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drunk, drunk, drunk

Thanks, Crack Pipe

People today are too consumed with their tunnel vision, which is focused exclusively on satisfying their every want without concern for others. Outside influences, ideas, demands, etc are simply seen as an invasion on their personal universe. Which is why you so often see people freaking out so badly in public over utterly insignificant matters in a way that simply would not be the case a few decades ago.

Little things matter so much to them because their lives are so narrowly tuned to their day to day satisfaction and anything that gets in the way of that really is a life-destroying event for them, because they have compromised their potential for a thought-free existence.

Marketing has taken a turn towards lamenting how everything is a hassle how horribly overburdened everyone is and how even the most unremarkable thing is a terrible inconvenience. It perfectly indicates how even day-to-day life victimizes people now due to their own shallowness.

Not only do people want to live worry-free, they want to live thought-free.

Everything is subcontracted and delegated to someone else. Hire a maid. Ship the infants to daycare. Send the kids to sports and piano the second they leave school until it's time for bed. Hire landscapers. Elect politicians who will just wave their magic wands and make everything OK without asking for any sacrifices. The list goes on.

When The Big Issue in the 2004 election was Gay Marriage, I really knew most people had completely lost the plot. Thousands of Americans dead, the country bleeding money like crazy in a war without end...and fucking gay marriage is the number one concern across the land.

When you are out in public, watch people attempt to figure out simple things in their day to day lives. Notice how many well-off, very gainfully employed people simply cannot complete day to day tasks or comprehend information that does not pertain to their specific occupation. If you've worked with the public in any capacity, you almost certainly have tales of surprise retardation in supposedly intelligent people. Take a step back and realize how often that occurs and how widespread the problem is.

Increasingly the mantra is "I don't want to worry about anything, think about anything, or be responsible for anything."

People want to shut themselves off, disavow any responsibilities to anyone other than themselves and those they surround themselves with, but whine all the while about how gas prices are too high, traffic just gets worse and worse, and taxes keep going up. It's expected that politicians will simply fix everything without expecting people to change the way they live their lives, but that for some reason they just haven't done it yet. The concept that larger issues could be at play simply doesn't register with them.

These same people complain about how out of touch intellectuals are with their way of life. Hell, I'll admit I'm completely out of touch with that way of life and I really don't feel bad about it in the slightest degree.

When your way of life is so utterly pointless, self-defeating and destructive to the society around you, why should it be something we should desire a connection to?

I don't have to tell you things are bad. Everybody knows things are bad. It's a depression. Everybody's out of work or scared of losing their job. The dollar buys a nickel's work, banks are going bust, shopkeepers keep a gun under the counter. Punks are running wild in the street and there's nobody anywhere who seems to know what to do, and there's no end to it. We know the air is unfit to breathe and our food is unfit to eat, and we sit watching our TV's while some local newscaster tells us that today we had fifteen homicides and sixty-three violent crimes, as if that's the way it's supposed to be. We know things are bad - worse than bad. They're crazy. It's like everything everywhere is going crazy, so we don't go out anymore. We sit in the house, and slowly the world we are living in is getting smaller, and all we say is, 'Please, at least leave us alone in our living rooms. Let me have my toaster and my TV and my steel-belted radials and I won't say anything. Just leave us alone.' Well, I'm not gonna leave you alone. I want you to get mad! I don't want you to protest. I don't want you to riot - I don't want you to write to your congressman because I wouldn't know what to tell you to write. I don't know what to do about the depression and the inflation and the Russians and the crime in the street. All I know is that first you've got to get mad. You've got to say, 'I'm a HUMAN BEING, Goddamnit! My life has VALUE!'

and they say computers are easy.

Rewind, Redo, Recover

Interestingly enough, Home, happened on a night that would eventually change my life forever, and it was completely unexpected which made it that much more incredible.

Before I got home, before my parents went to bed, and before I snuck out to go buy beer and cigarettes (we know where that goes), I was riding in the back seat of a cop car driven by two female officers, accompanied unfortunately, by my father. The night that Home took place was on a Sunday, and the only reason I remember this, is that for the 3 days leading up it, I was, legally, missing.

I had 'run away' from home, because my father had told me I was not allowed out on the weekend unless I had finished a book report. Looking back, it was the stupidest rationalization I could have made, but nonetheless, one that would influence the next 2 years of my life. I had gone out with my father's permission but was to be home promptly at 8, no negotiating. I hopped on the subway and knew that I was more than likely going to disobey my orders and stay out past curfew, but how long I did not know, so I made no reservations and just played it by ear.

