All My Friends

All my friends is a great song by LCD Soundsystem. We can all agree on that, can't we? If not, stop reading this, because you are a fucking idiot.

Anyway, I've enjoyed the song for many years, and I've always thought, at least, that i understood most of the lyrics. Well, all except for one -- the line when James says "if you're worried about the weather, then you've picked the wrong place to stay."

Sidenote--since you last heard from me, I've pretty much been doing the same. The one thing that has changed, however, is my memory and recall ability. If someone tells you that years of drug abuse does not affect the brain, don't believe them. I am a dumber person now for having packed my beak for so many years. There is no question about it. What was I talking about again?

Oh yeah, All my Friends. So after many years of listening and thinking that the line (line!) didn't make any sense and was just filler, i was in the shower, and the song came on, and it struck me. Usually my best "ideas" do strike me in the shower. When i'm not whacking off in there anyway. So now I'm convinced that the line refers to the impending "blizzard" that is about to happen in the apartment where the song takes place, long before they are "running out of the drugs." Am I on to something here? Anyone believe me? Anybody out there?

Fare Thee Well

It is with a heavy heart that today I must announce the temporary suspension of Cocaine Corner. After the events of this week--which for various reasons I cannot detail in this forum--it has become clear to me that this endeavor simply cannot be continued for the time being. When I first started this site, I never imagined that it would receive the type of response that it has. But with the positive has too come the negative. And like many things in life, the negative has finally overtaken the positive.

In retrospect, it now seems completely idiotic to have documented, in writing, the types of things I've documented on this site, and for that, I'll always be sorry. What I am not sorry for, however, is the people who have supported me during my brief time as a blogger--those who read the site, those who emailed me with words of encouragement or to tell me how much they enjoyed my writing and stories, and even those who tried to get me to clean up my act. Who knows--those in the latter category may actually get their wish, although lets be honest--that's not bloody likely.

I knew from the beginning that this site couldn't last for very long. I just never thought that this was how it was going to end--or that it would end so quickly. Indeed, this ending seems a bit premature and even more anticlimactic given the events of this week (again, sorry about the lack of detail but I no longer wish to incriminate myself), but it was also inevitable. Unfortunately, I have a ton of material I wrote for the site that now has nowhere to go. If you are interested in getting any of it out there, email ewinter11@gmail.com and I'll have my people see what they can do to get it to you.

Notice that I refer to this as a "temporary" suspension, because it is my intention to start it up again when I have the opportunity to do so--which I'm guessing will be sometime in the next 3 to 6 months. Of course, any new incarnation of the site will necessarily be different than the first, but I hope that won't keep people from reading should it be brought back to life. And if it is, I will be sure that the word gets out.

Don't get the wrong idea here--my reasons for stopping the site are likely not what you think they are. In the end, my decision to close down the site was just that--my decision. It's just that certain pressures informed the inevitability of the decision.

I know now that things can never be the same, will never be the same, but hopefully what is past will simply be prologue to something bigger and better. Thanks for reading. All the best.

-EW

[dicated but not read]

The Sunday Session

I may indeed be a crackhead, but I’m a crackhead who manages to hold down a steady 9 to 5 (and on Tuesdays, 10 to 6). Of course, said management is out of necessity, but that’s not the point. And sure, my job is a dead-end, and it couldn’t be farther from what, as a kid, I dreamt I would do “when I grew up” (islamic carpenter), but it’s a job still, and one that I need--to pay the bills and support my various epicurean habits. You know me, I’m just trying to eat, and it’s damn expensive to pull your dinner from your pocket every night in this here city.

Basically, I’m like any other working stiff who wakes up in the morning, puts his pants on one leg at a time, and spends his days sitting behind a desk pushing paper—except that when I get home at night, instead of eating dinner with the family and watching American Idol, I embark on an ongoing vigilante crusade to obliterate my septum, AND write a wildly, if not ironically popular blog detailing said obliteration. But like the rest of the working class, I too have to be at my desk early in the morning. Which is why the “Sunday Night Session” is such an awful idea.

Of course, I learned this the hard way a few years back—when, at the end of a three day bender I had “somehow” lost track of time and showed up at work that Monday about 5 hours late, unshaven, eyes glazed over, snot running down my face. Not only was I docked an entire day’s pay, but given my track record of mediocre performance at my mindless job—a performance which was no doubt informed by my extra-curricular proclivities—I was put on permanent “probation,” and told that “if I ever pulled a stunt like this again,” they would “sack me on the spot.” Sort of sounded like how my father used to lambast me in my youth for pulling various idiotic stunts, actually, if you replace the “sack me on the spot” part with “send me out back to pick a switch.” My pops really loved that Jackson family movie.

