Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Out of Town

Back next week.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

A Proposal for the Development of Governors Island

Last week, City and State officials announced the issuance of a "request for proposals" for the development of Governors Island. If you don't already know, Governors Island is located in the New York Harbor, approximately one-half mile from Battery Park, in Lower Manhattan and one-quarter mile from Brooklyn. In early 2003, the Federal government returned the Island to the State of New York, the City and the National Park Service for public use, after two centuries of restricted military utilization. Not knowing quite what to do with the land--or better yet, not wanting to pay for whatever will be done to it--the government is now accepting proposals for development schemes for this nascent piece of property.

To the hunters, the hounds, as they say. Governors Island represents one of the largest opportunities for real estate development New York City has seen in decades. As such, countless seasoned developers will no doubt come forward with proposals that will endeavor to turn the island into a veritable cash-cow. Some ideas for development that I've already heard include plans to make it into a family themed amusement park, to build an Indian casino complex, to build a large shopping center, or perhaps to even build residential housing. To the people pushing these ideas, I say this: why not be bold? Why not take this opportunity to rid this city of what some deem to be the "filth" that has plagued it for so long, while at the same time providing an isolated, controlled forum for those of us who just so happen to enjoy engaging in a little filth every once in a while. In other words, why not turn Governors Island into a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah?

Think about it: in certain parts of the city, drug use and violence is out of control. In other parts of the city (Williamsburg), recreational drug use is out of control. No doubt the City, State, and Federal government spend millions of dollars a year attempting to control these types of deviant behavior, but to no avail. So instead of wasting all that money trying to police such behavior, why not give people a limited forum in which they can so behave, and treat their respective bodies like the amusement parks they so desperately crave them to be--and at the same time, turn the island itself into an amusement park devoted entirely to that which makes this city so great--debauchery.

I only found out about this recently, and as such, haven't really thought out the logistics yet. Off the top of my head, however, here are some of the things that I envision:

Transportation: Getting to the island could be perhaps the most fun of all, on the "drinks spiked booze cruise." Like any other booze cruise you've been on, the minute you step foot on the ferry to the new Governor's Island (for which I have yet to come up with a good name (New Jack City was already taken)), a cup of punch will be given to you by a scantilly clad teenage girl (or on Thursday nights in the Summer, by Eva Gabor). Unlike other booze cruises you've been on (or perhaps like others you've been on if you were in a sorority), however, your drink will be spiked with either GHB or ruphenol, depending on what they have in stock that day. By the time you get to the island, you'll barely be able to walk, but more importantly, once you leave, you won't remember what happened to you. Which is all the more reason why, once you get there, to enjoy . . .

The No Strings Sex Arcade: Step right off the ferry and into the No Strings Sex Arcade, where you can opt to join in a game of Skee-ball, play a little Mortal Combat or Mike Tyson's Punch Out, or perhaps, engage in unprotected, anal sex with an anonymous partner who, if you are a guy, will allow you to get up and go watch-tv/eat a sandwich immediately afterwards without forcing you to "cuddle," and if you are a girl, will stay with you for the rest of your time on the island and will "really listen" to every word you say until the moment you leave, or until you pass out, and have to hitch a lift on . . .

Iggy Pop's Wild Ride: On this 1930's style choo-choo train that will quickly transport you to any of the 5 main stops on the island, a steady supply of amyl nitrate is constantly fed through the air conditioning/ventilation system. As such, even if you opted to take a dip in the "Grain Alcohol Aquifer" right outside Barb's Barbituate Parlor in downtown "Drugville," you'll perk right up after only a few seconds on the train. And who wouldn't need a little perking up prior to a visit to the . . .

