Tag Archives: manhattan

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.

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Why the Simple *snap* Hair Clip is a Drug Addict’s Best Friend

aka getting high at work or in generally public places with discretion

Please indulge the folks at 23rd street while we regale you with a story from the vaults.

Once upon a time (in a land far far away in relative chronology only) there exists a cotton candy pink haired rapscallion bopping about the streets of Manhattan. Alternately blissed-out and bursting with a desperation that just shirks the dramatic. The desperation of one so young and idealistic and bleeding heart is at times cute and energizing and at times, very sad… but never dramatic. …not yet, anyway.

Said young gamine fancies herself a writer and artist. Everything is so meaningful that it hurts. Every experience, every conversation, every step on the concrete that lines every inch of the city. Her hair cotton candy pink because of a wig that, for unknown reasons, she’s decided to wear day in and day out. There may have not been a reason to begin with at all. And, in fact, the folks at 23rd street are not only privy to think, but  almost positive there is no reason. But in this time of routine’s role in sense of self, she finds herself needing to wear it constantly. And so it goes. Seemingly impervious to much of everything, she goes about her day, head covered in cotton candy; veins full of dissolved crystals.

Oh, did we not mention the crystals?

Yes, well you see, beside the constant wig-wearing, said moppet has another acquired routine in her reportoire. This one rife with spoons and saline and needles and veins. One that would direct her to the public bathroom on the concourse level of rockefeller center most days (keeping the cleaning ladies on their toes). But mostly, one which would, in shear serendipity, bridge the gap between one routine and another…. forming a mutual bond. Cotton candy wigs and crystal meth. And it all came down to your simple silver drug store hair-clip.

…to be continued.

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Ice Cream with Pills on Top?

yes, please!

Staten Island Dealers Sold Oxycodone from Ice Cream Truck, in a $1 mil Operation (silive.com)

Oh, Staten Island… sooo sad in its existence as New York’s literal dumpster. Really, all of metropolitan New York dumps their garbage on Staten Island.

Atleast you had this… if only for a second.

“I thought John’s new obsession with ice cream was odd.”


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Uncontrolled Substances

Uncontrolled Substances (huffingtonpost.com)

Keith Richards.

One already has an opinion… one already thinks something.

Thats how it is. Whatever. Prior rock-star life-style, current unintelligible Brit, physically as dried up as a retired Arizonian in the sun sitting on a lawn-chair with that reflector.

That’s the image. If one is a public figure, one cannot complain about public image.

And I can’t lie… I’m not a public figure to be scrutinized… I’m not a Rolling Stone as I do gather some moss (plus, I’m not a million years old) and awesome… well, as Keith Richards is…. but I am guilty. Based on nothing except hearsay… I feel that we are brethren. This is as bad, if not worse, than someone, based on nothing except hearsay, dismissing KR in the name of jesus or whatever god.

I’m always grabbing at psychological straws, however. And, I’m always, at this point, trying to figure out how “to do it”.

…sort of.

Apparently, there is this book… this memoir… this account of things that may have really; actually have happened.

Life. It’s called.

I haven’t read it in the same way I will not read Anthony Bourdain‘s ‘Kitchen Confidential‘. Because really?!, do I need to think about being on drugs (the latter, in Manhattan restaurants) more than I already do?

Maybe I do… but, currently, probably not.

Because I have read neither, I don’t know what I’m fuckin’ talking about at all. Anthony Bourdain is cool as hell.

But when Keith Richards comes out with a book… current/ex/whatever junkie… or, at the very least, I, have to take notice.

Actually, not have to… I take notice.

This was just supposed to be a meta-post thing to read this review of this memoir.

…but really is the extremist route really the way to treat an extremist? I wouldn’t ask this question if I, didn’t, myself degree-down on my own.


