Tag Archives: beer

A Fine Example of How To Behave Badly or ‘The Best of Paxil Manners’

Modest Readers,
We do not illustrate this installment of the blog because the whole thing is an illustration in and of itself…the following log illustrates how a person on Paxil and behaving like a complete asshole can act and give you clues on how to spot one. This is an actual logsheet taken from the Official Asshole Logbook from last year.
Since we are nearing March, we present this entry from the aforementioned text…

In short, if you are with someone who acts like this, they are an asshole. This will help you spot one if you are unsure…

We do not include good behavior here because it does not offset the bad.

ASSHOLE ACTIVITY LOGSHEET 3/21/13
900am
wakes in fine mood

1000AM
takes meds

1030am
gets loud on phone
1055am
asks friend personal question and says we said to ask.
1120am
starts interrupting, being rude and not allowing others to complete thoughts
1136am
locks self outside house
1147am
tries kissing up by bringing us OJ…
1149am
butts in again when others speaking
1154am
listless
1156am
interrupts conversation on medical care to shout ‘birdies! Birdies!’
speaking too loudly.
Annoying in general.
1157am
upstairs waking cats that want to sleep in daytime, as cats do. Inkie now under sofa where she cannot reach her.
1158am
talking to self loudly.
1206pm
just plain fucking stupid! Wants to go out and play and it is 27 degrees outside.
110pm
still being jackass
130pm
allowing bowl of pot to burn into air while staring at pc
140pm
on phone in living room while burning light in bedroom
156pm
made us ask same question three times in a row while giving us answer to a question we never even asked.
219pm
accuses us of insulting her because we said crushed velvet.
229pm
gives stupid response.
232pm
wants to use my garden shears on plastic and ruin the blade
323pm
standing there giving me creeps.
340pm
puts cat urine-soaked carpet from porch in washing machine with her own clothes
348pm
wasting bowl again
402pm
wants a beer already…
446pm
starts to go into las vegas rant and cracks second beer
448pm
claims to be not drinking fast enough
459pm
stamps feet like child while singing ‘lalalalala’ at top of lungs to drown out other person who is wishing to communicate in an adult fashion.
Went into bathroom and continued singing obstreperously while pissing into the bowl.
511pm
won’t allow others to speak.
513pm
lost beer and blames it on others
555pm
suggests using cookware to perform injurious deeds upon small animals while drunk
556pm
pees pants
thinks it is funny and has nothing to do with drinking or her kidneys and liver
gets stuck on/in toilet by big ass.
608pm
told to quit talking to herself and distracting playmates
612pm
asked for more meds – drug-seeking behaviour.
627pm
extemporaneously spouting shit about monsanto. says she will eat a boll weevil. speech meandering. going back in time and blessing dead people.
646pm
spouting off extemporaneously on subject of ‘origins of the human hand shake’
649pm
attempts to influence monitor with sexual favors, including blowjobs
652pm
wants car to go ‘get something’ but refuses to explain what.
653pm
acts like pig. argues. unreasonable. chattering. bitching. Threatening
714pm
cannot open simple bag of cheese where it says ‘pull here’
743pm
blathering
745pm
will not shut the fuck up
was acting stupid at 744pm and would not shut up so we could report her.
747pm
acting helpless to a cancer patient because too drunk to stand up straight by herself
749pm
sarcasm towards others
822pm
lurking about again – seems to lurk about too often
847pm
lost false tooth we paid for. could not find it because too vain to get eyeglasses so she can see five feet in front of her.
Also lost temper twice in last 15 minutes and suggested several stupid and inane things which make no good sense to us.

We shall conclude due to her increasing mania so we may watch to be sure she doesn’t hurt herself.

And that, Mannered Readers, is last year’s account of bad behaviour for one day for one person. e must all consider our bad behaviour footprints and keep such idiocy to a minimum for the sake of the global community.

We wish you a good day/evening and warn you to be aware of such goings-on. Protect yourself accordingly!

