The "Coke Dick" Dilemna

For some time now, there's been no question in my mind that the negative side-effects of coke use far outweigh the "positives" that come from it. Without a doubt, the punishment of a bad, next-day "coke-over," coupled with the rampant depression and sinus destruction that necessarily follows a night of heavy "partying," in theory, don't make a few hours of coke-induced euphoria/paranoia even close to being "worth it." That said, the burden of such side effects hasn't really slowed my use down in nearly 10 years, so there must be something else, something intangible that keeps me coming back, time and time again, no matter the effect upon my physical well being or my mental sanity.

And no, it's not the fact that cocaine is "addictive." At least I don't think, anyway, but what the hell do I know--I'm 29 years old, and have managed to deplete my septum to the point at which I can probably almost poke a hole right through it with my pinkey finger. Stevie Nicks didn't even get to that point until she was in her mid-forties, and she was really a rock star, whereas I only have ideations of being one, having been permanently stifled by my lack of musical acumen/balding head.

One side-effect Ms. Nicks never had to deal with--at least first hand--which may explain why she continued to use blow for so many years, is "Coke Dick"--that is, the phenomenon of not being able to achieve or maintain an erection/and or orgasm while under the influence of the sauce. And for the longest time, I didn't really suffer from coke-dick either. Sure, on the occassional night where I was blown out of my skull high, of course I couldn't get it up, but then, on those nights, I could barely stand or even talk, and under such circumstances, "certain sexual side effects" were more than understandable. For a while I basked in the glory of not suffering from coke dick--while friends would use and then not be able to perform, I was a stallion in the sack, able to go for consecutive minutes at a time, rather than my traditional "sober seconds" display. There were even nights where I would bump a few lines just to ensure that I would perform well. And man oh man, did I perform--or at least the women faked really really well.

Recently, however, my ability to perform under "pressure" has seemed to elude me. In the last few months, I've found myself in a few situations where, because of blow, it just "hasn't happened." In each of these situations, of course, like countless cowardly men before me, I've pleaded with the women to believe that it's never happened to me before. Look away, I'm hideous, I'll say, in a half-joking, half-serious attempt to avert attention away from the embarrassment of it all. And even though the girl will usually tell me it's not a problem, deep down, I know what they're really thinking, and there's no situation more emasculating than failed sexual performance--save for being caught with your pants down in a barn full of roosters and pigs. But that's a story for another day.

Of course, the catch-22 of it all is that once you do coke, you're horny as hell, and all you can think about is sex. Yet at the same time, it becomes virtually impossible to engage in the act. To reconcile the embarrassment that inevitably follows "coke performance woes" with the coke-user's insatiable desire to "get off," lately I've just taken to coming home after a night of carousing, to attempt to "whack it." And like clockwork, this leads to even more problems--problems of the type that someday, I believe, might cause me to quit coke for good.

It may come as no surprise to you that blow is not my only vice. Indeed, as a person with very limited self-control and a severly addictive personality, I am an "enthusiastic" masturbator as well, to put it lightly. Recently, however, it seems that my "coke dick" problem has impeded upon my ability to masturbate regularly. You see, when I'm on coke and attempt to "jerk the jerk," it takes a herculean effort to get it up, much less to get anything out of it. Most of the time, it takes close to an hour, by the end of which my arm is so tired and my guy is so raw and numb, the effort wasn't even worth it at all. But worst of all--and I warn you, this is gonna get a little gross--often times I'll wake up the next day with abrasions on my unit, from wanking so hard the night before. That's right, actual cuts, right there on the ol' penis. Like any normal cut, these too take time to heal, and if the healing process is impeded--say, by wanking again before the wound shuts itself--it'll only make things worse. Yet because I'm a chronic masturbator, its hard for me refrain from floggin the ol' dolphin for a few days after a heated zapper. And if in the days that follow, I find myself in the arms of a lady, it can be quite embarrassing attempting to explain my penile abrasions, which I promise, are not any sort of disease, but rather are merely the side-effect of violent, coke spanking. And from experience, I've learned the hard way, no pun intended, that the "my dog bit me" excuse doesn't play out well when it comes to discriminating women--although "crackheads" usually don't seem to notice.

Friends, I don't know how I can reconcile my need to do blow with my need to chronically masturbate in the hours and days that follow a good, old fashioned coke binge. And given my propensity for masturbation, which I took to long before I developed my cocaine tongue, I'm not sure if I can keep up my coke habit if I continue to thrash upon my "little guy" after every time I get involved. If anyone has any suggestions as to how I can deal with this dilemna, I would very much appreciate hearing from you. Thanks for listening.

