The rest, as they say, is history. A perfect little scoop from a perfectly innocuous device created to keep hair in place.

Though this is not exactly “Why the Simple Hair Clip is a Drug Addict’s Best Friend”.

For this, we need to fast-forward around 2 years to 2006-ish. A little older and possibly a little wiser (and off-the-needle), your aforementioned gamine, now bopping about the streets of Los Angeles (sans wig) has, from a sabbatical of approximately 2 years, taken up her once crystalline best friend. Nose-candy is what it is now. A finely balanced mix of white wine and meth. As kinda chronicled in This took a bit more planning… This is also where the sub-title “aka getting high at work or in generally public places with discretion” comes into play.

You see at this time, the irresponsibly reckless junkie psychonaut lifestyle was now replaced with a version of the former that seemed, at the time, like a more responsible one. Let’s say this one was more a hurlyburly Hollywood executive (irresponsibly reckless) pseudo-professional lifestyle. As such, there was a striving for a certain degree of professionalism. Now, the little baggie, crystals pre-crushed in a pill crusher from CVS and rationed, is sealed, folded just under the seal and clipped with eponymous hair clip. A small self-contained package of fun that slipped easily into the pocket or stayed put against a tight-fitting pair of panty-hose.

(1) enter any sort of private public area

(2) click open hair clip

(3) unfold and unseal bag

(4) scoop a bump from bag

(5) place under nostril

(6) insufflate

(7) refold bag

(8) clip hair clip closed atop bag

(9) slide back into pocket

This took no more than one minute to complete beginning to end.

It was almost too easy.

And this is why The Simple *snap* Hair Clip is a Drug Addict’s Best Friend.

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Jamba Juice (the junkie way)

Time for a story!

Circa early- to mid- 2005.

the JUNKIE way

Pretty new to Los Angeles and new-ish to relative sobriety (the first time), your author, in an attempt at some sort of fidelity, creates a new habit. Jamba Juice (the junkie way). Maybe that’s weak… but, then, it’s weak. I worked at my first ever talent agency during waking hours and a west coast version of The Olive Garden on weekends (some nights, possibly)?

Meth is a stimulant. And all of the sudden, I had to be on time and on the ball, constantly. And all of the sudden (well, less suddenly than that)… I did not have Meth.

In a time of getting high (or rather, trying to be functional) in a legal manner, I improvised. I took 2 psuedofed in the morning. You know, the stuff that they use to make meth. The little red pills that are literally just psuedoepinephrine. And consequently is now behind the pharmacy counter. Boo!

One down.

I didn’t enter Jamba Juice one morning looking to get high. That’s comedy. But like bad comedy. In any event… it was on my way to work and, again, in my search for some sort of fidelity, I’d become a bit of a minimalist when it came to meals. I thought health… juice… on my way to work… try it.

Now, in 2005, the Jamba Juice offerings were much slimmer. So, I choose from what I can. Always a small, the base was a “classic smoothie” called Peach Pleasure. Okay, fruit blahblahblah, no bananas… whatever. Smoothies are misleading… they can often be crazy-ass sugary calorie-laden concoctions. But, this was great. safe. no bananas.

“You get one free boost with that”.

“huh?”

I had yet to become the ADD-fueled morning person that I would. So, it’s a bit fuzzy.

But, what isn’t fuzzy is “the boost”. This is the gateway to Jamba Juice (the JUNKIE way)!

I look at the menu or the board all confused-like (as is sometimes my default disposition that I am trying to shake). The disposition that I have no idea where I am, what to do, that this question that I’ve been asked is possibly high-level mathematics related and I could never even conceive of it’s existence, even.

But I digress.

“ummmmmmmm….. how about Energy boost?”

And a habit is born. So, this altered smoothie with Energy Boost and 3G Charger Boost (though I’m sure it was called something different at the time) plus my psuedofed plus the office’s coffee. And I am good to go. I eventually ask if they sell the “boosts” in powder form separately. They do not.

I achieve something very similar to a low-high.

But it is great! Not because I achieve aforementioned low-high in order to achieve some sort of high, but precisely the opposite. I am an adult that has a day job with a dress code. I have vacation days. Health insurance. Overtime pay. I am never late. I own a car. All this is possible. I am a contributing member of society (somehow)… furthermore, I am actually a functional human being. My one-time faraway mostly theoretical wish of walking amongst the normal people in hope of one day becoming one is not only possible… but actually happening.

