Where's Waldo?

Finding "the guy" in a foreign country is a little bit like playing the game "Where's Waldo"--except no one is wearing a red and white striped shirt. Instead, everybody sort of looks the same, and you just sort of have to know what type of person you're looking for. Or, if you get really drunk, you can do what I did this week while away--start asking every cab driver in sight for some "cocahaina," until one finally bites and agrees to help you out. Unfortunately, the cabbie that agreed to the hook up didn't actually have it on him, but rather said that he would go and "meet the guy," and come back with my bag of powder. And while on one hand this was annoying--having to wait for him to go and come back and all--on the other hand, it once again proved the theory that wherever in the world you go, coke dealers are known simply as "the guy." And that, my friends, is priceless.

Of course, when you buy a bag from a random cabbie, you're always playing craps. This time, I threw a 3 on the "come out" roll, if you know what I mean (and if you don't, you don't know how to play craps). In other words, I "crapped out"--the coke was weak, and cut with some sort of detergent to boot. Three days later and I'm still blowing large chunks of sinus tissue out of my nose--and I didn't even do that much!

Tomorrow night is New Years Eve. Traditionally, a big coke night. Unfortunately, I'm sitting here nursing a self induced sinus infection, and blowing rails tomorrow night would probably be the worst thing I could do right now. That said, I have absolutely no self control, so I think we all know how it will end up. I'll be back to report on it next week. Until then, hope you all have a coked out New Years, and that you live to tell about it the next day.

See ya soon?

Going on a bender for a few days. Hopefully I'll survive, and will return late next week. Till then . . .

The Most Beautiful Phrase in the English Language

It's some hard god-damn work being a single cocaine addict in the city. Considering that only 15% of Americans* admit to regular cocaine use, chances are high that any lady I meet and go out with will not be a coke user, much less a coke addict. More than that, there's even a chance that someone I go out with will be ardently "anti-cocaine," which obviously wouldn't mesh well with my "penchant for sniffery." Countless are the times that women I've met have refused to call me back, or have even left in the middle of a date, once they realized that I had been sneaking to the bathroom for a bump every five minutes. And though these women are missing out on a wonderful person who just happens to be a raging, violent drug addict, I guess I understand where they are coming from.

Sure, I significantly increase the chances of meeting a "pro-coke" female by hanging out (as I do) at crack-dens, after-hours parties, and junkies' apartments on the bowery, but for the most part the women that frequent those types of places are not the types of women I need in my life right now. Case in point--last time I met a girl at an after-hours party, I woke up tied to dirty bed in Greenpointe, Brooklyn, with a young Malaysian boy with an accent playing with my feet. Believe it or not, it wasn't the strangest circumstance I've ever awoken to, but it was defintely in my top 20.

Last night, however, I met a lady who uttered to me the most beautiful phrase in the english language. I was out at a local watering hole in the East Village, drinking some beers and smoking some butts with a few friends, when I got into it with a young lass who was sitting in the stool next to me at the bar. After a few more beers and a few shots of tequila, the truth started to spill out about every topic from how gassy she gets when she eats roughage to how my favorite Golden Girl was Rue McLanahan. Of course, eventually we got to the topic of drugs, at which point I came clean about my little habit. But unlike the previous few girls I've been out with, however, this one did not get up and walk out, or tell me that she couldn't date a "user" upon learning of my little habit. Rather, she looked me right in the eyes and stated: "I like cocaine." And with that, we made our way into the bathroom together to do some lines off the back of a dirty urinal. Never a more romantic moment have I experienced.

All in all, it was a magical evening, and though I couldn't properly perform once we made it back to her bed, that doesn't change the fact that I think that she's a keeper. That is, until she starts to bogart my stash.



* This statistic was made up by the author and has no basis in fact.

The Effect of the Transit Workers' Strike on Delivery of the White Lady is . . .

. . . absolutely nil. Coke dealers don't take mass transit, silly! They drive around in pimped out Escalades with their "boyz" in the back seats playing Madden on the in-car Sony Play-Station. And since no one orders coke between the hours of 5 am and 11 am (us coke users usually go to sleep at sound point during that 6 hour window), the "4 person per car" rule doesn't effect the coke dealers--not that it would matter if it did, because all they'd have to do is pile a few more of their "cousins" in the car, and I'm sure they all already own a Play-Station "four person controller." So tonight, when you get back from your "three mile walk home from work," call up the guy, have him deliver a nice, plump bag of the white lightning, drink a few beers, and listen to the music of your choice (I would recommend the bittersweet folk-rock of James Taylor, a former coke addict himself, belief it or not). No doubt the coke you're given will be cut with detergent or baby laxative, and either make you twitch violenty until your nose bleeds or cause you to spend half the night on the toilet, but hey, what else do you have to do? And by "you," of course, I mean "me."