-Edgar

I'm Still Here

I know that when I haven't posted for a few days, some of you worry that I might be passed out in a dumpster somewhere along the FDR with a coke bottle shoved up my ass--or even worse, dead (e.g. no longer alive). Not to worry, I'm still very much kicking right now, even if my heart-rate has been off-the-charts for the last 5 days. Besides, who's ever actually known anyone who died from cocaine? I mean, you hear about people od'ing on coke and dying all the time, but you don't actually know any of them, right? I've been around the sauce, and people who abuse it, for years upon years, and not once have I seen a single person die from a cocaine overdose. Heroin, sure. Speedballs, of course. But straight up coke--I've never seen it. Now, I know that flat-out saying that one can't die from a coke overdose is probably one of the most ignorant, uneducated things I've ever suggested--aside from the time I convinced a hooker to enjoy a smoke on the invisible, makeshift balcony right outside my bedroom window. That said, I've never seen it happen--at least not to anyone I know. So in my book, it can't happen. Of course, the jacket of my book is covered in coke residue and half the pages are torn out, but it's still a book, and it still is mine.

Where was I? Oh yeah--even if it were possible that one could die from a coke overdose, and I in fact did die in such a manner (or any other manner, for that matter)--and thus was no longer to post on this site anymore, because I would no longer have use of my capacities, not to mention my hands--don't fret. I have a system in place to let you all know what's happened, so that you no longer have to worry about me, but more importantly, so that your posthumous accolades can, in death, turn me into a cult hero--to the extent I am not one already.

There's no question I'm destined to die young. I've always known that. And at the speed I'm going, it probably won't be too long now before it happens. But when it does, fear not--you'll be the third to know.

Interpreting the Guy

If there's one thing that always rings true in the world of drugs, it's that a drug dealer is, at his core, a drug dealer. Sounds painfully obvious, I know, but it's about the only thing that is, in a world otherwise filled with deception and false promises. Of course, what is true about this statement is the very fact that you can always "count on" a dealer to make false promises. In other words, you can never count on drug dealer.

Even if you're an old hand like me--a seasoned vet with a "cocaine tongue"--you can never truly take your dealer at face value. At best, by definition, a dealer can never be anything more than "somewhat" reliable--and if yours is, you are very, very lucky. So even if you've "known" him for years, or you see him multiple times a week or order multiple bags at a time--single handedly ensuring that he can make his monthly payments on that pimped-out Escalade--and even if you occassionally "get involved" with him when he makes a delivery, you never fully know what to expect. Ultimately, your relationship is a business relationship, and there's nothing personal about it. And in a business relationship--especially one in which the transactions you engage in are of a deviant nature--the person on the other end of the deal will not be a trustworthy sort. If you want trustworthy, hire an accountant. If you want drugs, hire a drug dealer. But beware--no matter how friendly you think you've gotten with him, he still isn't your "friend."

Sure, "your" guy might value you as a customer, but that doesn't mean that he's not going to pull the wool over your eyes a bit and keep that carrot dangled a few feet in front of your face so that you keep using his services, and not those of the guy around the corner. Your guy knows that there's always some leighway here--there aren't that many "guys" around, and once you've called him, it means you're desperate enough to put yourself at his mercy, at least for a couple of hours. For this reason, it is virtually impossible to take anything your dealer says at face value. There's nothing you can do about this--in the drug dealer--drug dealee relationship, the dealer will always have the upper hand. It's simple supply and demand. The sooner you accept this fact, the better off you'll be.

Even in the face of these economic truths, even though your dealer doesn't have much incentive to lie to you, he always will. After years of dealing with dealers, I'm now in a position to be able to understand--ne, to be able to "interpret" what the dealer really means when he tells you certain things. As such, today I will reveal my interpretation of the "true" meaning of 11 common phrases in "dealer parlance" to you. The sooner you come to understand what a dealer really means by what he says, the sooner you won't find yourself pissed off that he didn't show up when he said he would. Remember, your dealer is a dealer, and no matter what he tells you, he will never truly be on time:

1. "Yo, I'll be there in like a minute." Translation: I'm still at least 15-20 minutes away from you, so hold tight and don't call another guy, because I'll manage to get to you right as your patience starts to completely wain, i.e. once the bag you're almost done with is completely finished.

2. "Yo, I'm stuck in traffic on the highway. Be there real soon." Translation: I started to make my way down to meet you, but got a call from a "real" customer in the meantime who unlike you is gonna buy more than one bag at once, so I'm stopping off to meet with him first. I'll get to you in half-an-hour, so long as another whale doesn't call me for a delivery before I get there.

3. "Yo, I'm right around the corner." Translation: I never left my house. I'm sitting here playing play station with my boyz, and'll get off my ass when I feel like it. You aren't going anywhere in the meantime, and you can't do a damn thing about it because you need a bag, you fucking degenerate.

4. "Yo, I'm just leaving another apartment now. I'll call you when I'm 15 minutes away." Translation: I'm up at some party right now, giving free lines to ladies in exchange for handjobs. I'll get off the couch and drive down to you once I bust my nut.

5. "Yo, I've got some other business to take care of. I'll get down to you as soon a I can." Translation: I know that you won't be buying nearly enough bags for it to make it worth my while to rush to meet your sorry ass. Unless you up your order to at least 4 more bags, I'll be taking my sweet-ass time, hoping that some other customer calls me in the meantime.

6. (when you exchange pleasantries) "I'm alright man, I'm just trying to eat." Translation: I just tricked out my SUV with a new paint job, hydrolic lifts, and a Sony Playstation.