Pavilion of Great Crackheads: Housed in Castle Williams, an actual fortress structure built in revolutionary times for use in fighting against the British (and that has since been deemed a national landmark), the Pavilion of Great Crackheads will be an interactive museum devoted to the greatest junkies and drunks of the modern era. Walk through a painstakingly rebuilt replica of the very hotel room in which Sid Vicious mainlined heroin and killed his girlfriend Nancy Spungen, where re-enactments of the crime take place every hour on the hour. If that's not your cup of tea, check out a real life David Crosby intervention, where you and your friends can take part in any one of 3 interventions, held daily, to get everyone's favorite former Byrd and the "C" in "CSNY," to stop freebasing coke, because, seriously, the guy must almost be seventy by now. And of course, don't miss out on the "Mona Lisa" of the museum, William Burroughs' famous half-eaten tuna salad sandwich on rye toast. If you're a fan of his classic if not nonsensical book "Naked Lunch," for which this very sandwich was the inspiration--or if you just like staring at 35 year old preserved foodstuffs--this, my friends, is the exhibit for you. And if it, by chance, makes you a little bit hungry, not to fret, head on over to . . .

The Food Court (for which I have yet to come up with a semi-clever yet actually stupid fake name): Here at the Food Court, relive past Halloweens spent in the suburbs by picking up a candy bar with a rusty razorblade in the middle. Or, try one of "Jerry's Famous Muffins," available in two flavors: "blueberry" and "LSD." If you're anything like me, however, you won't be hungry at all, having been "pulling your dinner from your pocket all night." If that's the case, jump on the Iggy Pop Express and head on over to the island's main staple . . .

Ibiza-burg: I know, I know, normally, you hate clubs as much as the next guy (unless the next guy is a cracked-out guido, in which case you hate them even more). On the new Governor's Island, however, you'll be too hopped up on amphetamines and firewater to give a hoot. That said, Ibiza-burg is not your regular club. Rather, it is 5 different clubs playing 5 different types of music--house, garage, techno, trance, and vapor--although all truth be told, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference between any of these types of music even if you were sober--which you won't be, because someone will have just slipped you a mickey. Don't like to dance? Perhaps, but there's no question that you never get tired of scoffing at underage asian teenagers with pacifiers in their mouths and glow-sticks around their necks spinning in circles in apparent attempts to create large wind gusts that would blow their overly strict and protective immigrant parents back East. Feel free to laugh your sick, sadistic ass off all night. But if clubbing is just too "mainstream" for you, head on over to . . .

The Hipster's Hideaway: After all, what would a drug-themed island be without a haven for the hipster? Nothing, that's what. Even if you aren't wearing a ripped MGD t-shirt under a corderoy blazer--or are just wearing such duds to be "ironic"--you'll certainly enjoy the non-stop flow of Sparks and visceral self-loathing that this ceaseless crowd of trust fund babies turned agitated, indie-rock adoring folk bring with them wherever they go. Step into this bastion of self-consciousness housed in the basement of an abandoned poultry slaughterhouse, grab the energy drink of your choice, and rock out to the house band The Libertines-- fronted by everyone's favorite crackhead, Pete Doherty--reunited 5 nights a week for the low, low price of just a few grams of the china white and a used waterbed. Although the place shuts down at 5 am, don't worry, no one actually leaves. Instead, everyone just stands around with their heads hung low, trying to figure out where to go next without attracting too much attention. Of course, everone always ends up back at the No Strings Sex Arcade, because by that time the coke'll have worn out, and all the young dudes can get it up again.


Believe it or not, Governors Island was once used by the Lenape Native Americans tribe as a place to gather nuts and to fish. Now that the island is again up for grabs, I say, lets take it back to its native roots--except instead of being a place for people to gather nuts and fish, now it'll be a place for people to gather and imbibe assorted otherwise-illegal narcotics and have copious amounts of consequence free sex in an enjoyable, semi-safe environment. If you're intersted in helping me with my formal proposal for developing Governor's Island into the modern day Sodom and Gomorrah that I've been dreaming about since childhood, please let me know. Something tells me that putting together a formal response is gonna be difficult, so I'll be needing all the help that I can get--and I don't think this isn't the type of help that my shrink can give me.

