is probably not going to make my mother all that happy,
but I've done a fair amount of drugs. Not anything
like crackor heroin or Rohypnol enemas or anything,
just the usual high-school slack regimen of marijuana
and LSD, perfect fora neurotic punk with disassociative-consciousness
disorders anda healthy disrespect for authority. You
may have noticed that Ididn't mention alcohol in the
above; at that tender age, I considered hooch lame,
and had no real desire to attend anykeggers with half-crocked
teenagers and our mongoloid, circle-jerking football
team. Thankfully, I am now a functionalalcoholic.
But I'm getting off track. When I first dropped acid,
I was at this party. In one of thosemaneuvers that
only a teenage girl can think up, my chumSara decided
to throw a party in her basement conjunctivelywith
a party her mother, the dean of a catholic girl's
school(do I have to repeat that?) was holding upstairs.
Needless tosay, tragedy struck, but before it did,
I had a chunk of LSD-dunked blotter paper installed
comfortably on the back of my tongue, seeping goofball
straight to my cortex. Not agood idea, as it would
turn out.I got happy, which is rare, and a wee tad
loopy, which is not.The party was broken up, but not
before I honked a fewhits on a cracky wooden pipe
of her dad's, said pipe whichJacob Carroll, my best
friend and co-reprobate promptly chucked into the
bushes upon basemental arrival of 300 pound angry
Dean-Mom. I started to scatter, and the partyfollowed
suit. Picked up and babysat by the endemicallyvile
hippy who had provided me with aforementioned drugs
(not to mention his distressingly appealing girlfriend,with
whom E.V.H. (real name long forgotten) would engage
in sporadic periods of face-suck in my general vicinity,
not provoking any kind of sex-excitement but ratheran
unfocusable disgust at tongues & associated parts.We
walked to a bus stop, hopped the transit and fell
toa hellhole called Beth's, grease-as-food taken to
it's limit.Their specialty was an omelet with some
obscene egg count,like 21 or 22 or so. I was in no
mood to eat, which was forthe best, as I and E.V.H.
sans girlfriend were piled into theback of a cliché-on-wheels
and soothed by streetlight's rhythm, I didn't notice
the length of the journey.
back through brush and scrub, E.V.H. and two compatriots
leading the way, we arrived at what looked like half
a barn, built as a functional structure, with what
looked like a huge hole in the roof.
rolling hills of clothing and garbage, with sadly
convenient mattresses in the center of the room, and
a TV/VCR combo action on the other end. The car's
driver put a cassette in the VCR and they lay down
on two mattresses between the three of them.
eyes would not shut. Fixated on the blue cathode,
I sat through "Puppet Master," "Puppet Master 2,"
and the first 45 minutes of an astonishingly unpleasant
soft-porn feature called "Takin' It Off," the interruption
of which was caused by E.V.H. rising from phlegmatic
slumber to turn it off. Catching eye on my quivering,
nerves-exposed jelly-self in the corner, he rolled
off a perfunctory "You O.K., man?" before returning
was not O.K. and knew it. Triggered by the first rays
of sunlight, I clambered to my feet, pins and needles
and sleep deprivation making it virtually impossible
to walk a straight line, I unlatched the door and
stepped outside into Monday, a Monday in which I had
no idea where I was.
signs meant nothing; I staggered out from the brush
into a strip-mall landscape; suburbs, I thought. Probably
to the south or east of Seattle. Now to find a bus
home, and try to convince the driver to take me without
me giving him any money. My pockets were mysteriously
bus pulled up within minutes of my arrival at the
stop.I looked at the driver, the bags under my eyes
shining purple and black in the cool, crisp morning
don't have the fare..." I began, only to have him
interrupt me with a jovial "That's
all right! Today's a day when nobody should have to
pay to ride the bus!"
weary brain couldn't connect, and I stood there on
the second step of the bus, mouth retardedly open,
emitting stupid-waves (or S-waves, a common feature
of daily KThor operations,) and sweating dully.
Martin Luther King Jr.'s Birthday, guy," said the
driver, and my relief that I wasn't skipping school
could be felt for miles.