So, that’s the story. This only lasted as long as I worked at the company. The head of the company is crazy and tends to clean house every two years… give or take word of an agent interviewing elsewhere*. In any event, with no agents, I really had no one to assist.

*yeah, I hate to say it… or maybe I don’t care… but “Entourage” does not get anything incorrect. People are FUCKIN CRAZY!!! And I kinda love it. I mean, not to say that my judgement is the best… but WTF?! Tens of millions of dollars are based on crack headed decisions… eeek. But that’s what I love!

And the laying-off was catastrophic because it wasn’t really about the job… it was the entire idea that I had assimilated into society… that I could do it. Of course one really doesn’t directly have to do with the other, and everything ended up being okay… sort of. Hysteria.

I never really did go back to Jamba Juice.

Such is the mundanity of dysfunction cascading as sobriety.

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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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Holy Cocaine, Batman.

Who the fuck knows?

...or the other coke?

so, that happened.

oh, you know, the whole coke thing. I mean, I really had no real desire to do or not do it. And, by this time I was pretty fucked up, over-over-over the limit drunk. …I believe. Yes, I was.

I only did 2 lines. But it was nice, a nice little “Hello, 2011!”.

Apparently, there were drugs all over this bitch, though. I guess I was just so distracted and unaware. Or maybe it was more like, “try to keep the drugs away from the drug addict“. Eh, either way, it’s probably better. Because really, it’s probably actually better to “keep the drugs away from the drug addict”. It was a small party… and everyone is pretty aware of the extent of the needle-wielding junkie that was I. So, I guess it’s nice.

Anyway, the last time I did coke, I believe was in 2004. Barring any parties or any other incidental times that may have slipped my mind. But I was pretty much self-conditioned in my unintentional Pavlovian shooting so much coke that I needed to drink warm straight vodka from a coffee cup. So, I don’t believe that there were any incidental times in Los Angeles. Ironic… or something, huh? Eh, I guess just leave Los Angeles for a softer, more controlled version of my discontinous though long and hearty dance with my meth. So, it’s nice.

I don’t know why I continue to write, “so, it’s nice”. But I guess, it’s nice because I’ve finally stopped my DT’s and sweating cocaethalyne (the oh so lovely bastard child of coke’s dance with alcohol) out of every pore of my body. And finally feel a bit stable-ish. Now, it’s just the dehydrated exhaustion. And this can be fixed with a little klonopin followed by sleep.

Again, nice!

Anyway, that’s how it went down (minor details, here and there thrown to the wind every time I may have exhaled my physically sweet and physiologically toxic breath this night in question)… I must say I get very self-righteous when properly wasted. Having random though strong opinions about things then having the balls (…or synaptic connectivity) to express said things with a conviction that I rarely ever have if not for the ethanol.

Everyone else went down, but my little friend and I were on the elevator when the ball-dropped. …and no, my ‘little friend’ is not a line of something or a drink in hand… it was an actual friend… like human. And so, out the doors on 46th and 8th. We missed it by a second. …Like we cared. It actually feel it makes me superior… like, really, do I need to see the ball drop, no. But could I have given very little effort? yes. See, I’m not a ‘privileged’ person, in certain ways… so, sometimes, I relish the privilege card.

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Waiting for the End

KROQ-FM

Image via Wikipedia

So… I like this song.

…I do this alot.

What is this?

Oh, yeah, you, the proverbial audience of one or two or most likely, zero, exist outside of my own thought process. I am so self-absorbed that I frequently ‘forget’ the wall between kiko-thought/conveyance of aforementioned thought (via speech, action or through any other physical manifestation) otherwise known as ‘communication’/reception of thought by 3rd party A (again the proverbial “you”) through 3rd party A’s particular schema of the moment.

words words words.

I believe this is what some people refer to as a stall. eh.

I like this song. I sit on a bucket seat in transit (forward-facing and fancy-free) and randomly hear this song. I’ve never heard this song before. I am on that other coast on an early-ish train to a Wall Street address (where the production company has set up shop) and continue my employment as a denizen of the world… albeit, artistically so.

My contacts stick to my eyes as per the ‘yuse’. I nod and and wake… again, as per the ‘yuse’. Production is killer, man. If I ever needed to remain awake for days at a time… this would be it. And, of course, no needles, no Frank meth… but that is another story.