This is a free blog and, as such, is expected to have a certain amount of typos.

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More About Heading West

Michael (6)Recently, the editorial ‘We’ left the East Coast and headed west. “The west is the best,” Jim Morrison said. It is true and it is also kind of sad. After fifty-six years in the same time zone, the Eastern Standard Zone lost the fun it used to be.
Personally, we first heard rock and roll in New York, as Roy Orbison exposed his whiney heart over radio in my parent’s old Desoto singing Born On The Wind. At five years old, we watched the Beatles arrive at Shea Stadium on the tv and the resulting new British revolution followed on the screen. In our teens we spat at the stage of CBGB, pogoed and slammed.
New York City, the City that never sleeps must have been napping when the Hip Train arrived in Colorado and Washington with legal weed. How can it
be the hippest city in the world when the most delectable commodities are easier to get here in the west? Our eyes moisten with tears of sorrow when we consider this. We think of the swinging forties and fifties when the Rat Pack ruled the dark streets and the punk rock in the seventies that restarted the heart of rock and roll in the face of the disco machine uptown at Studio 54.
Recently, the editorial ‘We’ left the East Coast and headed west. “The west is the best,” Jim Morrison said. It is true and it is also kind of sad. After fifty-six years in the same time zone, the Eastern Standard Zone lost the fun it used to be.
Personally, we first heard rock and roll in New York, as Roy Orbison exposed his whiney heart over radio in my parent’s old Desoto singing Born On The Wind. At five years old, we watched the Beatles arrive at Shea Stadium on the tv and the resulting new british revolution followed on the screen. In our teens we spat at the stage of CBGB, pogoed and slammed.
New York City, the City that never sleeps must have been napping when the Hip Train arrived in Colorado and Washington with legal weed. How can it
be the hippest city in the world when the most delectable commodities are easier to get here in the west? Our eyes moisten with tears of sorrow when we consider this anomaly. We think of the swinging forties and fifties when the Rat Pack ruled the dark streets and the punk rock in the seventies that restarted the heart of rock and roll in the face of the disco machine uptown at Studio 54.
We miss the dirty old New York City of our youth with her dirty pavements, leering pervs and beggars with outstretched hands. They brought a sense of danger that seemed vital to the city, like the visage of Moondog standing on Sixth Avenue shouting his poetry and scaring more timid foot traffic to the other side of the street with his two-horned Viking helmet. Philadelphia still sports a layer of dirt on it but Disney constipated the Big Apple by cleaning up Times Square, the once-beloved center of sleaze. The last time we walked down to Greenwich Village and got thirsty for a beer, we had to walk eight blocks…eight blocks!!! In NYC for a beer? The real indignity came with viewing the Lower East Side out the window of an Applebee’s because that was all we could find.
The Globe Marquee In Times SquareAnd what happened to the 25 Cent XXX Sex Show on Forty Second Street? As bad as it turned out to be, how could anybody resist finding out how much of a show you get for a quarter?
Well, now we reside in Washington, home state of the most prolific serial killers. The Son of Sam fell far short of some of the body counts we see here. To the south a couple of states, we have California so that gives us our minimum daily requirement of nearby whack-jobs. What is the difference between bad behavior at the Jersey Shore and bad behavior in LA? LA dresses it up better and has blondes. It all comes out the same on TMZ, though.
We arrived here at 70 miles per hour. That, in itself, tells volumes about the gap between coasts. We crossed some areas in Montana where there was no speed limit whatsoever. At 70 mph, we do not feel inclined to speed. Therefore, the police have no need to pull us over. If they did, they would find something that is legal, anyway. When they put out the DUI patrols here, they are kind enough to tell you which night of the week and during which hours on which road. That is so kind!
