…I don’t know what’s wrong with these kids today….
…why can’t they be like we were… perfect in everyway?
…what’s the matter with kids today?
Nothin’
They are smarter, more astute to their surroundings and more willing to grab as many of the golden rings (that have been so conveniently been lowered to arms’ reach) that
A narco-haze is the only thing that will do, I believe. For a weekend. This nice Easter weekend. Relative narco-haze. I mean, a vastly dwindling supply of Vicodin and a relatively dwindling supply of Klonopin.*
*I do not advocate the use of this combination of drugs. Narcotics and Benzodiazapines should never be mixed. You will die.
And though I have an over-sized bottle of white wine in my possession… The weekend rule is not to drink generally.
For reasons, very much under my control (at least, at one point)… I’ve found myself in a situation wherein I literally cannot deal. Now, I say the phrase, “I cannot deal” frequently. Abuse would be the term. Desensitized and overwrought, I’ve rendered it useless. It’s a possibility many people overuse the phrase. For whatever reason and whatever frequency of use in the general populace…
The term I should use is, “I do not deal”. Things that might possibly be too overwhelming do not get dealt with. And so, I have this overall sunny and optimistic disposition. I never understood those with this impending anxiety. Many of these people exist. I was never one of them.
Every single second of every single day, I have some sort of anxiety brewing just subcataneously. Right there. I don’t like it. And I don’t want it. I’ve never experience anything like this.
I understand that this is an acute episode stemming from a specific event. Once I’ve been able clean everything up, it will go away. But I don’t like it.
So narco-haze.
In my decade plus under the influence, I have never gotten the downer-thing. The heroin-thing. I mean, I got heroin, it feels nice, no doubt. But I never understood the wasting away in a dark room-thing.
I like activity.
In any event, the details of my troubles are very mundane. and I cannot possibly get into them here without actually thinking about it. Total buzz kill.
Maintain the narco haze.
Peace out.
Standing on the corner of La Cienega and Santa Monica, idly waiting for the bus, I look back and realize that, at one point, I was instructed to drive into the most steeply inclined parking lot behind me, to meet the guy that would sell me drugs in a match book. I bought meth from him exactly twice… this guy. I didn’t even know his name. But then again, I don’t think I really ever new my last regular dealer’s name either. Three regular dealers… one dealer agent, if you will (who, incidentally, also sold me the car that is presently impounded and hence, my present situation… the bus (but that’s another story… the impounding not his fault at all))… Two one-offs… All in the span of two years (with the exclusion of one of the one-offs)… A last frolick in Raph’s Ballfield, if you will, a few months ago… This is my California drug experience.
But in New York, there was only one.
…well, I guess I’m lying… there was Washington Heights guy, N and crew. My first regular dealer… but he’s not who I’m talking about. I am talking about reliable, lovely Car Guy… yes, he will be CG from this point on… Maybe two years of coke… The occasional varietal (Mary Jane for T and others, K, etc)… And though I had never dipped my toe into the wonders of meth… I would periodically ask him about it.
Before I’d even seen it in the flesh (in any form anywhere) I knew I needed it and I loved it. And it was me and I was it.
Weird.
But I prodded once or twice… never actually believing I’d see it… because I never had.
Then, one day, when the Coke runneth over… when it was no longer merely boring… when it reached the higher level of completely ineffective and stupid 5 months beforehand and I was content to bop around on ephedrine and caffiene with no trace or yearning for an illegal drug ever, CG calls me out of the blue.
He never calls me… I always page him.
But, on this occasion, he called me. And he had it. I mean, he didn’t even know what he had. A very close cousin… but the cousin that’s ripped, ruggedly handsome and smooth as hell. 4-MAR. And he had if for two years, so my veins pulsed with it for two years. Daily. I would call everyday. $50 everyday. Where ever I was, where ever he was (even as his wife was having his child)… it was okay. I met him by the hospital on 50th or so on the westside at a diner.
Of course there are always one or two-offs somewhere. In the early days, the chicks in the coffee shop (E, weed, other things, I believe), then the cook in the coffee shop (coke). And then visiting friends at school… but I was always the chick that got the drugs. Usually.
But I digress.
This is an ode to CG. Oh, lovely, lovely, exquisite CG. There will always be a little place in my heart for you.