7. "I'm thinking about retiring soon, getting out of the business, into something legit." Translation: I'll be doing this for at least 3 more years, until I either get arrested or get killed.

8. "It's not as great as you think. I work my ass off night after night and don't even see great returns." Translation: Unless I want to launder my money and give 60% to the launderer, I'm gonna keep having to stash my cash under my mattress, and my mom's bound to find it and bring all of the neighbors to dinner at Sizzler one of these days.

9. "I'm stuck uptown with other orders, but my boy [insert generic name like Ray, Lou, etc. here] will come down to meet you soon. He'll call when he's 5 minutes away." Translation: I don't know who the fuck you are, and I'm not taking the risk of meeting a new customer tonight. Instead, I'll send my stupid, inexperienced, and violent friend down to meet you, and if you are the fuzz, he'll take the fall and probably'll try to cut you in the process. I'll been trying to get this guy out of my life for months anyway. He won't keep his hands off my sister.

10. "I gotta stop by my crib to get some shit but then I'll call you." Translation: I'm way too busy tonight. Already ran out of stuff. I'll get to you if I have the time, but don't count on it. You're not important enough of a customer to make it worth my while.

And of course, my personal favorite:

11. "Call me next week, I've got some real good, pure shit coming in. You'll love it." Translation: Next time, I'm only gonna cut your order with baking soda, and not with baking soda and detergent.

So there it is, the guy interpreted. If you're a seasoned vet like me, you already know that a dealer never actually means what he says. But if you're not, and you call your guy one of these days only to hear one of these lines, you'll now know what I think he really means. And armed with that knowledge, you're set up to be significantly less dissapointed when your dealer doesn't come through like you thought he would--although you'll still be equally as pissed as you would've been otherwise at the "coke time" you missed. But you'll just stay up till 6 am to make up for it, so no big loss, right?

See, it's all public service I'm doing here on this site.

Coke Time

"Dude, where are you going?"

"Dude, it's late, I've gotta work tomorrow. I've gotta go home and try to get some sleep."

"Come on, man, it's early! The party is just getting started!"

"Dude, it's not early. It's 3:00 am."

"Oh."

Time really flies when you're doing blow. One minute, you've just arrived at the apartment for a little "pre-partying" before heading out to a bar. The next thing you know, it's 3:30 am, you've been fast-talking about god knows what with 3 people you barely know for the last five hours, you've drank 9 beers yet you're not even remotely drunk, and you still think there's a chance you'll make it out to the bar. Yup, it's a typical coke night--told in "coke time."

One of the many of blow's stange effects is its ability to warp time. Once you've started doing it, you'll lose your ability to decipher how much time has passed since you started. Sometimes you could swear that you've been sitting around the table for 3 hours, only to look at your watch and be amazed that it's only been 45 minutes. Usually, however, it's the exact opposite--you think that no time has passed, yet you've taken 12 pisses and the sun is about to come up.

Sometimes, this is secretly a good thing. Once you realize how late it really is, reality starts to set in, and you can motivate yourself to get off the couch to head on home, take an Ambien, and cry yourself to sleep. Unless it's really the next morning though, it usually doesn't matter to you one little bit. That's the other thing about "coke time"--it makes you think that late hours really aren't that late. Even if you thought it was midnight and it turns out to be 3 am, you still want to stay up, keep doing more blow, keep up that prolific conversation about nothing. So you tell yourself that it really isn't that late, that you can hang out for a little bit longer and still not shoot the entirety of the next day to hell. Of course, you're always wrong, and end up staying in bed the whole next day, only to wake up to do it all over again the next night. But for those extra hours of "coke time," you really just don't care.

And by "you," of course, I mean "me."

Vile or Baggie: The Best Way to "Pull Your Dinner From Your Pocket"

It's 11:00 on a Friday night. You're about to head out the door to meet some friends for a night of conversation, carousing, and inevitably, cocaine. You've taken a shower, combed your hair, even put on a clean pair of underwear. And now, it's time to face the most pressing question you'll deal with for the rest of the night--how will you transport your blow around with you for the evening.

It's an existential dilemna that's boggled philosphers and junkies since the dawn of time--or at least since the invention of polythene back in 1933 . The question is, of course, "do I tranport my blow in a glasine baggie, or in a glass vile." As an avid cocaine user and amateur thinker who has grappled with this issue for many years now, the author of this essay is in a unique position to explore the pro's and con's of the use of each implement, to help you in your quest to decide for yourself.

The "Pro's and Cons" of the "Baggie"

Unless you are a preferred customer, more often than not, your drug dealer, or "guy" as we like to call them at Cocaine Corner, will give you your drugs in small plastic baggies, or "dime bags" as my friend Jack used to call them back in high school. What these bags are actually manufactured for, I haven't a clue. Seems to me that they only come in handy for the transport of illegal narcotics, or on occasion, for the transport of small amounts of garbanzo beans (chick peas, to the uninitiated). Be that as it may, the glasine baggie comes in handy in many circumstances in which you would be looking to transport your white powder:

1. If you are going to an event with high security: If you are going out to a crowded club or bar where there's a good chance that you'll be frisked at the door, the glasine baggie might be your best bet. You can always hide the baggie in a small pocket in your pants, in your wallet or purse, in a pack of smokes, or even in a shoe, if you're especially paranoid. The glasine baggie is your only choice for transport if you are attending a concert or a sporting event--although I don't recommend transporting drugs to the latter, as you'll end up making countless trips to the restroom and will end up missing most of the game. Take my word for it, save the blow for after the game, when you're either ecstatic that your team won, or dejected that your team lost, and are looking to drown your sorrow. I could tell you about my experience after the Giants game last Sunday--which was somewhat ironic, because I'm not even a Giants fan--but that's another story for another time.

