Sunday, November 21, 2004
I Don't Like the Drugs - But the Drugs Like Me
As I have said before, I'm only sober about 12 hours a day, and I'm usually sleeping for 10 of them, so my memory can be a bit spotty from time to time, and I regularly find myself piecing through the clues left behind in the detritus of my drunken debauchery to try and figure out exactly what happened any given night before.
Inevitably, suggestive and even accusatory questions are bound to arise: Where did these blood stains come from? How did I get this person's ID? Why all the broken glass? Whose car is parked on the lawn? Etc. etc...
Today I was going through my coat pockets, looking for a bus ticket, and instead I came up with a Lifestyles condom.
This was a little surprising since my normal brand preference is Trojan Very Sensitive - or anything I can steal.
So where did this little plastic package come from? I was perplexed. Stymied. Vexed.
My bus pulled up to the stop, and I boarded with a sense of purpose in my step, swerving just slightly, trying to steady the cup of drank in my hand, as I fumbled a two-zone pass into the slot. I slumped onto a seat, casting my bag down beside me, letting it fall with the heavy thunk of a half full bottle inside.
Eureka! Halloween. That's were the condom came from. I shuddered.
The memory was not a pleasant one. Eugene - bad clubs, worse DJs, unspeakable dancing, way too much coke.
Recollections of the night are hazy. I recall four drunken youth rolling down an alley in a big black Lincoln, circa seventies, holding a Bush/Cheney sign out the window. At first I thought they might be Republicans, but no. As they screeched to a halt in front of the club they called to the bouncer who was smoking a cigarette.
"Dude, set this shit on fire," one of them yelled, waving the sign. The bouncer walked over to the window and took hold of the sign as the assembled crowd on the sidewalk gathered in closer to witness the burning. The bouncer took his lighter, and held it up to the side of the sign, trying to set it afire.
"That's plastic," I said knowingly, "it won't burn for shit, at least not without some gasoline." The man seemed to be ignoring me, but I continued, "kerosene would work too."
The driver of the black Lincoln ground it into gear, and started off slowly down the alley, drifting into a stack of liquor boxes as he drove off.
"Fuck this," I said, talking in the general direction of Mr. A, "let's get that cab." We both staggered up to the mini-van taxi, and I recognized the cowboy-hat attired driver from earlier in the night.
"Can we get a lift?" I asked.
"Are you the ones who made the call?"
"No"
"Well, they're not here, and you are, so let's go."
"Cool"
Somewhere along the ride home we discovered that we were both skint for cash, but that's another story.
Back to The Condom.
I had been sitting at a table on the edge of the dance floor, watching in abject horror as a horde of drunken UO students packed the floor to "get down" to some lame ass anthem. It may have been Tipsy or possibly Get Low - I don't remember, and it doesn't really matter.
I was watching the scene with an expression of destitute shock when some fat girl came up to me and pressed a condom into my hand, then leaned over and yelled something like "maybe this will cheer you up" in my ear.
Yes indeed. That's how I got it. But why did I still have it?
Could I have turned down a straight up offer for sex? Not bloody likely, even if this girl wasn't attractive, or was in fact - as I remember - spectacularly unattractive.
I have long held forth that I will "fuck anybody," and even if that is pushing it a bit far, I do definitely adhere to a very open set of carnal standards.
In fact, aside from underage girls, I have only turned down sex on one occasion, and that was because the girlfriend of a 300 pound crackhead wanted to fuck me on the couch in their living room, while her boyfriend was passed out in the bedroom. Given said crackhead's history of psychosis and violence, I wasn't quite up for the act, and wisely declined.
But what of Halloween? Damn these blackouts! Why doesn't my memory last past ten drinks? Why?
Maybe I did have sex with the girl, and just forgot to use the condom. Maybe the nasty shit I found dried in my pubic hair the next morning wasn't vomit...
Ha ha, just kidding. That's gross!
Truth is, I don't remember what happened, and that's probably a good thing.
So, on this occasion, I guess the drugs really did work. And it might be time to get my test on - again.
Inevitably, suggestive and even accusatory questions are bound to arise: Where did these blood stains come from? How did I get this person's ID? Why all the broken glass? Whose car is parked on the lawn? Etc. etc...
Today I was going through my coat pockets, looking for a bus ticket, and instead I came up with a Lifestyles condom.
This was a little surprising since my normal brand preference is Trojan Very Sensitive - or anything I can steal.
So where did this little plastic package come from? I was perplexed. Stymied. Vexed.
My bus pulled up to the stop, and I boarded with a sense of purpose in my step, swerving just slightly, trying to steady the cup of drank in my hand, as I fumbled a two-zone pass into the slot. I slumped onto a seat, casting my bag down beside me, letting it fall with the heavy thunk of a half full bottle inside.
Eureka! Halloween. That's were the condom came from. I shuddered.
The memory was not a pleasant one. Eugene - bad clubs, worse DJs, unspeakable dancing, way too much coke.
Recollections of the night are hazy. I recall four drunken youth rolling down an alley in a big black Lincoln, circa seventies, holding a Bush/Cheney sign out the window. At first I thought they might be Republicans, but no. As they screeched to a halt in front of the club they called to the bouncer who was smoking a cigarette.
"Dude, set this shit on fire," one of them yelled, waving the sign. The bouncer walked over to the window and took hold of the sign as the assembled crowd on the sidewalk gathered in closer to witness the burning. The bouncer took his lighter, and held it up to the side of the sign, trying to set it afire.
"That's plastic," I said knowingly, "it won't burn for shit, at least not without some gasoline." The man seemed to be ignoring me, but I continued, "kerosene would work too."
The driver of the black Lincoln ground it into gear, and started off slowly down the alley, drifting into a stack of liquor boxes as he drove off.
"Fuck this," I said, talking in the general direction of Mr. A, "let's get that cab." We both staggered up to the mini-van taxi, and I recognized the cowboy-hat attired driver from earlier in the night.
"Can we get a lift?" I asked.
"Are you the ones who made the call?"
"No"
"Well, they're not here, and you are, so let's go."
"Cool"
Somewhere along the ride home we discovered that we were both skint for cash, but that's another story.
Back to The Condom.
I had been sitting at a table on the edge of the dance floor, watching in abject horror as a horde of drunken UO students packed the floor to "get down" to some lame ass anthem. It may have been Tipsy or possibly Get Low - I don't remember, and it doesn't really matter.
I was watching the scene with an expression of destitute shock when some fat girl came up to me and pressed a condom into my hand, then leaned over and yelled something like "maybe this will cheer you up" in my ear.
Yes indeed. That's how I got it. But why did I still have it?
Could I have turned down a straight up offer for sex? Not bloody likely, even if this girl wasn't attractive, or was in fact - as I remember - spectacularly unattractive.
I have long held forth that I will "fuck anybody," and even if that is pushing it a bit far, I do definitely adhere to a very open set of carnal standards.
In fact, aside from underage girls, I have only turned down sex on one occasion, and that was because the girlfriend of a 300 pound crackhead wanted to fuck me on the couch in their living room, while her boyfriend was passed out in the bedroom. Given said crackhead's history of psychosis and violence, I wasn't quite up for the act, and wisely declined.
But what of Halloween? Damn these blackouts! Why doesn't my memory last past ten drinks? Why?
Maybe I did have sex with the girl, and just forgot to use the condom. Maybe the nasty shit I found dried in my pubic hair the next morning wasn't vomit...
Ha ha, just kidding. That's gross!
Truth is, I don't remember what happened, and that's probably a good thing.
So, on this occasion, I guess the drugs really did work. And it might be time to get my test on - again.
