Tag Archives: methamphetamine

The Day Dead Phil Saved My Life

To be fair, we must point out that this isn’t like a ‘beyond the grave’-experience that proves that angels exist or something. We don’t want to be misleading as it is the holiday season. People get crazy inspired by things that they would mostly otherwise ignore, if it were, say, just another Tuesday in April or something. Dead Phil was very much alive when he saved my life. Additionally, the act of saving my life did not kill Dead Phil. These are mutually exclusive events that happened like years apart. Lastly, Dead Phil most likely saved my life more than once (actually, I’m almost sure of the fact). Unfortunately, this is the only time that your author can remember glimpses of. And so we go, on our way of trying to piece it all together…

When the cocaine usage expired and the methamphetamine usage started up, much of the writing stopped as well. It is what it is. So, for the really good stuff, we cannot flip back to some sort of scrawled page somewhere. The really good stuff is stored in half-captured memories in your author’s drug-addled brain… most likely held together with the glue of fondness, misattribution and inability to see anything that happened during this time as ultimately… sad or destructive or just non-rock star.

On with the story…

It is humid. Like. fuckin’. Humid. Hot. Oppression. Even the most minute action (like moving one’s arm from the keyboard to the desk just beneath it) causes one to sweat. With no end in sight. It is the time of the East Coast rolling brown out. What is a rolling brown out? No idea. How is it any different from a black out… which it very much seems to feel like? I don’t fuckin’ know. Regardless, the first thing I think is if I am able to contact frank. That is the anxiety of the first half day. The humidity oppressive and truly uncomfortable, yes. The inability to get frank/meth… not oppressive nor truly uncomfortable, rather some sort of ultimate anxiety leading to death. In a way, this sort of obsessive fight/flight thinking make me somewhat impervious to the oppressive heat. (It was also about to get alot hotter). This imperviousness to said oppressive heat is partially what really allows your author to stare down death with half closed eyes and wonder (as the sun goes down and day light goes away) what ‘that thing is that stands right in front of me’? Eh, who cares? Gotta feel out a vein in the absolute pitch black of the bar bathroom (door closed). Hey man, I’m absolutely up for the challenge. But this comes later…

It must be the first full-day of the rolling brown-out’s arrival in Manhattan. And it really has turned Manhattan (with it’s air and it’s non-solid aspects) into one solidly squishy being. Walking down the street feels like pushing oneself thru some sort of still-ass sauna. Nothing moves. All atmosphere has ceased to flow around one as they truck down the street. Google leads me to believe that it is somewhere around the middle of August. Google is probably fuckin’ right.

As an aside, I must say that we are assuming that our reader knows what a black-out/rolling brown-out is. And of course we would. You are not retarded. But I must say, for the retarded audience (that doesn’t exist)… the reason why it is soooo unbearably hot is because electricity does not work. Air conditioners… really small fans, even. So, it’s not really ideal to have electricity not work at the most humid time of the year.

In any event, with my worry of not being able to reach frank in my time of need squelched the day before. Yay! …And, really, I must say… wow, man… he is amazing. Anyway, meth in pocket or sock or wherever I carry it now, I walk across 23rd Street to the restaurant that I call home. As I approach the Flatiron Building, I see that even the traffic light no longer works. Civilians (trying to be heros) direct traffic. But, you know what? That intersection is fucked up, man. There are like 4 inter-crossing streets all like, weirded-out. So, that sort of creates a bit of an impression. And if your author is doing the math correctly, it’s not even 2 years after that 9/11 thing, so New Yorkers do still feel a jolt of togetherness and the need to help. And the world at large has yet to find everything ironic.

Park Avenue South. And there I am. My boss and co-workers stand outside of the restaurant selling whatever they can to the passerby on the street. No breeze. Nothing. This somehow seems illegal. Eh… Things are spoiling in the refrigerator, and its like a line of business people walking the street to get where ever they would have taken a taxi and/or subway to after work. Oh yeah, the subways no longer work, either. I hear stories of one or two lines that cease to move mid track… people have to be pulled up and out of the cars somehow. It seems like it would suck. Black ash sticking to human sweat so salty. Though I must say that it was probably interesting for the mole people. Because, you know, the mole people don’t get this sort of action to watch ever.

