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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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“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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A Safe Place …really?!

A Safe Place (NY Times)

…this actually exists.

fuckin‘ canada.

needles in canada. and only canada.

ONE PLACE.

to digress for a fraction of a second; BOARDS OF CANADA is awesome.

I’m ‘beyond’ the needle, yes. But only because my denial mechanism is such that it chills with balloons. It’s elasticity increases along with my blind third eye… like skin. Skin will stretch as much as it is called-upon to. My research is non-existent on this particular topic… but television has taught me about Obese Americans.. I have seen too many gastric bypass surgeries of people that I don’t know.

Whatever. Somehow people become 500 lbs. I don’t judge. Not the point. This is another story for another blog. My point is that a 16 year old compulsive overeater will not explode. Skin will accommodate. Stretch marks happen, yes… when skin is forced to quickly to expand… but it will expand.

…I haven’t touched a needle in such a fuckin long time. …I haven’t all those visceral things that I’d rather, at this point, blur as the general ‘visceral thing’.

And that’s what I’m saying, the denial mechanism that I possess is so elastic that it can balloon around this lie.

I’m lying.

When it comes to this, I have to look away. I can’t think about the needle… I can’t look at the needle… I can’t watch a needle slide into a basilic vein… I can’t… “Intervention” or whatever the hot new “stop doing drugs/alcohol” show = fine. Someone pulls out a needle, and the belt and vein and spoon = cant. do. it.

alaglahlala (this is a drooling-type noise)…. the crimson cloud.

Whatever drug of choice. However destitute or homeless or old money-damaged a junkie… doesn’t matter.

Even my denial mechanism, though strong and extremely elastic, cannot compete with the sight of a nice, new orange cap on a B&D, 19 gauge, 1 or 1/2 cc syringe and the prospect of what lay underneath. B&D is the champ… but of course, it doesn’t have to be B&D… it doesn’t have to be a 19 gauge needle… short… long… doesn’t matter.

The point… I don’t know.

I’m so physically far away from my needle wielding junkie self; but I still have to look away. I can’t watch this in it’s entirety. So you see, it; whatever; this whole thing is not completely about drugs; it’s about the visceral, it’s about control; it’s about the a kid thinking that she is a psycho-naut… thinking that she is street but smart… it’s about the reconcilable notion of the aforementioned. Its about the taste of saline emanating from the sides of one’s tongue outward and in the back of one’s throat when one would shoot it when one ran out of drugs.

It’s not an original notion of course. But I don’t do original. Rather, I don’t care. I just ‘do’. Original is for ass-fucks that need to be original. whatever.

But this place exists.

Now, coming full circle, this place exists where one can go to stick a needle in whatever vein is still non-collapsed. And it’s okay… it’s actually the entire function of the organisation. Insite… or however they spell it. Are you serious?!

Even I’m not that retarded… or maybe I’m just jealous.

I still cannot wrap my head around this whole thing…. you know, because of the denial and all. I’m a proponent of non-absenance. Like, everything is continuous, not discontinuous. Like, the only option is never to touch a drink… WTF?!-type abstenance. Addicts are extremists (for the most part)… extremist treatment will never help an extremist.

Well, maybe it can, but it’s behaviorial and based in fear and maybe one will never touch the substance ever again… but they will never be the same…

ever

again.

Its not about being ‘the same’, per se. But if you are one that turns it up to 11 and you’re told that you will die unless you turn it down and live at 6… you are not really you. You will never really be you again. In this capacity, I cannot really comment, however… so far, I’ve done my version of, well, not dying… I am turned down though not to 6 and not anywhere near completely abstinent.

But in the same vein, I know that I can’t do needles. I don’t want to look, touch, PoP off an orange cap because I want to so badly. I need to do it. I salivate in time to a pavolivian dog.

In the end, what does this even mean? Maybe this is just my experience… and my junkie-dom was riddled with meth and cocaine… not a drug that causes the amount and type of physical dependency that a narcotic does. Though I have done speed balls and shot narcotics (just a lil trivia). But in my experience, I guess that I’ve pulled myself up from my bootstraps enough.

And I’m not a cultural messages person, so much (as I suppose that I am too self-absorbed and easily distracted)… maybe this goes beyond cultural messages. And I’m not like socialist… but treat people (even the junkies) the same as you would others (non-junkies)… I feel creating this place is too slippery a slope and almost going above and beyond to treat junkies better; welcoming us with open arms.

It’s a strange land that I currently have one foot in while the other stands tall in an even stranger land.

Wow… okay… thank you, drive thru… just beware the cops, I guess unless you are in Canada.

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…and thus it begins…

Date: mid- late- 2004

Location: New York

“so… what’s your deal? I know you have a deal.”

“what do you mean?”

“come on, I knew it from the first moment I met you.”

“I mean, I used to… sort of… have this thing…”

“what, like… sex, drugs and rock n roll?”

“well, I never had a problem with rock n roll…”

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