I made it to the Upper East Side and met up with 2 of my friends, both of whom were older and much more intimidating then I was. In a way, I revered them because they were 'rebels' and all of that dime-store-psycho-analytical nonsense, but the truth of it was I really wanted to be accepted, and I can admit that now without hesitation. I was young and had only mildly experimented with drugs at that point, so smoking pot regularly or drinking was nothing new, and I was always willing to try something else if it was available. The three of us waited in the cold and in Starbucks for hours before we finally found a coke dealer. I had never actually tried coke (except for once my older sister gave me a pinch and told me to rub it on my teeth) and I was excited to do what I had seen in the movies and heard about from older friends.

The dealer was a tall, black man, which is what I had assumed he would be, and met us in Starbucks, where we quickly gave him the money in return for the bag and left, so as not to attract unwanted attention. It was winter and cold outside, but we trudged on, not letting anything keep us from having a night out. We ended up doing some of the bag in a McDonald's bathroom, and the rest on a stoop, using a crudely cut straw so take bumps.

At this point in the evening I had received calls every 30 minutes from my father who left a plethora of messages asking me to call him or come home, none of which I responded to. I figured, if I was going to break the rules intentionally and maliciously, I might as well do it big.

The one big problem of the evening was that we didn't know where we were going to sleep. We had a few ideas and all of them either required more money than we had or involved parents and such. We finally decided that...Well I honestly don't remember most of it, but we ended up on our way to Yonkers to try and go to one of our houses. If you're from New York City you know that Manhattan is quite a distance from Yonkers, especially when you're getting there on the subway.

As fate would have it, my friend's mother wasn't awake and he didn't have his keys, so he decided he would try and scale the wall and crawl through his window. My other friend and I stood by while he climbed onto the side of his building in the middle of the night in Yonkers. God, it must have looked insane.

It's funny, but he actually climbed to his third story window and managed to open it and get inside. His mother wasn't too happy but she gave him $6 and sent him off. He walked out the front door and we discussed our options of getting back into the city, possibly to rent a cheap hotel room for a few nights. We gathered our strength and walked to the bus stop, where we waited for almost an hour in the freezing cold, until finally we were on our way. From the bus to the subway again, although most of it is a blur because I slept almost the entire way.

We had heard of this hotel on East 57th street that was cool and cheap and wasn't overly strict, and decided it would be worth checking out. We had talked about how we were going to pay for the damned thing, and decided that if I used my credit card it would work, and they offered to pay for more drugs. The deal was sealed, as they say, and we were soon placed in a room with only a bed, a television, and a sink. The sun was coming up and we passed out.

The next day was mostly watching the television's few channels and standing on the corner asking people for cigarettes and shit. When night came another one of our friends came over with a few girls and a bunch of drugs. By now, my cell phone had been shut off for a while so I decided to check out what my parents were trying to say. It was an endless stream of text messages and voice mails, too many to care. The last one caught my eye with, "We've called the police..."

My worst fears had come true. My parents called the cops and told them to put out an APB (All Points Bulletin). What a disaster, I thought. I excused myself to the bathroom and called my parents, feeling guilty about what I had put them through over the past few days. I told them where I was and they told me to wait outside. I made up some bull shit, about meeting someone outside, to tell my friends why I was going out. It was pouring and I smoked a cigarette. In under 5 minutes a cop car pulled up and my father stepped out.

When I got in the cab I was still on a heavy amount of drugs and hadn't slept or eaten food in a few days, and I most likely looked like shit. The two female cops turned around and asked me through the barrier if I was hurt or injured. I said little more than, "No, I'm fine."

When I got home I got a few sentences from each person in my family and then immediately went into my room. I decided to wait until everybody else was asleep, so I could go to the deli and buy cigarettes and beer.

Home

When I was 13 years old, I slept with a 26 year old Asian girl with purple hair, who lived, per chance, a block away from my parent's house. It was late, I was out buying beer and cigarettes (only in new York, right?) and she was obviously drunk. As I stepped out of the deli I began to pack my cigarettes, when I was stopped by the aforementioned Asian who inquired about the possibility of acquiring a spare smoke.

I thought nothing of it and handed one over from my fresh pack, starting to walk away as quickly as I had stopped, when she asked, ever so innocently, "Wait, where are you going?" As I'm not one to be rude, and as I was more surprised at the meaning of the question then at the Asian asking the question, I pivoted on my heels and replied simply and as suave as humanly possible, "Um...Haha...Nowhere, why?"