2. If you are planning on doing "key bumps": Personally, I'm not a fan of "key bumps." Too much blow inevitably gets stuck on the key, half the bump ends up blowing into the wind when you try to inhale, and it is hardly a clandestine method of use. That said, if you are into the key bump, there's no choice but to use a baggie--keys just don't fit into viles. And in some circumstances, where you don't want to bring an implement (such as a bullet) out with you, key bumps are the best way to go, since you'll already have your keys on you. If you're a key bump person, go with the baggie. Just be careful and use a gentle hand, so you make sure you don't cut into the plastic with the tip of the key, causing the blow to spill out everywhere. There's nothing that will make you feel more pathetic than attempting to snort blow off of the ground, or even worse, off a carpet, or our of the pocket that the bag spilled out into. Believe me, I know, and I've done blow off of some pretty strange surfaces (vaginas, for example--you can't tell me that those things are not strange surfaces).

3. If you are a complete and total amateur: If you are new to the world of blow/blow transport, don't use a vial. You just aren't ready for the responsibility. Amateurs doing blow out at night will often prove their lack of coke accumen and attempt to "make lines" in public bathroom (the most amateur of moves), by tapping the vile out onto the back of a toilet. This not only will always result in overuse of the stuff, but it also can damage the vile to the point at which it cracks. And once that happens, the vile is as good as done. Believe me, you don't want to be snorting glass remnants. You're otalarygologist will never let you hear the end of it. So if you haven't transported blow before and insist on starting now--which in itself is a dubious proposition--use a baggie. Maybe someday, if you're good enough, you can graduate to using a vile. We'll see.

The "Pro's and Cons" of the Vile

Personally, I'm a "vile" man. I don't like using baggies. I find that they are very hard to open, and once opened, it's equally as hard to measure out a nice bump when you are in public. Here are some pro's of viles:

1. If you are using a bullet: If you own a bullet, taking a vile out with you is a no-brainer. Lately, I've been using a vile because I own a bullet--and the vile fits perfectly in the bullet, allowing for clandestine bumps in even the most crowded of places. I highly recommend purchase of a bullet for people who have graduated beyond mere "recreational" use, and wish to avoid the hastle of attempting to steal away to bathroom stalls or other hidden places when in public and doing blow. With a bullet, all you have to do is lean down, pretend you are tying your shoes, and blow away. No one will be the wiser, and you'll save yourself the hassle of shuffling back and forth to the toilet.

Of coures, purchasing a bullet is tantamount to admitting that you are a cokehead, so be prepared for the stigma that comes with being a bullet owner. But if you are indeed a true cokehead, this shouldn't be of any concern to you anymore, as you're way past that point.

2. If you are doing "Parliament Bumps": Before I owned a bullet, I would do "Parliament bumps"--bumps out of the recess filter of a Parliament cigarette, the end of which also fits perfectly into the opening of a vile. Rumor has it that Parliament created the recess filter for cokehead stock brokers in the 1980's, but I'm fairly certain I might've actually just made that up. Admittedly, it is just as easy--and perhaps even easier--to do a "P bump" from a baggie, but I happen to like the vile, and happen to smoke Parliament cigarettes. So that's that.

Of course, there are some cons to use of the vile as well. If you are going to a place where you'll be patted down, don't bring a vile--it is much easier to detect a vile on one's person than a baggie. Also, if you're gonna be out with friends with no blow of their own who will keep asking for "smells" all night, don't bring out a vile. It's too easy to pour too much out of a vile, and once you do that, the blow ain't goin back in. Commentators unanimously agree that the baggie is better than the vile in terms of coke management.

And finally, if you are a late night fiend and plan to do some "scraping," it is much easier to open up a plastic baggie and scrape the remnants than it is to scrape a vile. Even if you bend a paper clip or use the end of some other pointed implement, there's always those hard to reach places in the vile that the blow will stick to, and at 5 in the morning, nothing is more frustrating that seeing a large clump of the white stuff in a vile but not being able to get to it because your paper clip won't bend the right way. And don't be like a friend of mine, who once tried to solve this problem by filling up his viles with water and drinking the water. Don't get me wrong, I'm a fiend, but let me tell you, even I was disturbed by his determination to get high on that night.