So, we continue to sell our dying goods from the front of the store. Somehow, sometime later, I find myself in a deli around the corner. I’m not sure if I’m buying more things to sell or if I’m just in a deli around the corner. I’m almost positive, however, that I’ve fixed in the restaurant bathroom and/or am concerned about finding a bathroom to fix in. (I never use the term fix). Also, I remember a grave concern as to the night’s activities. And possibly buzzing a bit too hard, a grave concern as to when we (I) were to being drinking. What I wasn’t really thinking about was that with every shot of meth, my core body temperature spiked quickly and intensely. We were selling the beverages with the salesman exploit of “you must keep hydrated”. I wasn’t so much doing that… like, at all.

So, like, this is where it gets to the point where we have to start piecing together the 2 or 3 remained flashes of half-memories I have.

To my delight, we (can’t tell you who, beside me) end up at Dead Phil’s bar around the corner from the restaurant. At this point, day light is fading and there exists no residual artificial light from inside stores. Anyway, in the bar… still soooo hot. The atmosphere soooo still. No free-moving air. Just heat and stillness. And dark. Dark, dark, dark. As the sun ultimately disappears, it is just candles, a vague outline of a bar and the knowledge that the bathroom is in the back of the bar. Oh, and probably many many many shots and things. Probably what a medical professional (and not-so-professional) would call an aggressive version of the opposite of hydrating.

The rest goes like this: I remember being in the bathroom of the bar. And of course, it was pitch black. And of course I was over-heating… as everyone was. I was trying to feel out a vein. Not sure if I did. Somehow, Dead Phil and one of his 2 partners that own the bar, find me passed-out in the bathroom. I don’t recall how they found me (needle in arm or not… gear strewn about…) but it was really dark. Then, the vague recollection that there was a bit of a ruckus of getting me outside to get some air. I, of course, am probably atleast a bit belligerent (because you know how I do… “I’m fine… I can do it myself… don’t worry”).

Then, fleeting half-memories of Dead Phil taking me around the corner, walking me to his apartment and taking care of me so that I don’t die. I must have woken the next day because I’m here now.

And, you know, it occurs now that it is written down, that your author may be a little melodramatic by using the term ‘save’ and ‘life’ and ‘my’ in this title. I don’t have the conscious memory to really speak to the fact that I may have died if Dead Phil and the other bar guy weren’t there that night. And I believe it is a tribute to just the type of person Phil was that I undeniably believe that it went down this way.

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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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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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evolution & the unavoidable nostalgia

The folks at 23rd Street have decided to change things up a bit (for this post, anyway).

You know, mixing up the way the 1 1/2 people who actually read this… we’d like to think, “Best Underground Blog about Drugs by an Author on Drugs”, receive information. We are all media, all the time.

Sometimes.

Yes, words are nice when read… but they may be just as nice when listened to after being stripped from the actual ‘picture’ that they were once attached to, manipulated for optimal quality and placed nicely on a single unread post on a single unread page on the vast interweb that, like a pre-pubescent boy, grows increasingly at an ever increasing and incontrollable rate. The 90 degree palm tree bends backward to a place that… awkward… to a place that is only millimeters from where it is comfortable. But even the slightest of backbends sends the vestibular into chaos. Disoriented and uncomfortable but with the 90 degree angle in it’s sight all the time. Teasing. Or atleast, that’s the, sort of, social experiment going on here… if anybody were to ask. Yes, in addition to media, we, at 23rd Street, are all social experimentation, all the time… and no one is immune. Even you, dear inconsistent reader(s).

Wait… don’t go away…

Please:

It (sound bite) is from “In Plain Sight”. Yeah, I’ve quoted that show more than once before. I must like it, huh? hmmm, nope. I cannot, in good conscience ever say that I like the show. The lead is a completely unlikable, self-righteously sarcastic (unendearingly so), twist-the-knife-mean, unredeemable crack-bitch!!! But then, I cannot, in good conscience ever say that I’m not obsessed with it either. The writing and the premise… And though a certain professor, in what seems to be a completely different time, once said that narration in film [and tv] can be a cop-out… I’ve always had a soft-spot for narration done well. I also had a special place in my heart for said professor (read: huge-ass crush). The important part being, that is what the writers do on this show: kick-ass narration. Also, they had me at “a suitcase full of meth”.