I could tell she was drunk, and to any other 13 year old this might seem out of character, but I am a born and raised New Yorker and discerning the drunks from the crazies is second nature in a town where both are forces to be reckoned with, at least for the sake of one's safety and survival. She seemed to know what she was doing, which I can only assume, because I don't remember my feelings at the time, made me feel more comfortable with her.

In any normal world, where the skies are always blue, the government is always honest, and people are always warm-hearted, I would have told the Asian that I was going home, and that I was not interested in any further conversation, but New York City is not a normal world. It is, in fact, a cesspool of dirt and grime; a bubbling pot of piss, vice, and opportunities. In my case, the opportunity to have sex--ne, have the company of an older, obviously more experienced woman, is something that I wouldn't have passed up, especially at the ripe, young age of 13.

And so, with my mind sending wave after wave of hormones down my spinal cord, I agreed after a brief talk, that I would accompany the Asian back to her place, which was, as goes the story, right around the corner.

The facade of the building was something I had never bothered to study up close, even though it was, actually, around the corner from my house, but it was decrepit in every sense of the word. The black, outside door was old and covered with graffiti and old stickers and looked in bad condition, to say the least. It was a precursor to whatever was on the other side of the door. The stairs up to her apartment were dirt encrusted and each one squeaked and groaned. I remember walking a few steps in front of her and turning around at one point to see how she was doing, only to find a look of sudden puzzlement written on her face as to what I was doing there with her. I smiled the most genuine smile I could come up with at the time, hoping to at least make it to her apartment before she decided this was all a terrible idea.

Unfortunately for the both of us, that time never came. In a drunken haze, she asked, "How old are you, again?" Almost without thinking, I lied and told her I was 16, which, even for a lie, was a bad choice of age on my part, considering she was obviously older. She seemed to have a need to justify this question, although in hindsight it was obvious why she would want to ask, so she said, "Oh...Well, I'm...umm...26." I tried to laugh, as if a defense mechanism like laughter was appropriate to make the situation much less awkward then it already was. Needless to say, she did not laugh.

When we got to her door, I did not know what to expect, but this was the proverbial point of no return, and I made a decision. Her apartment was not so much of an apartment, but one room, with a bed, a window, and a small sink. In fact it looked more like a prison cell than anything. She told me to make myself comfortable and that she had to go to the bathroom, explaining that she shared it with the other people on her floor, and although I never saw the bathroom I can only imagine what it must have looked like, considering what shape the rest of the building was in.

When she returned she appeared a bit more relaxed and I, with sweaty palms, welcomed it as a sign of good intentions. She smiled and told me that she had been music shopping earlier in the day and had bought 2 new CDs, one a band I had never heard of and the other being The Rolling Stones. She pleasantly suggested that I choose which she should play, and I picked the Stones, trying to seem older and smarter then I was at the time. She turned the music on and sat down next to me on her small, messy bed. Her floor was covered with books and magazines and clothes, although there wasn't much floor space to really be covered, and I assumed she was a student or an artist, never bothering to figure out which. I searched for something on her bare, white walls to let me know what I was doing, and why I was in this Asian's room. I found none, so I sucked up all the courage I had and talked to her.

We talked for only a few minutes, although it seemed longer, most of the talk coming from her in the form of harmless questions. She asked me what I did, where I was from and what I was interested in; questions that could have no emotional value. I allowed myself to tell her only what I deemed acceptable, making sure not to tell her anything too important or incriminating (i.e., my age, etc.)

There was a brief pause, and as though it were planned out in a movie script, she softened her voice and asked if she could kiss me. I remember being caught off guard by the question, but nevertheless intrigued by it, and immediately nodded in silent approval.

I had some sexual experience under my belt, but it was obviously nothing compared to hers, and I let her make the moves, which made me feel powerful and older. I felt as though I were the king of all men, and I just conquered the neighboring lands.

I was the general who got to fuck the princess.
I was the loser who got to feel up the prom queen.

It was over and she was passed out before I even got my underwear back on. In some attempt at decency, I found a piece of paper and marker on the floor and scribbled a bunch of words down that I can't remember, most likely something unnecessary and benign. I might have left my phone number at the bottom, and maybe even my name, but I decided against any further action. I zipped up and, like some secret agent home from a deadly and classified mission, was home in less than a minute, accidentally leaving my beer and cigarettes next to her bed.

ignorance IS contagious

timing is everything.