The Choice is Yours

While there are certainly pros and cons to the use of each generally, ultimately, the choice of whether to go with a baggie or a vile, or perhaps, to go with some different paraphanalia the author is as yet unaware of, is entirely up to you, and will usually be based upon circumstantial considerations. If you are going to catch a flight, or heading to a concert or sporting event, for example, chances are you will opt for the baggie--as a cumbersome vile is more easily exploited by security personnel. If you're heading out to a club filled with underage asians kids with glo-sticks around their necks and pacifiers in their mouths, security is likely not as much of a concern, and if you own a bullet or plan to use the recess filter of a Parliament cigarette to do bumps, you'll probably want to go with the vile. But either way, remember, once you make a choice, you're likely stuck with it for the rest of the evening. So make your decision wisely, because sometimes, the wrong "implement decision" can spell an evening of disaster.

Beyond these considerations, however, recognize that in no way, shape, or form do I advocate the use of any illegal substances or paraphenalia, or the breaking of the law in any other ways (my lawyer friend told me I have to say that. Sorry). So don't forget what Nancy Reagan preached back in the 1980's, and what my father once told me when I was 16 years old--don't do drugs.

A Message To The lovers and Haters

I don't normally like to respond to inquiries concerning the intimate details of my personal life (such as my identity, my background, my job, etc.). For obvious reasons, I prefer to remain anonymous for as long as I continue to post on this site (or until I somehow parlay this into some sort of paying gig). In the last few days, however, I've received an influx of emails either (a) asking me if I'm worried that law enforcement will come after me because of the content of this blog, or (b) threatening to turn me in to the authorities if I continue to post as I do on this site. To all of you people, here's what I have to say in response:

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances."

You recognize that bit of verbiage, don't you? That's right, it's the text of the First Amendment of the Constitution of the United States. You probably had to memorize it in the 4th grade, just like I did. And it's the reason why I'm not worried about the cops knocking down my door anytime soon because of what I write on this site. In this country, we have something called "freedom of speech," which allows me to say and write what I want. Since I'm not putting anybody in jeopardy with my words here, I have no doubt that any attempt to "throw the book at me" because of the content of this site would not only fail miserably as completely baseless, but also, as I have been told by people in the know, would provide me with excellent, claims for improper arrest and prosecution, from which I could reap buckets of money in damages.

So to those of you worried that I'll "get caught," I appreciate your concern, but don't. There's nothing illegal about anything I've ever written on this website. And to those of you haters out there, threatening to turn me in if I don't stop writing about my life the way I do here, I've got news for you--even if law enforcement authorities actually gave a shit about a two-bit drug abusing punk writing a blog about his pointless, inane antics--which they don't, because they have better things to do, like investigate actual criminals--they still wouldn't be able to come after me over the content of this site.

So there. Back with something funny in a bit.

The Next Day . . .

Doing coke during the week is always a different animal than doing it on the weekend. No matter how much powder I put down on a weeknight, the next morning, I have no choice but to drag myself out of bed and head on in to work. When I do blow during the week, I probably do it in more moderation than I otherwise would, because I have to work the next day. Plus, when I'm blowing lines during the week, often-times I'm by myself--and I always tend to do less blow when there's no one else around. By myself, it's always less of a party.

Some weekday mornings--most weekday mornings--there's nothing I would rather do than stay in my bed and sleep it off until sunset. But until I get fired or arrested, waking up is just something I'll have to deal with, and 90% of the time, I manage to get it done. After all, a brotha's gotta eat, right? And if I lose my job, I'll no longer be able to "pull my dinner from my pocket," if you know what I mean.

Truth be told, the fact that I have a day-job is probably a good thing for me, both in terms of my physical and my mental health. If I didn't have a reason to wake up in the morning, there's no doubt in my mind that I wouldn't. After all, that is what I do on the weekends. When I go out on a weekend-night and hit the sauce, I go at it in full force, knowing that I don't have to get up the next morning and account for anything. And most weekends, I don't, and usually end up staying out till sunrise, and getting into bed for the rest of the day. And if I didn't have the opportunity to do it all again the next weekend night, chances are I would stay in bed till the next day. I like it in my bed. Sure, it's a cliche, but it truly is one of the few places in this world where I feel entirely safe.

This weekend, like so many others, was just such a weekend. Friday night I went out hard and came home late. And by late, of course, I mean early the next morning. As a result, I spent the entire day Saturday sleeping it off. Saturday night at around 11, I got up, got out of bed, got ready, and went out to do it all over again. Today, like yesterday, I spent the whole day in bed. Only moments ago, at 11:00 pm, did I get up for the first time today, to have a shower and get a bite to eat. And if I didn't have to work tomorrow, I'd surely have another evening like my last two. But tomorrow morning, I have to be in to work early, so I'm trying to take a night off, if I can. The night is still young, and I'm not out of blow, so it remains to be seen how this little experiment will work out.

Don't think that I don't recognize that by spending the weekends the way I do, I'm basically sleeping my life away. In all honesty, I can't remember the last weekend when I didn't waste an entire day attempting to recover from the night before. And over the last few months, I've noticed that my ability to recover has been in sharp decline. Perhaps it's the fact that I'm getting older, or perhaps it's the fact that years and years of hard partying is finally catching up to me, and my body can no longer tolerate my "tendencies" the way it once did. In reality, it's probably a confluence of the two.