So, there’s that internal struggle voiced in the written word.

Digressive justification aside, grand evolutionary modification is sometimes required on-the-fly… leaving one displaced in a sort of non-religious purgatory or more self-referentially, in limbo. Letting go. And though the sound bite above mentions old friends and things generally external… letting go of a general concept of who you think you are is, evolutionarily-speaking, more traumatic.

Because, then, now what?

Maybe that’s why we [you know, drug addicts] relapse into drug-addicted drug users once again. For those who don’t have an idea, things might be easier… calming, even, if they did have a general idea of who they think they are. …even if it is a crack-ass junkie. …better than not knowing what one may be at all. Definitely better than, suddenly, not being anything. And infinitely better than all the bad things that, overtime have been drilled into their developing brain, that they have, over a lifetime started to believe about themselves. These things that drugs might keep at bay. This is all conjecture, of course, but it makes sense that habitual users of anything would like certainty (in whatever form it may come in). And for this, I defer to wikipedia (I know, I know… but I think it gets a bad rap):

Certainty:

1.  perfect knowledge that has total security from error, or

2.  the mental state of being without doubt

Objectively defined, certainty is total continuity and validity of all foundational inquiry, to the highest degree of precision. Something is certain only if no skepticism can occur.

I adore certainty. I am just lucky that my sense of self didn’t rest entirely on being a junkie. I was always functional. Without meth, there came that fear that I’d no longer be able to communicate at the level that I had attained while high… but there was always something there beside meth. And unlike other drugs, methamphetamine wasn’t recreational for me. I used it as a tool. Like, I didn’t take K (ketamine) so that I could be a better verbal communicator at my job. I took K to get fucked up! Everything… name it, I did it, in spades… but only with the “fucked up” endgame in mind. In the beginning, though, I did try to use coke in the same manner I eventually started to use meth in… but nope! Though both stimulants, I cannot tell you how different these two substances are. But I suppose I’ve written about this before.

Point being, my entire sense of self wasn’t entirely crushed and dissolved when I stopped being a junkie. I was still acutely obsessed with everything drug, of course. But that passes with time, fades a bit into the background. Still there. Always there. But much much more diluted.

Which brings me to Steve-O. That “Jackass” guy that did retarded shit on that retarded show. He writes an article on The Huffington Post: The Dangerous Business of Celebrity Memoir Writing. Apparentally, he has written a memoir called “Professional Idiot”. The article could have just as well been called “The Dangerous Business of Memoir Writing”. Not because I don’t consider him a ‘celebrity’. I mean, the definition of that word has been and continues to be completely sodomized in the worst possible of ways. It could be on “Law & Order: SVU”. I suppose that the title was apropo because it was in the Entertainment section of the Huffington Post or whatever.

All this aside, however, and similar to what Jerry Stahl has written regarding his plunge into writing “Permanent Midnight”; Mr. O writes:

“…recounting my worst behavior with brutal honesty presented some problems. First off, I’ve often found that there is no greater trigger to make me feel like getting loaded again than telling stories about getting loaded. I couldn’t be more grateful about the fact that I haven’t had a drink or touched a drug stronger than Advil in more than three years, but let’s face it — up until drugs and alcohol start ruining your life, they can be a lot of fun. As I recalled the sort of amazing, ridiculous, reckless, insane shit I got up to while I was wasted, I couldn’t help but get nostalgic for those bad old days. Strangely, even retelling stories of me at my lowest made me yearn for exactly the things that put me there in the first place. I guess that’s why I’m an addict.”

This is not an original sentiment, but it is true.

To bring it back around again, one can say that to evolve, one must let go. But as an expert, there is denial or suppression. One can just not think about things. And maybe the way one can tell that one has really evolved is that one has the ability to look back without destroying themselves.

So, there you go. As Eddie Vedder once said, “Its evolution, baby!” That is what we have for you today at 23rd Street.

It's Evolution, Baby!

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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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“how much do I owe you?”

“don’t worry about it… just pay me in drugs“.

I would love to regale you with the following little story.

Just around the time this little blog was born, one could describe me as grey… exceedingly grey. The meth was gone, my head a cloud of dead synapses… um… just grey.