Friday, February 17, 2006

Session with a Celebrity?

If you could have a coke session with any celebrity, who would it be? Though there are plenty I can think of, my first choice would be none other than Lindsay Lohan.

Sure, Lohan is overexposed, annoying, and perhaps even somewhat insane. But man oh man does she just exude sex--something I realized a few years back when I went to go see "The Parent Trap."* Now, I'm not obsessed with Lohan by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, I don't even think she's all that hot, relatively speaking. Compared to other known coke fiends like Kate Moss, Lohan doesn't even hold a candle, viscerally speaking. But for me, there's just something about that Lindsay Lohan. Something that says: "I'm wild and crazy, lets blow lines and all night and I'll scream at the top of my lungs and gyrate on top of a table with my hands over my head, and maybe later, we can screw, or at least I'll let you touch my leg."

Maybe it's the fact that she's constantly behaving like a petulant child, or the fact that she consistenly makes assinine comments. Or perhaps its the weekly tales of her fabled nightlife and partying. I'm not sure, quite frankly. But now, every time I see her picture--every time--I juts think to myself, "man, do I want to 'sit around a coffee table' with that broad." Oh, and I also think about touching her boobies. Forgot about that for a second.

Love her or hate her, you have to admit, there's no question that it would be fun to "party" with Lindsay Lohan. At the very least, you know that at some point in the course of the night, she'd do something worthy of mention in the supermarket tabloids, much less in conversation with your idiot friends. There's no question that no matter how you slice it, it would be a night to remember.

So here it is, my open invitation to Lindsay Lohan. I'm not sure if she's ever read this blog. Actually, I'm quite sure that she never has, nor has she ever likely even heard of it. I wonder if she even knows what a blog is? But if she ever does, I want her to know that I'm willing, at a moment's notice, to drop whatever I'm doing at that very moment (which, chances are would be coke in any event), to meet her anywhere she chooses--whether it be a posh, exclusive hotspot, or simply on a couch in front of a tv--and treat her to a fun filled evening of edgar winter with Edgar Winter.

I'm also interested in finding out who your fantasy "celebrity session" would be with, and why. Readers are encouraged to post comments to the site explaining which celebrity you would like to "get involved" with, why, and what you hope would go down. Please note that comments in which people choose Robert Downey Jr. will immediately be deleted, because, come on people, you can do better than that. Margot Kidder, for example, would be a great, great choice. So go ahead, plug away. And if you speak to Lindsey in the meantime, tell her I'll be waiting by the phone for her call.


*Relax, this is a joke. I am not a pederast, nor did I go see The Parent Trap. Nope, I rented it.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

Coke Marketing

If I were a drug dealer (which I'm not), I would engage in a big of drug marketing. Why, you say? Drugs market themselves. There'll always be a market, and there's no reason to get silly about it. Well yes, this is technically true, to a certain extent. But at some point--at the point at which all drugs are "even"--the purveyor needs something to make his product more attractive. And that's where I come in. The drug marketer.

Holidays are the best time of year to make the most out of your drug marketing. Want a bag of blow on Valentines day? Sure, no problem. But who are you gonna get it from, the guy who sells $50 bags of cut Nicaraguan, or the guy who sells Hallmark cards lined with pink blow with those little heart shaped marshmallows in it? I think I know who you're gonna be calling.

Want some pot on Hanukah? Well, you can either buy it from the Roots and Chicken guy on a bicycle--that is, if you're a fucking four-year old--or you can buy it from my guy, who'll be dressed as Judah Macabee, selling sacks suffed into the candle holes of the Menorah, or whatever the kids are calling them nowadays. Is it really that tought a choice? Lord knows I take a free candelabra over a plastic baggie any day of the week and never look back.

