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MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life
(GENESIS)
Spring of 1976
Drugs A Way Of Life
A close friend of mine was kicked out of his house by his
parents and moved into the Adobe with me. He worked when and
where he could, most of his money going into his muscle car and
drugs—especially hallucinogens. He acquired these by ordering
weird powders, fungi and weeds from overseas through a magazine
called “High Times”. Back in the day, this was possible, as the
materials had not yet been listed on the controlled substances
list by the U.S. Government. Don was always boiling or drying
some mixture or other. Then he would eat or smoke the stuff.
He knew how intrigued I was with altered states of
consciousness, so often tried to get me to use his concoctions,
claiming it would open new portals for me. I didn’t trust drugs,
particularly for altering my moods or perception of happiness.
In High School, I had tried cocaine twice and Qualudes once,
each on separate occasions.
I felt nothing on cocaine except for being a touch more
hyper. For me, nothing compared to the rush I got from sex,
exercise or outdoor activities. Many of my friends told me I had
to use cocaine many times to get “The Full Effect.” They tried
to convince me to make the extra effort to get that effect.ffect.
Don had a group of friends that would come over and
conduct “Bong-a-thons”. He and his circle of friends would sit
in a circle passing around the bong and would literally
“Bong-a-thon”, until hours later, when only one of them would
remain conscious. To my recollection, Don always won. Sometimes,
he and his circle of friends would do nitrous oxide whippets
between tokes on the bong. Sometimes they would indulge in
drinking alcohol, and or perhaps take pills, LSD, mescaline, during the intensive
bong sessions. ions.
Several times, Don would take a toke of nitrous oxide, a
hit of the bong and then he would spin on his side, around and
around chirping and whooping, sounding just like Shemp and Curly
of the three stooges.
Don had a kitten with which he shared his pot addiction. At
first Don held the kitten’s head and breath into its face,
forcing the kitten to inhale the pot fumes. Eventually, force
was not needed, every time Don would bring out the bong, the
kitten would tear across the room, jump up on Don’s shoulders to
lean over and eagerly breathe in the fumes.
Don was also a friend with my younger brother James. Both
or them started to hang out with a guy who I will call Miles. He
looked much like the actor Miles O’Keefe. Towering at six foot
two inches and weighting in at two hundred pounds, Miles looked
like a giant greyhound on steroids without an ounce of fat on
him. He was the ideal picture of masculine beauty. Miles could
have done anything, he could have been a movie star or model, a
world-class athlete in a dozen sports, even a scholar. His
misfortune was growing up in a family that was riddled with
alcoholism, violence, misdirect machismo, and neglect. Miles was
the stepbrother of my friend John Baloney.
Two years previous just after I had joined the Marines, my
brother moved in with a guy named Karm Pornopuolus, a man who
had previously lived and worked for my father and stepmother had also joined
this gang. It was because of Karm that James had a greater access to drugs. The four of them,
Don, James, Miles, Karm
developed a drug coalition of sorts.
Don had access to pot and exotic but legal hallucinogens, Karm dealt in pot, acid, and downers. When my brother was
fourteen, he turned Don on to his first trip on acid. James got
this from Karm who happened to be about thirty at the time.
Miles got heavy into pot, acid, alcohol, and became very fond of
heroin and especially “Crank” or ‘Methamphetamines”
Miles, Don, Baloney, Karm, my brother James, practically
everyone in the area knew that although I tolerated my friends
drug use, they were well aware of my aversion and low opinion of
drugs and people’s need to use them. James was especially aware
of my views on drug use and he did his best to hide his
addiction, especially his addiction to crank. Miles was the guy
who turned my brother on, first to snorting heroin and crank and
finally mainlining both of those drugs, especially crank. James
picked up hepatitis from sharing needles with other junkies.
While living in Bridgeport, each one of my ‘friends’ tried
to talk me into using the drug of their choice. oice.
One night, as Don, Baloney and I were sucking down beers at the
Pistachios, which was kitty-corner and twenty-five convenient
steps away from my apartment door.
Pistachios was the kind of place always buzzing with
business or one sort or another. It was a place that was all
edge. A mixture of steel workers, old guys on meager pensions,
middle-age women lonely for drinks and someone to buy them,
blue-collar junkies, and beer-gluttons. Any time you could find
people playing pool, shuffle board, or various forms of illegal
gambling at Pistachios.
Anyway, this night, my two friends were pushing hard for
me to join them in a life-style of drugs use.
They regaled me with arguments on how their drugs would enhance
me on many levels. The same arguments that my junky buddies at
Fort Bliss would hand me as we lounged in the “Meat Retreats”.
Suddenly Miles and a junky friend of his came into the bar,
looking angry and looking like hell.
Miles starts screaming at his stepbrother Baloney, “Hey
man, where’s my stash mother fucker?”
Baloney was fighting to control his anger and fear of
Miles. Baloney was much larger than Miles and stronger, but
Miles had a rep. There had always been an undercurrent of mutual
fear and resentment between them.
Baloney snarls defensively, “I don’t know what the fuck
you’re talking about man!”
Miles leans in menacingly, “My stash is gone man, and all
my works are gone with it too! It was either you, or one of your
fuck face friends!”