Had I been late on a Tuesday or Wednesday morning, it likely wouldn’t have been nearly as big a deal. In fact, I’m often later other days of the week (yes, usually for "party" related reasons), and no one really seems to give a hoot. Unfortunately for me and my job, Monday morning is BY FAR the most important morning of the week, and if I’m not on by 8:50, there’ll be hell to pay. That being so, one would think that I would refrain from “partying” on Sunday nights. And for the most part, I do. But every once in a while, a Sunday comes around, and afternoon drinking turns into evening rail blowing, and the next thing I know, it’s 5 am and I’m wide awake in front of my computer reading about the differences between needle-point and sacheting, and I have to be at work in less than 3 hours. Last night was such a night.

So at 5 am, the glare of my computer screen screaming at my brain to shut itself down, I decided that I would close my eyes for 2 hours, get up, get ready, drink an entire pot of coffee, and go into work. On only 2 hours of sleep, I was still convinced that I could make it through the day. And I’m still convinced that I could’ve. That is, if I had made it to my desk on time. Closing my eyes for “2 hours” proved to be an awful idea, I realized, as I glanced at an alarm clock that was telling me it was 9:45 am. Somehow I managed to fly out of bed, shower, shave, and get to my desk by 10:40, but by that point, my absence had been noticed by the entire department, much less my boss, and I knew that the excrement would no doubt be hitting the air conditioning in short order.

Long story made short—my boss completely chewed me out in front of the whole floor and sent me home, telling me not to return until Wednesday. At the very least, I’ll be docked 2 days pay and my boss’ll give me 2 smacks across the mouth because he likes me. At worst, I’ll be given the shitcan, will lose my insurance and benefits, and’ll have to go out and find a new job. Boss was undecided as of this morning, and my having offered to "toss his salad" probably won't bode miller well in his favor.

In all likelihood, I'll have to go out and get a new job. Not that it’ll be that hard for a coke addicted college graduate to find a dead-end, entry level position, but I’m fucking lazy and really, really don’t want to go through the effort. So hear is my plea to you, the reader: if I do lose my job, and I really, really hope I don’t--because I get paid much more than I deserve for doing jack shit all day—but if I do, can you please hire me? I am qualified for the following positions:

-Oatmeal maker: I make a mean outmeal. The secret is adding just the right amount of honey;

-Swedish au pair: I’m not Swedish, but hey, who’s counting?;

-Customer Service Representative: Hah! Just kidding. Believe me, you don’t want ME dealing with your customers;

-Trip-tick maker at AAA: I’ve always wanted to make those trip-tik thingies that you can get at AAA before you go on a long drive. I think I’d be very good at that;

-Participant in experiments concerning effect of blow on sex: I like sex at least as much as I like blow. As such, I’d make a perfect participant in such a study, should one actually exist, which I doubt does now that I think about it, because the effect of blow on sex is not really in question;

-Box-maker: Seriously, I can put together cardboard boxes faster than that dude Paco in shipping, and he’s fucking illegal for christ’s sake!


So if you know of any positions in which my above mentioned skills could be put to good use, please let me know. After all, it’s the least you can do to pay me back for taking away from my precious coke time to document my ever-spiraling demise on this here blog. The most you could do for me, incidentally, would be to give me money directly, and if you're willing to do so, email me and I'll have a conduit meet you in Tompkins Square on Thursday afternoon. Actually, now that I think about it, the most you could do for me would be to just give me a bag, because god knows if you give me $$, I'll just use it to go out and buy one. Might as well cut out the middle man, right? Simple economics. Whatever.

Relax, People

So no, I'm not dead. Nor did I OD (who can actually OD on blow these days, considering it's more baby laxative than coco derivative?). Nor was I sent to rehab. Not that it's so far off, but it's not that close either.

No, I was in LA. Don't worry what for. It's none of your concern. What is your concern, however, is that apparently, my neighbor wrote a piece about me while I was gone. Is it really about me? No, probably not--but many of the parallels (minus all the cragislist shit and random girls) are very similar to my life. So I'm glad, at least, that I'm not the only late night scumbag in this city. In fact, THIS dude sounds worse that me. Enjoy.

http://nypress.com/19/9/news&columns/feature.cfm

Out of Town

Back next week.

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.

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.