Want a bag on St. Patties day? If grandpa's old cough medicine isn't doing the trick for you this day, do what I would do, and treat yourself to a ball. But once you decide to get one, then you have to ask--what kind of ball, and where from? Sure, you could get the the typical 3.5 from a thugged out gangsta in an maroon Escalade, or you could get it from my client, who'll be dressed as a lepraucan, selling his green-died bags of blow out of a fake treasure chest. If you're a bored, sorry sack like me, for the same price, why not go with the dealer who'll at least put on a show. If you were given this choice, we all know who you'd be calling, and it wouldn't be Tyrone, if you know what I mean--much to the disappoinment of Erika Badduh.

Where do I come up with this stuff, you ask? Well, what else am I supposed to do with my time but think of inane, drug related shit. After all, I am Edgar Winter. Yup, another year, and another Valentines day spent alone in my apartment, my face permanently transfixed on a plate covered in the dinner I pulled from my pocket a few hours ago, and nothing but another day at the office tomorrow. Oh well, at least I have a few more hours to kill, and a few more lines to blow before reality sets in again, and I'm forced to count the minutes until my next session.

Saturday, February 11, 2006

Coke Stupidity

Some people say that coke makes them feel like they are invincible. So far as I can tell, these people apparently get much better blow than I do. When I'm on the sauce, I hardly feel like I can conquer the world, although I often do feel like I am on top of it. If there is anything that coke really makes you do in reality, it is make decisions that are completely idiotic and nonsensical. Take last night, for example.

After a nice little dinner with a bunch of friends, we headed on over to a bar to continue our carousing, conversation, and of course, coke snorting. After a "re-call" to the guy (we quickly ran out of our original supply, and had to call back again to get more), sure as sin, I found myself in the bathroom stall, doing bumps out the back of a Parliament, and lines off the back of my hand. A typical night in Manhattan, it seemed, until I got back upstairs. 4 shots of Patron later, and I could barely see 3 feet in front of me. At some point, somehow, greater wisdom prevailed--I found my coat from under a large pile, and quickly exited the bar, intent on walking home despite the fact that I was a good 20 blocks away. At that point though, I really didn't care. I just needed to get out, and get home, and there wasn't a damn thing that could be done about it.

Unfortunately, I wasn't in much control of my faculties at this point. And so, when I walked out the door of the bar, I immediately made a wrong turn, and headed downtown when I should've started walking North. The next thing I knew, I was in the middle of the LES (Lower East Side, for the initiated), and hadn't a clue where I was going. So I did what any coked-out drunk would do in such a situation--plotted a bee-line back uptown towards my place. Too bad for me the "bee-line" I plotted included a shady dark alley populated by the worst sort this city has to offer--the desperate drug addict.

Walking through this dark, cliched alley trying to make my way home, I prayed that no one would get in my way. Of course, given that I publicly renounced god long ago, my prayers went unanswered. After 30 seconds into the regret of having chosen this path, I was interecepted by a junkie--a "real" junkie, the kind that digs on actual "junk." Now, I tried the H-bomb a few times years ago, but it really wasn't for me. Too intense, too time consuming, and quite frankly, too much fucking fun. I may be lacking in the self control department, but I knew from the outset that a true taste for the H would be the end of me, given my epicurean nature. So I made a conscious decision--I would let blow, and blow only, ruin my life, for at least blow can be fun in groups at parties, and it doesn't leave track marks, to boot. The dude who approached me, on the other hand, apparently never took such a lesson to heart.

He quickly got in my face, and as you no doubt guessed, demanded that I hand over my money. Now, I've been mugged before, so the situation wasn't entirely new to me. Living in NYC, getting mugged is practically a right of passage. So unlike the first time it happened to me, I wasn't about to piss my pants right from the jump. More importantly, however, unlike the first time, I was on copious amounts of blow. As such, I wasn't working with much of a thought process at all. And so, we come back to a classic moment of "coke stupidity."