So… KROQ FM. That west coast place… car culture‘s mecca. I miss it…. the station. I used radio as my version of time. And, at that point, I needed some version of time. Numbers and clocks freaked me out too much. Representations of numbers and clocks via radio-things… it could all work out…

flashforward… I am no longer in the west coast place. I miss the mask of time that I so lackadaisically though stringently relied on. But I can deal with time now… to a degree… I just miss the ‘mask’. I download this spotty shoddy radio “companion”… nobex… or something? and so, in blips that stop then start then flow…

I hear… CLICK>> waiting for the end <<CLICK.

I slowly dig.

really dig. bopping my head….

Then, I realize that it maybe… yes…

is it? can it be…

it totally is… linkin park.

Fuck it, I don’t care.

For all of their avril lavigne candy-chord-rape ‘o da masses, their mundane watery techno-esque-alterna-rock-ish fusion, that stupid little shit chester or whatever his name is… I like the song.

I like it.

Somehow, I’m obsessively listening to it.

…and it may be exactly because of this aforementioned “candy-chord-rape ‘o da masses/mundane crack-whore appeal to the most primal of feel-gooooood head bop shit” that I am.

But fuck it.

And so, the this that I do alot is become pre-obsessed with a song, film, etc. before I actually know what it is.

But now I think it’s a good thing.

I don’t fuckin’ care…

right now… before it becomes anything… before others can put some sort of cultural stamp on it, I’m saying that I like it.

the end.

its the risk that i take… biatch.

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…One More Night in Hollywood…

I don’t write… ever.

anymore.

ev-er!

“and it’s one more day up in the canyon… and it’s one more night in Hollywood…”

i fucked everything up.

…i mean, it’s not all grandiose like that… but maybe it is. maybe people were hopeful that i could deal. but i didn’t even try.

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“names have been changed to protect the innocent…” aka drop the fuckin’ filter

08 Sept 2009

Aforementioned title would be appropriate, if I were, in fact, innocent. But this doesn’t mean anything. I mean, I am innocent. Though innocence or guilt presupposes charges and I haven’t been charged with anything, so it really doesn’t apply. In any event, this whole thing… this blaahhh-g… this clackclackclack of the keyboard would be much more interesting if your author here…

dropped
the
fuckin’
filter.

Filtered already (through my own subjectivity) I pass it through yet again… sieve allowing only so much sand with every pass… the xerox copy less detailed, less accurate; more and more a version of the original. or something. Just like this. Metaphors and metaphors and bullshit and theory and…

What I’m saying is that we’re basically left with partially interesting theoretically feasible half-thoughts.

The reasons?

I would lie if I say that I am not practicing discretion when I bring “my friend T’s” and “Car Guy”‘s to the table. Despite discretion being discretion, I want people to read this. In fact, I’d love a following of any sort… underground… above ground… whatever. And the odd acquaintance… friend… collegue that stumbles upon and stays for a second, reads and then does a double-take… I love it! And I would own it. If they find it, then see it…

…as being me. Fuckin’ awesome!

But, why not just, drop the filter all together? (“drop the leash! we are young!”)

Sorry, I digress.

See, it’s become apparent to me that as a reader of autobiographical accounts, reading this blog, might be extremely annoying.

I want specific detail. I want to go to the specific bridge downtown where Anthony Kiedis and Flea and the gang “gave their life away”… never to own the Angeleno moniker, I still appreciate, on second go around, to know exactly where the cop stopped Jerry Stahl on Sunset by Western when the needle rolled out from under the baby seat (with the baby in the seat)… and of course, I was Chelsea, the crack shack, 23rd street, during my period of obsessive inhalation of information on Edie alongside my obsessive inhalation of whatever powder or smoke or… you can dig what I’m saying, right?

So, what to do?

 

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This took a bit more planning…

Date: 27 May 2007

Location: Los Angeles, CA 

This took a bit more planning, I realize.

Bottle between my legs… wrist twists and twists a wine key drills further and further, pierces the foil seal then take no mercy on the cork revealed…

Thank you, unmentioned restaurants, for the fledgling wine keys in my bag, car… everywhere! One must always be prepared! And furthermore, the skill. Constant opening of similar wine bottles with speed and accuracy. For this, if nothing else, a shout out, peace, props.