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

Well the weather outside is frightful. And I'm fresh out of drugs. For some reason, my guy won't call me back, despite the fact that I've left him (at least) 6 messages tonight already. And my backup guy is out of town for the rest of the week. Thus, it seems that I won't be getting my regular Thursday night delivery this week. There's nothing to do out there, so the last thing I want to do is leave the apartment right now to track down some dope. So since I've got no place to go, can someone else let it snow, let it snow, let it snow? Do you have a guy who can make a delivery tonight, and quick? If so, email me. I'll be eternally greatful, and maybe will even split my bag with you.

Santa, are you out there?

I'm a bad coke user . . .

. . . No, I don't mean that I have a bad coke problem (which I do). Nor do I mean that I do bad things like commit crimes or hurt the people I love because of cocaine (which incidentally, I also do). Rather, what I mean is that I am not cut out to be a coke user. As such, for the entire past weekend, I (gasp!) refrained from putting any powder up my nose. So yes, I'm a bad coke user, because apparently I'm not good at being a coke user.

Friday night the sauce was laid out right in front of me over at a friend's apartment, and I still stayed away. On one hand, this was indeed an incredible showing of self-control, given my historic lack thereof, as well as my propensity for, well, doing coke. On the other hand, however, it wasn't all that impressive, considering that the day before, my otalaryntolagist (ENT)--who for some time has known that I "party" and has warned me about the side effects--told me that if I don't stay off the sauce (at least for a little while) and let my sinuses and septum heal, my septum would rupture, and I would have to get it replaced with a piece of plastic. Now, I've never been the most ideal candidate for cocaine addiction. You see, I have chronic sinusitis in any event, something that excessive cocaine use only exacerbates. Despite this, I've ignored my doctor's warnings for years, and have in turn suffered painful and uncomfortable sinus infections regularly for as long as I can remember. But knowing that Stevie Nicks (who had her septum replaced because of coke use) I am not, the prospect of having to have my septum replaced, unlike mere sinus infections, does have me running scared. I always knew I was doing damage to myself, but I never thought it would cost me my beautiful, fake nose.

Which is why this past weekend, I didn't put a single iota of white powder up my nose. Instead, however, I did freebase a "jumbo" of crack with some tin foil and a straw just to get a fix, and man oh man, did I get high! So in accordance with my doctor's wishes, for the next month or so, I will go against everything I stand for, prove myself a "bad" coke user, and refrain from snorting the stuff. Clearly, however, I will continue to try to metabolize my muse by any other means possible, no matter how dirty said means may be, or how many teeth I lose in the process. Wish me luck.

Apparently I've been Gawked

Not sure how, but somehow NYC uber-blog Gawker (www.gawker.com) got wind of this little experiment and put up a little shout-out to it. Woke up this afternoon after a 30 hour bender to find that hits on the site had gone from "6" to "over 10,000" in little more than a day. Good stuff. Maybe this blogging business will pay off, and someone will give me loot to write a trashy supermarket romance novel or something--who really cares what--and I can use the proceeds to make my dream of purchasing a large dump drunk (so I can fill the cargo hold with coke and swim in it) come true. Till then, guess I'll have to settle for drinking whiskey, smoking cigarettes, watching Captain Kangaroo, and of course . . .

. . . wait a second, looks like I'm out of blow!?!?! Time to call the guy.

In the meantime, now that you've found the site, I hope you continue to read it, as in future weeks (I tend to post once or twice a week--my coke schedule is demanding, see) I will explore such topics as:

-baggies versus viles;

-straws versus rolled up dollar bills;

-why "numbies" are a waste of time and coke;

-why drug dealers aren't allowed to get pissed if you call them "too late" (hint: because they are drug dealers);

. . . and other assorted stuff related to the second worst vice in my life--cocaine. What is my first worst vice? You'll have to keep tuning in to find out now won't you?