1. a young and adorable-as-hell artistic needle-wielding cocaine user (2 years; daily)

2. a bit older… still very young; questionably artistic meth (and I mean, meth so clean and so clear that I’ve never come across this quality to this day)… (2 years… daily… EV-ERY-DAY… frank (the best business person I have ever known)… needles

3. a move to LA.. and a relative sabbatical of sorts; filled by a daily diet of diet snapple iced tea and sleep … yeah, eating disorders come into play (or the DSM guide or… wait, not a public figure… running under the radar… doing what I want… or just doing what I do)… it doesn’t matter

4. the restaurant on melrose. not looking for anything (my denial works for and against me)… gio.. it’s been a while… meaning both of us have worked in the same, rote capacity for a while. Somehow, this = trust. Trust-esque established and felt, into it, just talking. Casual. He is delivery and it is slow.

I didn’t bring it up. I was, by then, on my own, apple/water/crack-style jamba juice/nothing/2 oranges….  I was doing my thing. And it was strong.

But there was that one day. It was slow. Gio was behind the bar…. chillin’. We started to talk… about drugs… I was and did the whole, “I used to do a, b, c all the time… but that was a long time ago”; then it was:

“I can get anything for you.” Still casual.

But, all of the sudden, it was… meth meth he can get me meth maybe… my brain lighting up… my heart pounding with the mere possibility. A raging and even sexual arousal that I have not felt in my entire time in Los Angeles.

As he went on his deliveries and I worked.

My heart beating at 200 bpm… okay… maybe less. My head as light and disconnected as that flu balloon commerial from the 90’s.

The lack of food and metabolism and drugs rendering me glazed… reflexes slow… all of the sudden, with the possibility of meth on my mind… I was 200 bpm and anxious and paranoid but in the best possible way. this was the longest shift in history.

I didn’t specifically want or need it… but I had to ask.

I did ask.

And thus started my 2nd or so daily meth-thing. Needles for a second… then I realized,  unlike NY, meth was ubiqutious here and therefore, one could get it easily… but the quality… well, you  know

So, I have tapered down considerably… and even more now… now the speed is pills and then there is this whole benzo thing, but whatever

Why is 12-step the only thing? I’ve worked and succeded at turning it down from 11. I’m not speaking heroin, I’m not speaking needles… which carry their own weight. And I may be 7 (if you like numbers) but I’m absolutely not abstinent.

Why isn’t there another option?

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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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Do I look old?
I look in the mirror and try to evaluate.
But the chasm of one’s twenties is just that… a chasm. Cut my hair exactly like it was when I was 21. Why wouldn’t I look the same? Everyone in their twenties could be anywhere in their twenties.
And maybe I do (still look like I’m 21)… but how could I tell?
And maybe that’s my answer.
But there’s more to this story than I’ve let on.

Cause and effect. Action and reaction. —- and consequence.

There are markers… indicators… flags that go off.
I know that the years have passed since then. Memory tells me that I’ve lived a relative ‘hard-life’. Well, you know, shooting cocaine in my Chelsea crack-shack (before becoming a full-time ice junkie, of course). Drinking the sickly amount of alcohol that I needed to to obtain a balance…. Eating sparsely then possibly doing a “food-free day until after work (at the job at the salad joint)… small salad I looked at, no fat as I waited for the guy to arrive with my crystalyne savior)…

…and there he was. Ate the salad (arugula, capers, grape tomatoes, portabello mushrooms, balsamic vinegar… fennel sometimes came into play), gently, like through a stick of butter, eased the purest… thinnest… sharpest … virginal of needles through my basilic vein.

And in addition to being okay… in addition to my methamphetamine dreams… it was no big deal, easy, even to throw up the aforementioned salad before venturing out to dissolve into Manhattan.

Intellectually, I know all of what has happened.
Then and now.
There’s all this talk of dehydration affecting your face (wrinkles and all)… hydrate, limit your alcohol consumption, alpha omega 3 fatty acids.
Yeah, I know.
But only some of these behaviours have improved (if not ceased to exist themselves). I don’t shoot or snort meth (I swallow it in a extended release pill that a doctor prescribes me)… I continue to remain dehydrated

But, in the end… it’s all about your face.
I’ve been a drug addict for atleast a decade. I’ve been an active drug (and a mean, needles and veins and 4-methylaminorex and cocaine with a touch of dilaudid) user for maybe 4/5the’s of that time. And a default alcoholic, I suppose 100% of that time…
And an mild, tried and true functioning alcoholic now.

But how am I supposed to learn? It all comes down to asthetics.


Do I?


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