Well, of course, there is something else…

Head pops up… leftright… left right… never down…

…where my right wrist twists and twists and twists. Determined, automatic but somehow careful not to pierce the black leggings with the lace mid-calf.

Man, its fuckin’ hot!

…in the driver seat… of the Celica. Where my wrist twists and the sun basks in prime-time, ninety degree angle and bakes me, through the glass of the windshield of the sunroof, oven-style, squeezing every last drop of water in my body into a chemical bead on my forehead. Lick me… you’d probably catch a buzz. Dehydration city, baby!

Sometime in the vicinity of 2pm… possibly later… but as long as my eyes did not catch a glimpse of the digital glow, nothing was ever definite, I perfect the skill of the blind wine-cork-pop.

A parked car in a random, dead-end, side-street. miracle mile. ha!

Wait!

…stop!

okay, now…

I am a drug addict! I know this.

But what the fuck is this?

Where do my hands desperately twist toward? What is this cork?

Some kind of car-ass wino? In Los Angeles? …California?!

Um, okay… NO.

Pokey-poke Chelsea junkie, train-track smile, bopping across 23rd… yes.

But… what the fuck is this?

But my wrist twists and…

…POP!

… I remember ‘what the fuck this is’.

In an effort to keep the scales more-or-less aligned… manage, maintain the buzz or more appropriately, myself… I have found that a liquid lunch is much to my advantage. Nicely timed. Liquid lunch. Ahhh—-!

During the morning period [say 9am – 1pm] I would work the opposite angle [alongside my actual job, of course… which I love, don’t get me wrong… and is, for me, categorically the best job/occupation I’ve ever had, hands down!… but that’s another story].

Preceding this morning period… up at 6:30am, a shower and sit ups, push ups… all sorts of ‘ups’ came makeup alongside a glass or two of cheap white [where ever my threshold lay that day] in the form of what others have called, “2 buck chuck” from Trader Joes on Santa Monica… followed by a bump or three of cheap white…. in the form of… in the west, they call it methamphetamine. In the west, it’s also pretty much a crap-shoot. But, oh so, lovely. A cousin, brother, some distant relative of it’s sophisticated eastern counterpart [also another story].

I can dig it.

Off to the aforementioned job. The Celica; a perfect, though somehow indescribable blue. Heads out of the garage in East West Hollywood toward Gardner [where there is a traffic light] and heads down… down… down… the meth straightens and focuses and brings a wonderful glint to my train-track smile. But, most importantly, creates a synthesis with the alcohol.

I am SUPERB!

I am what I always should be.

And down, down… the same path… the same mix on the CD [at the same point everyday… the same song hits]… on Gardner, I hit 3rd? maybe [where the Grove is, whatever]… and the light is always LLOOOOONNGG. Exquisitely long enough for me to finish the cute metallic thermos of the remainder of aforementioned liquid white. I mean, there’s that park just passed that library and a 7-11 and the long long light…. oh, and that Washington Mutual that is not the user-friendly bank it’s said to be.

Not so much a ‘grimace’… just a ‘probably not water in that cute metallic Urban Outfitters‘ blue-pink thermos’**… as the last drops trickle down onto my dry tongue.

**UPDATE… 26 May 2011**

Scrounging around the Celica that no longer turns on, but still looks awesome as hell… the author finds under the driver seat (where she left it, after she threw it, when the cops decided to search the car, in the time that took place just before the events details in the “Story ’bout a Girl…” post) the exact cute metallic Urban Outfitters’ blue-pink thermos that she so often imbibed from… and some would say, saved her life (in a balance sort of way)… and by ‘some’, the author means… the author herself. It will always have a place in her heart. Click >>here<< for the picture. Yes, it did used to have a pink dome cap that was connected to what can only be described as shredded connector-thing. And yes, when opened, much of the top was corroded and all of the bottom was a petry dish housing for the bastard child of wine, metal, and oxygen. And it reeked. But, then again, alot of things are different now.

Down… down… just passed Miracle Mile… I arrive to the house on Cloverdale… park… and enter.

After a morning of bumps here and there [maybe two, three at the most] in the unlockable bathroom in the exquisitely covert house where we conduct hardcore mainstream business… I tip the scales a bit too far left and a liquid lunch in the pretty kick ass car… sweltering, but pretty kick ass was welcomed with open arms to reset, in essence… the balance.

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