Best Places To Get Blow in NYC

In "Zagat" (i.e. unoriginal) style, here is a list of some of the best places to get Blow in NYC:

Trey Markson's Apartment, 5th St. btwn 1st and 2nd Avenues: Trey is known more for "quantity" than "quality," and though he stash is "never dry," you eventually will be for having "snorted the whole bag in 5 minutes just to get high." Make sure you "bring cash," and whatever you do, "don't wear tie-die," because "Trey hates tie die," himself being a recovering hippie.

3rd Toilet Stall, Men's Bathroom, the Roxy: If you are "gay" "curious," or just a regular "cokehead who likes blowjobs," this is a dependable place to get "an overpriced bag of blow cut with detergent" and a "blowjob" all in one. Be ready to pay "out the ass," especially "past midnight on Wednesdays when Ms. Tricia the Kenyan transvestite is 'working the register.'"

Jon Sampson's Bedroom, 21st and 1st: Sampson's bedroom, a "hidden gem" of drug havens located in a small basement apartment in Peter Cooper Village is "little known" and "off the beaten path," but "well worth the trip" for "plentiful helpings" of "excellent quality blow (for NYC." If you can put up with Sampson's "incessant, incoherent ramblings" concerning such topics as "the ongoing war in Vietnam" and "why Jane Fonda ruined America," and don't feel awkward frequently the home of a "blown out Vietnam vet who lives with his cranky Irish mother," you "won't be able to feel your tongue until 12 hours after you run out of stuff," you'll be "so high."

Plantation of "Papi" Julio Rodriguez, 100 miles south of Sao Paulo, Columbia: "Not technically in NYC," "Papi Rodriguez's" plantation in Columbia is the "birthplace" of 15% of all coke exported into the United States. If you "sneak past the obese, cranked out" guards at the East gate in the middle of the night and don't "get shot by the snipers in the guard towers" or "attacked by the pit bulls freely roming the premises," with some ingenuity you may find the "secret underground bunker" which houses the world's "3rd largest coke processing plant." Once inside, you will be a "junkie in a cocaine store," free to snort coke so pure and fresh that it will "make you're brain fly out of your head after your first bump," and possibly "cause heart failure and death." "Definitely worth the risk" for "the best shit this side of Robert Downey Jr.'s July 4th barbeques."

Jimmy's "Crack Den," 2nd floor of an abandoned tenement building, Kenmare St.: "Open" from 2:00 am till "whenever," this "Chinatown/Little Italy/Soho" "crack den" caters only to the "most serious of junkies." You'd better "know the secret knock and code" to get into the place unless "the meth-heads accidentally left the front door open again," and don't be surprised/upset if the man behind the window "gives you a bag of crack instead of a gram of coke," because, after all, it "is a crack den."

Jennifer Saperstein's parent's apartment, Park Ave. btwn 74th and 75th Streets: This " JAC" (jewish american cokewhore), who "doubles as a high school student at Dalton" first arrived on the coke-scene after an incident at her old boarding school involving "a custodian and a shetland pony." After "getting kicked out" of the prep school, her parents "dragged her back to the city," where she quickly "got in with a gang of drug dealing Dominican pimps" by "sucking dick for rock." Jen's "product is decent," and her "prices are firm," but "make sure you call ahead first" to make sure she is home, and not " in social studies class."

NYPD Evidence Locker, 6th Precinct, 1oth St. and Hudson St.: If you can "get past the bevvy of armed cops" who "work in the building," can sneak down to "room B-4 right next to the men's locker room," and "have a key to the evidence locker," you may just come across a "large stash of sticky sweet coke" that was "recently confiscated from the author of this blog." Assuming that the "pigs" haven't "snorted it all themselves," feel free to "lift the bag and throw a huge coke party," but please wait "3 to 6 months" so that the "author of this blog" is "out in time to accept your open invite to suck down shoelaces of his coke that you stole back from the man."

Please feel free to make suggestions as to other great "coke spots," as I plan to run this segment on a monthly basis while I have access to a computer. Please also don't tell my girlfriend, cause I finally convinced her that I'm officially "off the sauce."

Back on the Sauce . . .

. . . Just found a half full bag in my drawer seconds after I wrote that last post. And since I have zero willpower, I can no longer say that I'm off the sauce. I can say, however, that I can't feel my dick. Might have to call the guy in a bit.

Off the Sauce!

I've been off the sauce for three whole days now! Granted, I've been sucking down a red bull an hour and smoking 3 packs a day, but otherwise, I'm doing great. My shakes have gone down a bit, and tonight I'm thinking I might be able to be away from a toilet for more than an hour. Wish me luck!