There's nothing I would rather be able to do than to find a middle ground, and be able to go out at night and be able to wake up the next day, fully functional, and enjoy the daylight hours the way humans are supposed to. Unfortunately, this option isn't in the cards at this point in my life. So I've been forced to make a choice--stop my incessant partying, and experience life as the rest of the world knows it, or continue my nocturnal ways, and sleep away the little free time I have on the weekends for a few party filled-nighttime hours. Such a huge part of me wants to choose the former, or at the very least, cut down on the latter. But no matter what I tell myself during the week, when the weekend comes, I always find myself in the same place--at night, around a coffee table with others like me, lining up godfathers on a mirror or a plate, and during the day, in my bed, trying to sleep away the dangerous reality that has become my life--if you can even call it that anymore.

I'm more aware than you can imagine of what I am becoming--or perhaps, what I've already become. But for right now, anyway, I just don't have it in me to stop. What is scarier than that, however, is that I'm pretty sure I don't want to.

An Interview With Edgar Winter

After a late night of "partying," I opened my inbox this morning to find a request for an interview from a website called "The Blog Tribune." I had never before heard of "The Blog Tribune," and why they wanted to interview a junkie with a two-bit blog was beyond me, but I obliged nonetheless, and answered their questions. And though they didn't publish my answers to all of the questions asked--and in fact, omitted some of my funnier responses to some of their questions, making me look pseudo-serious in the process--it still came out pretty well, I think. Click on the link below to read the article:

http://www.theblogtribune.com/2006/01/13/new-york-man-blogs-about-his-cocaine-addiction/

Coke-Talk

One of the best--and worst--things about doing copious amounts of cocaine with others, is peoples' propensity for "coke-talk." That is, jammering, incessant conversation about topics ranging from the current political climate to the rash one found on their genitals the week before. Often times, the conversations that occur when people are on coke are downright fantastic. Why, just last week, while sitting around a coffee table blowing a few lines and having a few laughs, a friend of mine convinced us that in Atlantic City, New Jersey (a town notable as much for its crack-whores as it is for its casinos), there is a store that sells nothing but human teeth. At the time, and even still now, I think this is one of the funniest things I've ever heard in my entire life. Of course, it doesn't sound as funny to you now, because you weren't there, but trust me, it had the rest of us in stitches.

Other times--most times, for that matter-coke-talk proves to border on the absurd (not that the conversation about Atlantic City wasn't, but still). Typically, when people attempt to engage in "serious" discussions while on blow, the conversation ends up being completely nonsensical and meaningless. Countless are the days where I've tried to think back to the night before and recall all the stupid things that came out of my mouth after breaking open a new bag of schmae. If I had a dime for every one of the coke conversations I've been involved in and regretted the next day, I'd have a boatload of money--which, of course, would only be temporary, because I'd inevitably use it to buy more blow. But when you're on the stuff, you think that everything that is being said is perfectly normal, reasonable, and sometimes even profound. Regular users know, however, that 90% of what is said during a session should be dismissed and ignored in its entirety, simply as "coke-talk."

Whether the conversation is actually funny or completely ludicrous, however, there is one thing that is always true about coke-talk--to an outsider--someone not blowing lines--coketalk can be downright laughable, both in terms of what is said, as well as the ways in which people say things (i.e. really quickly, with slurred speech). Not that I would know, because of course, I'm always an "insider." This is what I've been told, anyway, by non-coke users, or "squares," who have hung out in the presence of a session.

Which is why I think that "coke-talk" is perfect fodder for a television gameshow. Even the name "Coke-Talk" would be perfect as the title of the show. Here's what I envision:

Two contestants, both of whom are completely sober, or at least are not all coked-up, stand at podiums facing a set which consists of a "coke party"--3 or 4 people sitting on couches around a coffee table, blowing lines off of a plate or mirror being passed around. In between the podiums sits the host--my vote is for Vincent Schiavelli, the scary guy on the subway in the movie "Ghost" (pictured above), but I think he might be dead. Tony Orlando would be my second choice. Whoever the host is, he moderates the game by showing the "party people" on the couches a "topic" (which the contestants at the podiums cannot see). After the "party people" see the "topic," they each blow a thick godfather, and proceed to talk really quickly about said topic. Of course, because these people have been doing lines for hours before the show and are blown out of their skulls, it becomes a challenge to determine what in fuck's name they are going on and on about within the allotted time period (in the first round, 20 seconds, in the second round, 10 seconds). The first contestant to buzz in and guess correctly wins 10 points (points double in the second round). If no one guesses correctly, the game moves in. Either way, the game continues, and the party is given a new topic to discuss.

After two rounds, whoever has the most points goes on to "Final Coke-Talk," where 3 of the "party people" are each given topics to discuss independently, but at the same time, and the contestant has 30 seconds to figure out what each is talking about. Of course, this is the most challenging part of all--as if trying to figure out what a group of coked-out lunatics were collectively conversing about, imagine trying to decipher the coke-talk of three cokeheads all speaking at high speeds, all at the same time, about completely different things. If the contestant can do this, he wins the show, and takes home a brand new dishwasher.