In fact, if we do not agree with the way things are run, they even have legally assisted suicide! How can we go wrong?
Some eastern states go to 65 mph but the norm is the old ‘stay alive at fifty-five’. Go 65mph there and they have a good reason to stop you. Take Pennsylvania (please…haha), if you are stopped and ‘suspected’ of being high on marijuana, you must consent to the urine test. The test used by the state police is so sensitive that it can spot the tiniest amount of THC metabolites in urine so that it can even turn positive if you smoked six months ago. If you prove positive you lose the license, get the fine, etc…if you refuse, you get the same thing…not nice!
No such things happen here. There also seems to be a great paranoia in the east. Before we left and as we packed, we heard numerous friends and associates warn us about the dangers on the road. “Keep your guns in the storage locker!” “Don’t keep any paraphernalia on you!” “Remember the facial recognition scanners every mile along the road!”
We left with two shotguns and a rifle lying right behind the seat under the open case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, which we drank all the way from Harrisburg to the bottom of Lake Michigan one June night and did not see a single police until we waved at one in a rest stop outside of Fargo. There is really nothing new to be scared of on the road. Take it from us, it’s the same old road. Be free.
Here, hitch-hikers still stick their thumbs out and serial killers smile at them. Beggars guard entrances to the shopping areas, mostly young methed-out tweakers with nothing to look forward to. Older ones drifted north after then-NYC Mayor Rudy Giuliani solved the city’s homeless ‘problem’ by rounding up everybody in the parks and giving them a free bus ticket to LA, but only if they promised not to return. So we have all types here.
Most exciting, just to the south in Portland, the city hums with activity. We can feel the energy and a scene is taking place there…either that or the place is loaded with poseurs. From the many small music magazines we see, we know Portland has tons of small venues with live shows every night. Big acts tend to play Seattle and skip down to Cali. The scene in Portland feels organic, the visiting acts at local clubs seem to be an esoteric mix which blends with and compliments all of the fresh new faces releasing new songs on vinyl and playing crowded gigs.
Where can we get the best price for our old vinyl? Portland, of course. So many record and alternative book stores line the streets here that it reminds us of the Village in the old days, before Bleeker Bob’s and other old rare record/cd haunts vanished. If we sell an LP in Portland we get cash as opposed to the dreaded store credit, which has so often dampened our spirits. We take the cash and go to small clubs where the vibe reaches out from the city center into outlying neighborhoods.
Count up the clubs and the acts per night and we do not think NYC can keep up, not with the rock and roll end of things. We feel the loose, mellow, friendly haze of the current heroin epidemic there, as well. Funny how those things seem to keep time with each other.
Seriously, though, the scene in Portland, so robust you can taste it, may just break out and unleash a new twist, a new alternative to alternative, a fresh coat of paint to a passe’ form of music. What is happening in rock and roll right now? Who is hot? Where is the innovation? When did we last see a ‘movement?’ Was that way back when grunge hit?
The biggest sellers remain in place from the sixties, seventies and eighties. The geezers sell more ducats than youths do and that is wrong. College students listen to Pink Floyd and the Beatles. These may be old bands but soon we ought to be hearing from the young and angry again, unless rock and roll really is dead.
We’ll be sitting right here, watching from up close.
See ya!

