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?
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?
posted by J at 10:36 PM
8 Comments:
I don't pary but you my friend allow me to live through you...I do happen to mess with weed, booze and pills but no heavy shit for me, due to me knowing whats good for me. Your blog is a great read, I posted a link to it to my favorite forum. Hopefully this will generate more intrest in your blog, which again may I add is awesome...I wihs you nothng but the best.
/havana
Tell us how the blizzard effected delivery?
cocain is illegail and killed my dad...
Why won't anyone tell me how to spot or ask around and FIND "the guy"?????? I need help out here!
"LES (lower east side, for the UNinitiated)" and "RITE of passage"
Dear Edgar Winter:
For a coke fiend, you write delightfully. I happen to think that your reaction to said junkie was certainly more inspired than it was stupid. The only stupid part I could find was the 3 hours of infomercials. Hey, you saved your coke, your wallet, perhaps your own life, had the breakfast of champions and lived to tell the tale.
Chapeau to you.
I'm a new fan.
ps: is your hair lily white too, Edgar?
I feel bad for you, your life sounds even emptier than mine. Someday you will die and you will have nothing of value to show for your years on this planet.
Whats empty about his life? Hes out enjoying it, so it seems. He seems to know the reprocussions just fine, and they're his to deal with later. If hes enjoying his life and not hurting anyone but himself, and the guy who tried to mug him, why be a judgemental vagina about it?
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