Instead of giving the junkie (and believe me, I understand the irony of the judgmental tone I take when I refer to someone else as a "junkie") what little loot I had left in my wallet, I opted for a different, more aggressive course. I reached for my wallet, momentarily putting the mugger at ease by making it look like I would oblige, and suddenly, without warning, kicked him as hard as I could, square in the nuts. As he fell to the ground in searing pain, I took off like a black man running from the LAPD, oblivious to everything and everyone around me as I desperately tried to find my way home. Not even a block away from the scene of the encounter, I already knew that he wouldn't follow me. After all, how could he? Given how hard I kicked him, he surely wouldn't be getting off the ground for some time. Nonetheless, I booked it the entire way home, got inside, and collapsed on my bed. A few hours later, I woke up, fully clothed, on my floor, wondering if the whole thing had been but a dream.

It was only when I took off my pants and checked my pockets that I knew that my night had been real. What I found, of course, was a full bag of blow left from the second call to the guy, the bag I hadn't managed to get to because I drank so much at the bar and was forced to make my dramatic escape. So of course, I did what any normal drug enthusiast would do at 6 am--I lined up a few rails on my desk, put em in the brain, and watched infomercials for 3 hours. At some point, I fell asleep, and woke up much, much later, at 7 pm, wondering where the hell the day had gone.

Even though I hadn't planned it, like usual, it somehow became a typical "coke Saturday," slept away by the typical coke stupidity of the previous evening. And now, so long as the weather holds up, there's only one thought on my mind--anybody got anything going on tonight?

Thursday, February 09, 2006

Captain C-Beard

Are you a guy (or a girl with a really hairy upper lip)? Do you do blow? If so, you've no doubt been grazed by the sword of Captain C-Beard.

Ever notice how, the day after a big coke binge, your beard is much longer than it normally would be otherwise? That's because you've been touched by Captain C-Beard. You see, Captain C-Beard is the "Pirate of Cocaine." He is the wood-legged scallywag responsible for your inexplicable, mutant-like beard growth. Somehow, after a night of "partying," your beard seems to grow by expontential amounts. I could try to tell you the "half life" of your beard, but I'm not Captain C-Beard, so I won't even try. Needless to say, for reasons scientists can't explain (likely because they're unaware of the phenomenon), cocaine makes 5:00 shadow turn into 3:00 am shadow, if you know what I mean.

Next time you're on blow, rent a sailboat and head out on the high seas with a few friends. If you're lucky--i.e. if you've done enough blow--Captain C-Beard, that famous Coke Pirate, will no doubt find you, and if you're lucky--which I've never been, because I'm not much of a sailor--will let you share in his "pirate's booty"--a large, uncut sack of the finest Columbian white known to North America since the days of Louis XVI, in France, where men would slap each other with their gloves, and say "Dartagnan, how dare you cross me."

And the next day, even if you shaved hours beforehand, you're beard will be 4 days old. That is the power, nee, the vision, of Captain C-Beard. But if you meet him, don't tell him you know me. I owe him $50, and that dude never welches on a debt.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Edgar Winter Honored By Appointment to Panel

Guy Hollerin, the fellow blogger behind "This Place is Dead Anyway" (a very funny blog that I read regularly) emailed me this morning to ask if I would serve on his "panel of guest blogger judges" in a contest where the winner gets to go on a date with him. After repeat assurances that service would not require that my identity be revealed, or even that I do anything more than read a couple of submission essays, I happily accepted the "appointment."

According to Hollerin, the date will involve 40's of OE, dinner at Bennigan's, and eventually, "uncomfortable coitus." Normally I don't fancy myself a virtual pimp, but given my appointment to his panel (which apparently means that I've somehow gone from "despondent junkie" to "noteworthy local blogger,") I thought I'd give the contest a plug. If you're interested in submitting an entry, got to www.thisplaceisdeadanyway.blogspot.com and follow the instructions. Mention your love of my site in your entry and I'll be sure and look more favorably upon your application come judgment day.