We miss the dirty old New York City of our youth with her dirty pavements, leering pervs and beggars with outstretched hands. They brought a sense of danger that seemed vital to the city, like the visage of Moondog standing on Sixth Avenue shouting his poetry and scaring more timid foot traffic to the other side of the street with his two-horned Viking helmet. Philadelphia still sports a layer of dirt on it but Disney constipated the Big Apple by cleaning up Times Square, the once-beloved center of sleaze. The last time we walked down to Greenwich Village and got thirsty for a beer, we had to walk eight blocks…eight blocks!!! In NYC for a beer? The real indignity came with viewing the Lower East Side out the window of an Applebee’s because that was all we could find.
And what happened to the 25 Cent XXX Sex Show on Forty Second Street? As bad as it turned out to be, how could anybody resist finding out how much of a show you get for a quarter?
Well, now we reside in Washington, home state of the most prolific serial killers. The Son of Sam fell far short of some of the body counts we see here. To the south a couple of states, we have California so that gives us our minimum daily requirement of nearby whack-jobs. What is the difference between bad behavior at the Jersey Shore and bad behavior in LA? LA dresses it up better and has blondes. It all comes out the same on TMZ, though.
We arrived here at 70 miles per hour. That, in itself, tells volumes about the gap between coasts. We crossed some areas in Montana where there was no speed limit whatsoever. At 70 mph, we do not feel inclined to speed. Therefore, the police have no need to pull us over. If they did, they would find something that is legal, anyway. When they put out the DUI patrols here, they are kind enough to tell you which night of the week and during which hours on which road. That is so kind!
In fact, if we do not agree with the way things are run, they even have legally assisted suicide! How can we go wrong?
Some eastern states go to 65 mph but the norm is the old ‘stay alive at fifty-five’. Go 65mph there and they have a good reason to stop you. Take Pennsylvania (please…haha), if you are stopped and ‘suspected’ of being high on marijuana, you must consent to the urine test. The test used by the state police is so sensitive that it can spot the tiniest amount of THC metabolites in urine so that it can even turn positive if you smoked six months ago. If you prove positive you lose the license, get the fine, etc…if you refuse, you get the same thing…not nice!
No such things happen here. There also seems to be a great paranoia in the east. Before we left and as we packed, we heard numerous friends and associates warn us about the dangers on the road. “Keep your guns in the storage locker!” “Don’t keep any paraphernalia on you!” “Remember the facial recognition scanners every mile along the road!”
We left with two shotguns and a rifle lying right behind the seat under the open case of Pabst Blue Ribbon, which we drank all the way from Harrisburg to the bottom of Lake Michigan one June night and did not see a single police until we waved at one in a rest stop outside of Fargo. There is really nothing new to be scared of on the road. Take it from us, it’s the same old road. Be free.
images0O5COR7XHere, hitch-hikers still stick their thumbs out and serial killers smile at them. Beggars guard entrances to the shopping areas, mostly young methed-out tweakers with nothing to look forward to. Older ones drifted north after then-NYC Mayor Rudy Giuliani solved the city’s homeless ‘problem’ by rounding up everybody in the parks and giving them a free bus ticket to LA, but only if they promised not to return. So we have all types here.
Most exciting, just to the south in Portland, the city hums with activity. We can feel the energy and a scene is taking place there…either that or the place is loaded with poseurs. From the many small music magazines we see, we know Portland has tons of small venues with live shows every night. Big acts tend to play Seattle and skip down to Cali. The scene in Portland feels organic, the visiting acts at local clubs seem to be an esoteric mix which blends with and compliments all of the fresh new faces releasing new songs on vinyl and playing crowded gigs.
Where can we get the best price for our old vinyl? Portland, of course. So many record and alternative book stores line the streets here that it reminds us of the Village in the old days, before Bleeker Bob’s and other old rare record/cd haunts vanished. If we sell an LP in Portland we get cash as opposed to the dreaded store credit, which has so often dampened our spirits. We take the cash and go to small clubs where the vibe reaches out from the city center into outlying neighborhoods.
Count up the clubs and the acts per night and we do not think NYC can keep up, not with the rock and roll end of things. We feel the loose, mellow, friendly haze of the current heroin epidemic there, as well. Funny how those things seem to keep time with each other.
Seriously, though, the scene in Portland, so robust you can taste it, may just break out and unleash a new twist, a new alternative to alternative, a fresh coat of paint to a passe’ form of music. What is happening in rock and roll right now? Who is hot? Where is the innovation? When did we last see a ‘movement?’ Was that way back when grunge hit?
The biggest sellers remain in place from the sixties, seventies and eighties. The geezers sell more ducats than youths do and that is wrong. College students listen to Pink Floyd and the Beatles. These may be old bands but soon we ought to be hearing from the young and angry again, unless rock and roll really is dead.
We’ll be sitting right here, watching from up close.
See ya!