Another idea for "Final Coke-Talk" involves having the party people smoke crack, or shoot a speedball. I don't know yet. I don't have the whole thing figured out. I have, however, lined up a sponsor who is willing to donate a free dishwasher to the winner of every game in exchange for the publicity associated with the show. This sponsor is himself a cokehead who introduced me to my main blow connection, and thinks this is a fantastic concept. I couldn't agree more, and hope that there is someone out there who is willing to produce the show, and sell it to the world, Pablo Escobar style. Any takers?

Trading in the Centennial George Washington "Whiteface"

Recently I read--or maybe someone even posted as a comment to this site (I can barely remember what I did yesterday, I'm so zapped right now)--that you can catch Hepatitis C from snorting coke using something like 50% of the one dollar bills in circulation in New York City. Having snorted the white stuff out of dollar bills, or "Centennial George Washington White-faces," as I like to call them, for many years now, this got me a bit scared. Ironic, isn't it, that the damage I've likely caused to my body and mind from years of blowing rails doesn't even phase me, yet even the thought of catching a disease from a dollar bill--the likelihood of which is probably quite slim in reality--has me running for the hills? Or at least to the bank?

Well, irony can be pretty ironic sometimes. So, this past Saturday, armed with a stack of used George Washington White-face dollar bills that I've been hording for a few months--because I'm too embarassed to use them at the local five-and-dime as they're all dogged eared, rolled up and covered in coke residue--I dressed myself without the assistance of a friend or neighbor, donned my sunglasses, and hoofed it over to Commerce Bank on 14th Street (the only local bank in Manhattan opened on the weekends) to demand a trade-in. Now, right now you may be wondering: "if he wouldn't use the 'white-faces' at the local Korean bodega, why would he feel comfortable trading them in at a bank?" Well, if you are asking yourself this question, clearly you've never seen the clientele at the 14th Street Commerce Bank on a Saturday afternoon. Whoa, let me tell you, this crowd makes me look like McGruff the Crime Dog at the annual PBA Charity Fundraiser, if you know what I mean (which, incidentally, I do not). So when I got up to the teller, I wasn't the least bit reticent about asking to "trade in" my used dollar bills for some "alternative" currency.

Judging from the look the teller gave me (one of complete confusion), however, she clearly felt that my request was borderline nonsensical (though it might've just been the typical look one receives from a local bank teller). After replaying the incident in my head countless times since it occurred, however, I've decided that the reason the teller looked at me as if I had 3 heads (in other words, as if I were a coke-addict) was not because I had asked to trade in 46 rolled-up, wrinkled, coke-residue covered one dollar bills, but rather, because I asked her for 23 Thomas Jefferson two dollar bills in return for the ones.

Now, anybody who knows anything about American currency knows that the Jefferson two dollar bill was taken out of circulation long ago, and is thus difficult to come across, so when I made this request, the teller was understandably confused. But I was so jacked up from the night before, I didn't think my request was anything but reasonable. And thinking about it now, I still think it was. You see, the reason I asked for 23 twos, instead of 2 twenties, or 4 tens and a five, or 9 fives and a one, or--well, you get the point--was for the precise reason that it was an obscure request. Two dollar bills are rarely ever in circulation. As such, the chances of catching Hepatitis C--or any other disease for that matter--from a two, had to be, in my estimation, astrominically less than the chances of catching something using a one, or even a twenty, ten, or five. And 46 Susan B. Anthony Silver Dollars, of course, would've done me absolutely no good in my quest to purchase and/or use drugs at the Port Authority Bus Terminal--though I guess I could've used them to purchase bus tickets in the automated ticket machines there.

So after a bit of haggling with the teller, she called over the manager, who finally agreed to facilitate my request, so long as I put my shirt and shoes back on and left the bank, and promised never to return. I kindly obliged, took my 23 twos, made the trek back home, laid out a fat godfather, and blew my Hepatitis C-free line out a crisp, pristine Jefferson two-dollar bill. Sure, I could've just cut up a straw, or used a piece of paper instead of making a day out of obtaining "safer" cocaine utensils, but where's the challenge in that, really. Plus, lets face it--what else did I really have to do? And now, I'm sure to avoid Hepatitis C for good, so long as Pam Anderson doesn't give me sex for coke after catching wind of the monster stash I scored right outside the Greyhound ticket booth at the Port Authority the next day.

That Post From Last Night

In all honesty, I don't recall putting it up. It sounds like something I would write, blitzed out of my skull on vodka and goofballs, sitting at my desk on a lonely Sunday night, but truthfully, I just can't remember writing it. Chances are I was just too cracked-out to remember doing it, but part of me is worried that someone might've gotten hold of my password and is trying to immitate me on my own site. Given my penchant for blacking out, however, I think the former is much more probable than the latter. After all, who would want to pretend to be burnt-out, coke-addicted lunatic?

"Cocaine Sunday"

Cocaine Sunday, wake up . . . wait, I can't get out of bed.
Call the Guy, so I can appease my head.
Give me another rail. Mr. Pibbs and Red Vines, what the fuck d0es that mean?
I called my mom, when I was high on coke.
She was drunk, it was such a fucking joke.
Almost as much as a joke as that last rhyme . . .
Speaking of which, if I smoked pot I'd buy a dime.
Nothing is funnier than a forced rhyme.
Holy shit, I can't see straight. Good night.