Monday, February 06, 2006

My Left Nostril

When it comes to snorting drugs, some people are "anbi-nostrilous." In other words, they can and do use both nostrils for sniffing product, and often alternate from one to the other during respective bouts. I, on the other hand, had historically been a "single nostril" guy. Because the left side of my nose is 90% blocked by a deviated septum that resulted from my falling flat on my face as a kid, I always knew that it would be difficult to use this damaged passageway for recreational purposes. As such, I always took my drugs up the right side.

10 years later, things finally caught up to me. Snorting drugs up the ol' sinus passageways is not, how you say, an "intended" usage for the olfactory cavity, if you know what I mean. So after many years of constant and rigorous abuse, I started experiencing debilitating side-effects. It started with bloody noses. At first they would come during or soon after a heated session. As time went by, however, they started happening more often--during the day, at work, long after my last go at the sauce. Then came the large chunks of green snot that I would blow out while using but didn't think too much of because they resembled actual, normal snot. Not long after that came the infamous morning snots, which for so long I worried were actual, material chunks of brain tissue but later realized were merely chunks of shed sinus lining. And then, of course, there were the regular sinus infections, which could be a subject for an entirely separate post, but are so uncomfortable and irritating that I dont' want to even think about them, much less write about them.

More recently, I started to notice something else. Back in the day, the nasal side effects of usage seemed to last only for a day or two. Within 48 hours, I would be fully recovered and breathing normally again. Lately, however, I've noticed that the time it takes my head to recover has significantly increased. Nowadays it isn't abnormal to be blowing my nose like a madman 4 days after a prolonged weekend session, trying to loosen up some deep, hard to reach nose rocks that are causing a tickle in the back of my throat. More than that, lately I've felt that my right nostril has been permanently clogged up, and is quite sore and pained. Under normal circumstances I would go to my ENT to have him check it out, but I know exactly what he'll say ("You're an idiot, stop using drugs") and I don't need to be judged like that right now. After all, it's been a while since I've gotten laid.

As such, I've been forced to adopt an alterate strategy to cope with the damage that I've caused to my right nostril. A few weeks ago I mentioned my problems on the site and received suggestions from readers as to "alternative methods" for imbibing the sauce which ranged from the inocuous ("dissolve the powder in a drink") to the disturbing ("mix it in tequila and squirt it up your ass with a turkey baster"). But since my turkey baster is dirty in the sink, and god knows I don't do dishes, I've decided to eschew all such suggestions, and go a different route. No, I haven't opted to stop altogether--which would probably be the smartest thing to do given the damage I've caused to myself. No, instead I've decided it's time to start using my left nostril.

Now, using my left nostril is bound to cause significant problems. Because it is 90% blocked by bone, I expected that 90% of the sauce I attempt to snort up it would just fall right back out--a theory I proved correct this past weekend. This is a problem both in terms of coke and time management. Dealing with the former is easy--I just make sure I lean over a plate or table or something, and whatever falls out can just be lined up again and prepared for re-inhalation. The latter, however, remains a pickle for which I do not yet have a solution, except for maybe starting earlier, or going faster. I don't know. I really have to give this one some more thought.

Ultimately, I look at my situation as a "rebirth" of sorts, and one with no real immediate downside. Sure, I'll have to start getting used to using the other side of my face, but at least I know that my left nostril can handle it, as it remains a "virgin passageway." Also, perhaps the drugs I sort will "burn away" the bone that is blocking my left nostril and has restricted my ability to breathe out of that side for so long, alleviating my need to eventually get the deviated septum surgically repaired. Most importantly, however, if my left is anything like my right nostril, I've got about 1o good years (until 2016) of usability to get out of it before any significant problems start to arise. And by then, I'm willing to bet that the human race is so advanced that I won't even need my nose anymore. So the way I see it, it's a win-win situation.

Lets hope I'm right.