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Dylan Blog Featuring Handicapped Bullies And Linda Ronstadt

Gentle Readers,Who watch your parking meters,

We find ourselves half-blindly pecking at the keyboard to give you an account of the Bob Dylan/Leon Russell show the CFYSA crew took part in this evening, or last night or last month or whenever you read this…to all Gentle Souls.

The trip to the show began with the drive to collect Ferd, who dressed surprisingly normally for a victim of dementia (haha), with the exception of too many gadgets, which posed later problems, as you shall see.  Ferd  saw the last Dylan show in the area with us and it was a great show but this one was better. The sound was spot-on, although we still heard morons in the parkinglot after the show saying ‘couldn’t understand a single word’. Perhaps if one has a vocabulary, one notices words and understands them and if one does not read and has no vocabulary further than rudimentary gobbles and the drive-thru menu at McDonalds, it would be hard to understand. They should buy a dictionary and try to read one book a year, for a start…then see if they understand.

So, the show was great and the setlist is available on www.expectingrain.com …the link is on the page above. We shall comment more on the event as a whole, rather than the sterling performance of the most influential force in pop music over the past 50 years. Ferd played a key part in the fun. While ‘dressing down,’ he still managed to be turned away at the entrance when they scanned us for metal items and found him to be carrying a knife, among other contraptions…ironic, since earlier in the day, we had told our close friend and confidant, Electra, about his gadgets and about his cap with the four mini-mad-lights on the brim, with a flashing light for good measure, and the knives and radios and Three Stooges Zippo and the myriad of junk he carries. Electra was amused but nonplussed at why a person should outfit themself in such a way.

At the Main Entrance, he was sent away, instructed to hide his knife under a rock…which he did and after standing in line again – while we drank cider inside the venue – he entered and was proud to note that they only found one knife and that the better one was in his back pocket. Why do we need knives in this day and age…portable knives, not at the workplace, that is? They come in handy for crude types to pick their teeth with but are an inconvenience, otherwise, as evidenced by Ferd’s second trip through the entrance gate, where he still ‘beeped’ on the security equipment; but they were so tired of him they just flagged him through…terrorists, take note! haha…

As enjoyable as the show was (the highlight for me was Dylan playing guitar while singing Beyond Here Lies Nothing, the first song on his latest LP, and theme song for the first season of some hoodie-kid-vampyre=tripe show, the name of which escapes us in our slight inebriation, post concert…True Blood perhaps?) we were disturbed by an idiot urging us to sit down. Our seats were in Row 13, so twelve rows of standing flesh would have blocked our vision, were we to comply. It turns out the person was handicapped and did not want to sit in the section where he could have seen the show nicely. Perhaps he was being independent by shining his flashlight in the faces of four rows of people while hissing/begging, “sit down, you bastards!!!” …Not an effective approach!

He poked Your Humble Narrator in the back twice with his finger, Your Narrator being 6’4” and often suspect of shenanigans when tall people are guilty of things…but personal intrusions like poking are bullying behaviour and we had to inform the patron that his index finger would soon be handicapped, should he poke one more time…an empty threat but effective.       

Handicapped people at public events can be quite mean. They expect special attention but do not make arrangements ahead of time. Some people have themselves declared as handicapped just to get a good parking space. More power to them? Having cheated cancer the hard way, we have no mercy…we live on borrowed time, so do not disturb!

Another bully memory goes back to when we were in the employ of a regional daily newspaper and, carving a niche in entertainment writing, was sent to do a review of a Linda Ronstadt show, when she was at the height of her fame. This was in the 1970s and Ferd was home on leave from the Navy and we were bending the rules of chemical consumption and blending hallucinogens, when it occurred to Your Humble Narrator that a story was due at the city desk by 1030pm…Putting two words together was a challenge, much less opining on the performance of songs we were only half-familiar with. Heart Like A Wheel was her best LP to date but she had gone pretty commercial. While not knowing what to write, the City Desk waited…Deadline waited…and so we made our way to a payphone in front of an ice cream vendor and put a dime in it…yes, a dime, and yes…a payphone!!!