Baloney stood up abruptly and Miles leaned in to grab him.
Without thinking, putting good sense to the side, I jumped in
between them, hoping to smooth things over.
“Hey Miles, let me buy you and your friend a beer.”
Miles hesitated, fighting his crank fueled rage to attack
Baloney. Finally he complied and sat with us.
Miles looked like a death wraith.
When Miles first started using, he was a bundle of energy and
his weight loss was minimal. I remember when the first tooth
rotted out of his head. It was his first imperfection of his
once flawless looks. In a strange way the loss of his left
canine actually gave him a certain tough-guy looking appeal. You
know, like an ultimate fighter with a few strategic scars and a
side tooth to advertise that he was not only handsome; but a
badass fucker as well. For
years, and during the beginning of the downward spiral of his
addiction, Miles always had a bevy of women panting for him.
Sitting in the smoky neon twilight of Pistachios, I could
see that Miles and his friend were dying from a burnout
Bridgeport diet of crank and outright neglect. I saw that Miles
had lost fifty pounds of muscle. It was weird. He was like the
incredible shrinking man. He was a lot smaller with the same
build. It was weight that he could not afford to spare. His once
chiseled features was now a death mask, his eyes shining a
hyper-vigilant glare, now his once flawless smile was randomly
absent of teeth and the remaining teeth looked like rotting
Chiclets.
Finally Miles and his familiar left.
I looked over at Baloney and Don, “There goes two fine examples
of the advantages of drug use.” I quipped
My sarcasm was not lost on either of them as both of them told
me that Miles had “lost control”, and that their drugs of choice
were different... better...their drugs expanded their
consciousness, increased their physical performance, and their
sexual enjoyment and skill. They claimed that I would enjoy sex
more and become a better lover. I mentioned that Miles had told
me the same thing.
Don just snorted, “Hell, Miles isn’t having much sex these
days, his sex drive is fucked by Shanghi Sally (Heroin).
Hearing this brought up memories of Buster and his heroin junky
friends I was stationed with at Fort Bliss.
I had noticed a familiar face, an occasional local patron
sitting at the bar just before Miles and his friend had stormed
into the bar. I noticed that the guy had been watching us. It
seemed from his facial expression that he was able to pick out
much of our conversation. At first I was worried that he was a
cop, but then I recognized him. He was one of the doctors that
would occasionally perform required physicals for the kids who
wanted to join any of the athletic teams at Upper Merion.
I will call this guy, Doctor Vinny Goomba. He was Italian and he
seemed like a good-hearted boozer. Even when he gave us
physicals at Upper Merion, lots of kids claimed to smell booze
on him.
He had dark hair, a big nose, full lips, and a face that
spoke of sensuality pushed to the brink of debauchery. He was in
his forties or fifties and they had been hard years, years
filled with booze and sharp remorse. Ever since I had gone to
Upper Merion, I had heard all the rumors about him, and since I
moved to Bridgeport, I saw first hand that he was a dedicated
drinker, and not the sissy beer stuff that I would drink. Dr. Vinny Goomba liked his hard liquor and in large quantities.
I knew many junkies who supposedly went to Dr. Goomba to
get a prescription or actual samples that would be the drug of
their choice. If he were unable to give them the drug of their
choice, then he would prescribe or give them some analog that
was as similar as possible. Often he would give these junkies
something to come down easier.
This is what was said on the grapevine of the burnouts
that I sometimes rubbed shoulders with
Once I had to go to his office to get
treated for a lung and sinus infection. As I was sitting in the
waiting room, he came out to yell at a junkie that had been
sitting in the waiting room with me. h me.
I
knew the junkie only by sight, and vague reputation.
Evidently, he, the junkie had incurred the wrath of the good
doctor. Doctor Vinny was shaking with rage, fear and other
emotions I could not put a finger on.
Doctor Goomba screamed, “This is the last time! Get out
and don’t you ever come back!”
The junky grabbed the scrip in
shaky desperation and ran out without giving me a look.
Dr. Goomba turned abruptly and slammed the door violently behind
him. I heard his nurse talking to him, asking him why he even
bothered with “Those type of people”.
His bass voice sounded deeply with compassion, “I just
don’t want them to steal for their drugs, I don’t want them to
suffer when they can’t get their drugs.” I heard him sigh a
defeated sigh, “I just can’t stand by and see them suffer. I
wish things were set up to help them.”them.”
I heard another agonized sigh, “I just get pissed off when
kids like him (The junkie that ran out), won’t get off the stuff
and it pisses me off when they jerk me around telling me what
they know I want to hear, telling me that they really want to
get clean.”
I heard the murmuring of mutual commiserating. Suddenly,
the door opens and he steps into the room.
He didn’t recognize me as one of the high school boys whose
testicles he had to prod as he made me cough as I turned one-way
and then another.
As I sat through his examine of my sinuses and lungs, I
made a comment about his anger with the shaky junky (I used the
word patient). He said, “Yeah, it’s pretty sad, some guys have
gotten themselves into bad situations.” Then his lips tightened.
