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EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK:
MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For
Intelligent Life (EXODUS)
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. 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.
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, pills, LSD, mescaline, during
the intensive bong sessions.
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 also 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, 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 lived and worked
for my father and stepmother. It was because of Karm that James
had a greater access to drugs. The four of them, 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
on my brother, 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.
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 mother-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 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 regrets. 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.
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.”
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 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 told them.
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. 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?”
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.”
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.
“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.
MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life
(GENESIS)
MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life
(REVELATIONS)
MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life
(JUDGMENT DAY)
THE MARINES: GOD'S CHOSEN
WARRIORS
VINCE'S GYM
ADVENTURES IN MARINE BIOLOGY
CONVERSATIONS WITH NEO
NEO TEACHES ME THE ART OF WAR
& PEACE;
His Version of The Matrix
MEMORIES OF MY FATHERS
ZEN & THE ART OF RESISTANCE
TRAINING:
A Yogic & Scientific Approach To Weight
Lifting
ZEN & THE BIOLOGY OF
TRANSCENDENCE:
The First Matrix of Psychic
Phenomena
ZEN & THE ART OF KINESIOLOGY:
The Yogic & Scientific
Approach To Movement
ZEN & YOUR ENERGY SYSTEMS
ZEN & VARIOUS ASPECTS OF
TRAINING
HOMEPAGE TO MOST PEOPLE TALK BULLSHIT:
One Primate's Search For Intelligent Life
(EXODUS)
HOMEPAGE |