The editor, a true friend, was helpful, writing the story for us while pumping for details so it sounded like he was writing about an event that actually happened! The reporter’s notebook in my hand contained most of the names of the songs she sang, but that was it, aside from what she wore. He took the information and crafted it into an acceptable concert review, slapped my byline on it and saved my career – but it took a bit of time to get the facts over the phone to him.

Dimes were no problem, compared to what was to come next. A small army of handicappers in wheelchairs surrounded me at the phone. Our brain was split betwen two realms of psychedelia. These pushy, wheely cretins wanted to call to get their ride home.  They deserve the designation of ‘cretin’ due to behaviour, not handicap. 

The story was only half done and the phone could not be given up. By the time we finished phoning in the story, no less than ten handicappers were cursing me with tongues a-snarling and using language most foul, they waved canes menacingly…multiple canes ready to strike…it is always shocking to hear the infirmed curse you and wish you unwanted anal penetration and this is not a blanket indictment of all people in wheelchairs. They were mean. They were bullies in wheelchairs. They have a way of milking the sympathy out of a person to get away with anything. Shocking, is what it is!!!

It reminds us of Richard Widmark as Tommy Udo in Kiss Of Death

If this blog seems intolerant, it IS. We paid close to $90USD for those seats and we do not need to be stressed in our post-cancerous state, It is stressful. It is mean. It is bullying…from now on, we think twice about “hiring the handicapped” and will only hire the ones who have good manners…because manners, Dear Friends, are the glue that holds society together!!!

 

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Poetry Corner (Warning XXX Explicit Material. Parents Be Warned!)

     Leering Letches and Creepy Crawldaddies,

     Today we ask our Gentle Readers to harken back to those wonderful days when porn was on paper and could be hidden under the mattress. The Golden Age of Porn produced many unique publications, such as the pictured issue of Al Goldstein’s National Screw.

     National Screw, like Playboy, was not only rife with lascivious and salacious material but was found to be ‘socially redeeming,’ thanks to essays by contributors such as William S. Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg and other highly-respected literary figures of the time. The upcoming issue of Beatdom takes aim at the same concept, only without showing close-ups of moist, pink labia in between photos of serious authors. With magazines like these, the joke used to be“I only buy it for the articles.” 

     Good, old smut has pretty much gone the way of the web, with programmes available which allow a user to insert penis into a device which simulates the sensations of the sex act, while watching a video that is synched-up to the ‘pleasure portal’. Just too weird for us at CFYSA…not only does it take away the fantasy that served as stimulus to ‘yank the carrot’, it masturbates you, too.  There are limits to what is good about being a DIY, ‘Do It Yourselfer’.

      That said, we are not sure what kids do these days. In the waning decades of the last century, sex was a popular way for men and women to pass time together. A common way to find and engage a partner in sex was to go to the public park system with beer and pot. Sitting on the lawn, near the parkinglot, a hedonistic type could smoke pot, become inebriated and when an attractive member of the opposite gender passed, ask her if ‘you want to party?’  Most often, we sat on the lawn along the lot, inbetween the parked cars and the Ladies rest rooms, in order to catch more traffic.

     One bright, sunny day, in the company of an idiot and former acquaintance named Chuck, we sucked down Rolling Rock beers and waited to meet some ‘company’. We were rather drunk that early Spring afternoon and our luck was not with us. Halter tops were a popular article of clothing for women to wear at the time and they were a good thing, in that they allowed a partial view of the breasts of the woman who wore one.