I waited for him to explain further, but he didn’t. Instead he
gave me a script for an anti-biotic.
The first guys I knew that took steroids got them from Dr. Vinny
Goomba.
I truly believe that he wanted to help people. He never sold
drugs and he never charge extra for his prescriptions.
Anyway, as I travel back from memory lane into the present
environment of Pistachios, I notice that the good doctor had
been listening in with interest. I put my attention back to Don
and Baloney.
I resisted their arguments, making a point to let them know that
I was enjoying my dependency of sex and alcohol. Both of them
again tried to tell me that my sex life, my sexual enjoyment
would be greater with the use of their drugs of choice.
I wondered, “Again, every one seems to be concerned with
my
sex life, with
my
sexual enjoyment.”
The irony that Don was a virgin and that Baloney has had sexual
relations with only one woman did not escape me. I fought the
urge to confront them with their screwed up reality, but chose
to be discreet instead.
They continued to spin-doctor me. They used the argument
that my strength would be enhanced. They mentioned that when
they did certain drugs they could lift more, endure more pain,
enjoyed more staying power. Again I mused that I possessed
greater strength, endurance, and a greater tolerance for pain
and perhaps with the exception of Don's slightly superior speed.
Once again, I fought the urge to confront them with
reality. I simply told them that I operated in the physical and
sexual realms at a level that I was more than satisfied with
Sensing my insecurity of my mental performance they told
me how their mental processes were enhanced.
I still did not fall for the bait. I told them that Miles had
given me all of the same arguments. Look where it got him, I
said.
Finally Don and Baloney wanted to go back to Baloney’s
stepfather’s house to smoke some weed. I wanted to stay; I had
my eye on a bar-hag.
When they left, Doctor Vinny Goomba piped in, “Don’t
listen to your friends.”
Dr. Vinny did not seem to recognize me from high school or from
my visit to his office. I looked at him through a boozy haze.
“Be careful, he said, a lot of people feel the most
comfort when they bring down people that the feel bad around.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “What do you mean?”
“A lot of people that use drugs, do so because they feel
bad about themselves in one way or another. They feel weak for
relying on the drugs. They want all of their friends to use the
same crutches that they use. It makes their actions, seem
normal.”
I said, “I just can’t understand why my friends would fell
bad about themselves. They have as much going for them as
anyone.”
Dr. Goomba slugged down another shot, “A lot of junkies
are motivated to get as many people to use drugs.”
I leaned in with interest, “Why would they want to do
that?” nbsp;
He got a far away boozy look, “The more people that use
drugs, provide more customer for dealers, and more drug users
keep the police occupied... perhaps too occupied for them. Also,
if you start to use drugs, your friends aren’t forced to look at
their own shortcomings.”
“I just don’t get why anyone would want to use drugs. I
tried them a few times and I just don’t see what the big deal is
with using drugs. My friends said I should keep on trying.”
Dr. Goomba laughed a derisive laugh, “Your problem is that
you have a brain that works as it should. You feel pleasure when
you should and sadness also when you should. The reason why your
friends say that you need to keep using to feel what they feel
is because essentially, your brain has to change to accept the
chemicals. This would mean that your brain has to become
chemically and neurologically imbalance.
I told Dr. Goomba that I was not comfortable altering the
structure of my brain so I could become more dependent on a drug
for pleasure. I was already getting more from living. I also
told him that when I tried Qualudes that they made me sluggish,
which I did not like. I told him that even beer, which I enjoyed
and I used regularly, wasn’t pleasant when I over-used it beyond
a mild buzz of relaxation.
He looked at me with drunken compassion, “You want to
watch what kind of friends you hang out with. “Some friends may
bring you down.”down.”
I felt resentful that he would dare to slam my friends. I
did not think that a raging alcoholic was a person that I could
take advice from and I said as much and then regretted my
outburst.
“With a look of pained compassion he said, “Yeah… well,
you got a point.” “However, I’m not trying to sell you alcohol
and I am not trying to get you to use alcohol.” He sighed a
mournful sigh, “I would not feel better about you becoming an
alcoholic…in fact I have been watching you.”
Startled, “You’ve been watching me?’
“Yes, and I’m concerned that if you keep doing what you
been doing, your going to develop quite the alcohol dependency.
You may very well end up like me.”
Dr. Vinny Goomba down his last shot in front of him, got
off his stool, stumbled about just a bit, and then he wandered
out of Pistachios without looking back.
I sat there stunned that he would think that I was in
danger of becoming an alcoholic. Sure my grandmother was an
alcoholic when she was young, but that was because she was on
half Native American and was stressed with the burden of five
kids she could not raise. My father liked to party a lot; but he
didn’t drink when he was at sea, only when he was back on shore
leave and needed to blow off steam. My brother James, well he
was an emotional anomaly; he was trying to take after my dad and
the older friends that he was trying to emulate.
I determined that I did not have such problems. I drank because
of the social conditioning that required me to supply my guests
with booze. Also, the clubs I drank at didn’t offer tea or
juice. No drug has ever allowed me to feel what I experienced
during an OBE or other mystical experiences.
I was in no danger of becoming an alcoholic, or so I
thought.
HOMEPAGE
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