Friday, February 03, 2006

Coke Stupidity

Some people say that coke makes them feel like they are invincible. So far as I can tell, these people apparently get much better blow than I do. When I'm on the sauce, I hardly feel like I can conquer the world, although I often do feel like I am on top of it. If there is anything that coke really makes you do in reality, it is make decisions that are completely idiotic and nonsensical. Take last night, for example.

After a nice little dinner with a bunch of friends, we headed on over to a bar to continue our carousing, conversation, and of course, coke snorting. After a "re-call" to the guy (we quickly ran out of our original supply, and had to call back again to get more), sure as sin, I found myself in the bathroom stall, doing bumps out the back of a Parliament, and lines off the back of my hand. A typical night in Manhattan, it seemed, until I got back upstairs. 3 shots of Patron later, and I could barely see 3 feet in front of me. At some point, somehow, greater wisdom prevailed--I found my coat from under a large pile, and quickly exited the bar, intent on walking home despite the fact that I was a good 20 blocks away. At that point though, I really didn't care. I just needed to get out, and get home, and there wasn't a damn thing that could be done about it.

Unfortunately, I wasn't in much control of my faculties at this point. And so, when I walked out the door of the bar, I immediately made a wrong turn, and headed downtown when I should've started walking North. The next thing I knew, I was in the middle of the LES (Lower East Side, for the initiated), and hadn't a clue where I was going. So I did what any coked-out drunk would do in such a situation--plotted a bee-line back uptown towards my place. Too bad for me the "bee-line" I plotted included a shady dark alley populated by the worst sort this city has to offer--the desperate drug addict.

Walking through this dark, cliched alley trying to make my way home, I prayed that no one would get in my way. Of course, given that I publicly renounced god long ago, my prayers went unanswered. After 30 seconds into the regret of having chosen this path, I was interecepted by a junkie--a "real" junkie, the kind that digs on actual "junk." I tried the H-bomb a few times years ago, but it really wasn't for me. Too intense, too time consuming, and quite frankly, too much fucking fun. I may be lacking in the self control department, but I knew from the outset that a true taste for the H would be the end of me. So I made a conscious decision--I would let blow ruin my life, for at least blow can be fun in groups at parties, and it doesn't leave track marks, to boot. This dude, on the other hand, apparently never learned that lesson.

He quickly got in my face, and as you no doubt guessed, demanded that I hand over my money. Now, I've been mugged before. Living in NYC, it's practically a right of passage. So unlike the first time, I wasn't shitting in my pants. More importantly, unlike the first time, I was on copious amounts of blow. As such, I wasn't working with much of a thought process. And so, we come back to a classic moment of "coke stupidity."

Instead of giving the junkie (and believe me, I understand the irony of judging someone by calling them a "junkie") what little loot I had left in my wallet, I opted for a different, more aggressive course. I reached for my wallet, put the mugger at ease by making it look like I would oblige, and suddenly, without warning, kicked him as hard as Icould, square in the nuts. As he fell to the ground in horror, I took off like the wind, oblivious to everything and everyone around me as I desperately tried to find my way home. Not even a block away, I knew that he wouldn't follow me. I was sure that he wouldn't be getting off the ground for some time. Nonetheless, I booked the entire way home, got inside, and collapsed on my bed. A few hours later, I woke up, fully clothed, on my floor, wondering if the whole thing had been but a dream.

But when I took off my pants and checked my pockets, I knew that my night had been real. What I found, of course, was a full bag of blow left from the second call to the guy, the bag I hadn't managed to get to, because I drank so much at the bar and was forced to make my dramatic escape. So of course, I did what any normal drug enthusiast would at 6 am--I lined up a few rails on my desk, put em in the brain, and watched informercials for 3 hours. At some point, I fell asleep, only to wake up much later, at 7 pm, wondering where the hell the day had gone.

Ah, a typical "coke Saturday," completely destroyed by the coke stupidity of the previous evening. Anybody got anything going on tonight?

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Who Let the Dogs Out?*

I knew I should've gotten that puppy!

* Sorry about the awful title. I couldn't come up with anything better in short order.

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