But because I am a jack of many trades within my given realm of interest, along-side my job-job… I decided to edit demo reels… for actors. A demo reel or show reel, for those of you who do not know, is basically a visual video resume. It may seem like a no-brainer or an unartistic venture, but the assembling of said reels takes a bit of skill and talent. Because I was drowning in the sea of name-dropping and kissing ass that is Hollywood, I thought why not inject myself with a bit of creativity? (pun intended) I thought ‘who knows actors better than an actor‘. No, you haven’t heard of me. ‘Who knows how to edit better than someone that understands narrative and flow? Someone that has made films’. …still haven’t heard of me. ‘Who would be able to showcase talent in  a visual manner better than a talent manager-ish’.

And so, even in my exceeding haze, I was able to, compile great reels in a casual manner.

What does any of this have to do with dysfunction and/or drugs? So, I’m working very closely with Actor A in order to compile a demo reel. It was alot of work… but I didn’t mind it. It is always, for me atleast, more interesting to have so many great scenes to work with and have to do more work consequently than to try to create something out of nothing (ie, actors with no material that want a reel). I’ll do either, I’m just saying.

Then, Actor A’s reel: done! My first, I would have to say, quality/professional job. It was great shit. And we both new it. And so, we come full circle:

“how much do I owe you?”

At the time, I didn’t even know. Again, grey/barely able to focus on one thing/this whole art and commerce dissident I’ve had forever. And so, “whatever” is what came out of my mouth.

“Whatever” is not what comes out of my mouth now, however.

Now, I, in fact was actually able to focus on more than one thing. Editing and during editing sessions, sort of softly directing conversation… ever so softly.

You see, Actor A and your author, here, have in common certain past experiences, allegedly. My job was to make Mr or Ms A aware of a general vibe of the aforementioned certain past experiences in your author’s experience. Now, “A” is a client, not only of mine now, but of the company for which I work, and though our policy on certain things are much more lax than anywhere that functions at this level… I still had to be careful.

It didn’t start out this way, but the idea slowly began snowballing a bit inside my head. What idea? Um… “…the just pay me in drugs”-idea. What I did have going for me was that “A”, at the time, did sell pot to one of my bosses regularly. This was no secret. Atleast among my boss and I and “A”.

Anyway, done! We were done. Ahhhh!!! Okay, I just had to do it. I had brought it to a nice awareness point… and in a joking manner, I say something to the effect of, “if you can get me some meth, it’s totally free…. ha ha ha ha…” sigh… Then, it was more like, “no, really.”

You must understand that I didn’t quit using meth the second time strictly because I was ‘over-it’…. though I must say that I was…. but because, for one reason or another, I no longer had a dealer. If I hadn’t been ‘over-it’, I would have gone and gotten one. Like I did the time before and the time before that. I believe that I must have had 5 or so different meth dealers in CA in two years. NY was only one, baby!… he still brings a smile to my face. Baby digressions aside, there is a strange sort of mini-high that comes along deciding that you are over meth and just won’t do it really. This strange sort of very very very mini-high lasts all of a few days, at the most. Now, you have to understand that this was just short of a year after “I’m over it”.

grey as hell and no end in sight. A bag of meth would have been nice.

And it was.

to be continued.

I must say that I might be impressed. This post is a throw-back to the beginning… you know, proper posts, when I wrote stories (semi-autobiographical, at that)… rather than stumbling around on the interwebs and re-posting interesting drug links. yeaaaaaayyyyahhhhh!!!

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Speed Demons

Speed Demons

Article by: Karl Taro Greenfeld
Source: Time Magazine
Date: Sunday, March 25th, 2001

Instructions: READ IT because it’s awesome. please. Also, it has a cultural component that this blog is De-void of. I mean, people get hooked on speed in other countries and all. It’s not just mememememe! Speed and ghetto Asian culture to me is like… well, Speed and ghetto Asian culture. My metaphors are awesome. However, it does tap into trendy early ninties money Japanese culture… mmmmm, that’s like Murray’s everything Bagels with Olive cream cheese. Or alternately, Frank-Meth, needles and the dirtiest of dirtiest Grey Goose Martini’s in a random party somewhere on the UWS and/or UES.

droooooooooooooooooooooooooool…….

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