Christ, People . . .

. . . the crack recipe was meant to be humorous. Did you actually read the damn thing? Grand Marnier? Scotch? Chap Stick in the ass? Come on! Sure, technically if you mix all those things in a centrifuge, you'll get yourself some tasty crack rocks, but seriously, who would really take the time to make such a concoction? Those of you who emailed me telling me that this post really "crossed the line," etc., have lost site of what I am trying to do here--make light of my own demons. For gods sake, if I can't make light of my plight with narcotics, what can I do? Get clean? Hah!

Morning Snots

In the days after a major coke binge (such as the one I found myself in the throws of on new years eve), the matter that emanates from my nose is, in a word, spectacular.

I've been doing coke for long enough now to know that it's no good for my sinuses. I've had my fair share of bloody noses, sinus infections, and have been warned twice now by my ENT that I need to "curtail the partying," for the sake of my septum. Yet somehow, those things never give me pause about hitting the old bullet fortnightly. What does scare me, however, is when I blow large chunks of what appear to be bloody bits of sinus membrane out of my nose while sitting at my desk at work (yes, believe it or not I still hold down a "day job," albeit a dead-end, mindless one).

This morning, 4 days after the New Years festivities, I felt a tingle in my right nostril. Yet upon blowing my nose, I realized that there was nothing in there. Nonetheless, I knew that something wasn't right. Something felt a little loose--as if a snot was ready to blow, yet it wasn't there. After nearly a decade of coke abuse, I've been quite familiar with this phenomenon--the phenomenon of the "deep snot." You know, the one that you can feel in your face, but can't feel if you stick your finger up your nose (note: when the "deep snot" has hairs in it, it is known as a "mexican"). And until the "deep snot" is out, the discomfort is so palpable that you can do nothing but continue to blow, until it lodges itself loose.

Of course, in recent years, I learned that the "deep snot" is not snot at all, but rather is dead sinus tissue shed by my system because of the ravages of coke use. Usually, these bits have been small enough that when they came out, I didn't think anything was really wrong. This morning, however, I blew out a bit of tissue which, I kid you not, was the size and consistency of a large oyster. Of course, the mix of green snot and red blood clot color (doesn't this sound like it should be a marshmallow in a children's cereal?) was quite different than the coloration of your typical Blue Point, but in all other respects, it looked like it might've come right off the half-shell as opposed from out of my nose. After staring at it on the tissue in disbelief, praying that it wasn't actually a small chunk of brain, I noticed the red on the tissue getting a little darker and wetter. Of course, the blood was running from my nose, and I had to jet to the bathroom, lock myself in a stall, and wait for it to subside.

Out of necessity, I've become a veritable expert in stopping nosebleeds over the years, so stopping it was quite easy. Unfortunately, I couldn't stop it without needing to go to the bathroom. You see, for me, there's nothing more embarrassing than running past secretary's and co-workers--who already think I am a crackhead because of the bags under my eyes, my constant sniffles and dilated pupils, and my general anti-social behavior--with blood dripping from my nose. Believe it or not, there's no more warning to me that I should get clean than when old Italian secretaries from Staten Island whisper to each other about me as I pass by. One would think that my doctor telling me to get off the sauce would do the trick. But if anything, it'll be the whispers of my co-workers that will force me onto the wagon. Well, either that or getting canned when my boss catches me doing key-bumps in my cubicle.

Unfortunately for my nose, however, it'll take a helluva lot more jeers than I experienced during my bathroom run this morning to separate me and my white lady. At this point I still have no intention of stopping. Perhaps I'll slow down a bit, or take a few days off to heal, or maybe I'll find a more novel way to ingest the ol' Edgar Winter that doesn't entail snorting or smoking (any ideas?). But until my nose falls off, or until my heart stops, I don't plan to. Perhaps I have a problem?

Emails

People--don't get me wrong, I very much appreciate the emails you send me. It's nice to know that there are people out there who are even reading this site, much less who have the same proclivities as I do. Makes me feel a little bit more human to know that others share my taste for the marching powder. But for the love of god, please don't email me asking where you can get some blow when you come into the city for the weekend.

Believe me, I know how difficult it can be--coming to a new city, trying to find "the guy" without "getting arrested." Christ, I just dealt with it last week when I was away (see my last post for more details). But that doesn't mean that I'm going to give the details of one of my hook-ups to any old person who emails me. I appreciate that you read the site, but the truth is, I don't know who you are, and I don't know what you will do with any information I give you. For all I know, you could be the fuzz, and I don't need any of my connections getting pinched. They're all way too tenuous as it is. Or you could end up passing the information along to too many people and force one of my dealers to unexpectedly fall of the face of the earth. That, we cannot have.

In conclusion, I am happy that you are reading and enjoying the site, and I will continue to post as often as I can, in ways that will hopefully amuse you. I'm also happy to receive your emails, and yes, I do read them all, even though I don't usually respond to them. But for the love of my addiction, please don't ask me for my guy's number, because unless I know you personally, which is doubtful, you ain't gettin it.