     A number of beers into the ‘party,’ Chuck (who is now a red-nosed, fat bastard who cannot even see his toes without a mirror) had a revelation, an inspiration…an original thought! Original thought can be a good thing in the minds of some people. In his mind, the logical conclusion formed that since we, as men, enjoyed the soft, white skin revealed by the halter, then it was only normal that women take just as much pleasure in seeing a bit of scrotum. If they show us theirs, they must want to see ours…this was his logic.

     While the display of wrinkly flesh did not yield results, it was worth a try. Your Humble Narrator did not try sunning his scrotum for fear of blistered balls but did record a partial account of the events of that day. And, so, My Confidantes, today we present a poem which takes us back to those Golden Days of the early 1980s… 

A Day At The Parkway

Jaws of flocks

of the shocked

dropped

as Chuck’s cock flopped

onto the top of the rock.

Like prunes?” he mocked.

The eyes of the cop

popped

as loose cumdrops slopped,

then dripped down the walls

of his fetid balls.

Me,

I read a book

and pretended not to look.

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My Favorite Substance Abuser – My Mom

     Greetings, All!

     The past week has been a melancholy spell for the abuserinos. The first week of October brings us the birthdays of Larry Fine, John Lennon, Bud Abbott, Groucho Marx, Buster Keaton, Jimmy Ray Vaughan – all people who made us laugh or entertained us with fine music, as are the gifts of the Libran. The week also brought the death of Janis Joplin on October 4, for a little extra chill on the pumpkin.

     Today, October 8, is my mom’s birthday. She died on April 16, 1999. She was a depression baby and money meant a lot to her. She hated paying taxes every year, so I was glad that she was able to escape the last payment in 1999. It was her little irony. Her name was Elizabeth Mary but most people called her ‘Betty’.

     She helped set me along my way on the trail to substance using and abusing, quite unwittingly. People thought differently back in the 50s and were not armed with the information we have today. She quit smoking whenever she was pregnant but, as I was the last child, I always knew her as a smoker. It is what killed her, in the end.

     She and my grandmother would sit in the front seat of the car. I forget what my mom smoked back then but her mom always smoked ‘Larks’. We would drive from store to store and the car would fill with smoke like a balloon is filled with helium. After breathing that in a few times, my neurotransmitters flipped a switch in my noggin and opened up the pathways for the dopamine to flow. I was in trouble already and I was only two. For awhile we had two houses and I could always count on a car full of smoke from the four hour drive to leave me puking at the side of the road, midway. They always said I was ‘carsick’ but I am sure I would puke again today, under the same situation.

     Our second home could not be accessed by auto. We had to park at Dunn’s Boat Livery on Big Moose Lake in New York. There we uncovered our boat and loaded it with provisions (I say we, collectively – as in a family) and skipped across the wild waters to our place in the South Bay. Once there, you were stuck. I guess there was always plenty of beer but milk and/or baby formula ran dry, eventually. That is when my baby bottle would be filled with beer and, thanks to still more brain cells, I would drink to blissful slumber, never knowing that the dopamine seeking beasts of nicotine and alcohol had already made their homes in my impressionable little skull. Below is my mom at our place on Big Moose.

     That is why I am able to celebrate 50 years of substance abuse, actually more. My birthday was recently, which dropped me into my 54th year. I turned 53 a few weeks ago but only realized that I am in my 54th year yesterday. All those years to figure out that you are really older than you sound. In my fourteenth year, I tried everything that kids do…smoking and drinking had been there all through childhood, so I don’t even count the babybottles or the drinks my cousin and I drank from at the adult parties. At fourteen, I was smoking pot, tripping, trying any new substance I could and in the early to mid-70s, there were a ton of them.

     In my 54th year,  I have taken pot and LSD, K2 and legal drugs like codeine, amphetamine, barbituric acid and valium. Those were was taken consciously, as it was in my fourteenth year, so I can now lay claim to tripping and smoking for 40 years. I have not tripped every year but some of the years inbetween made up for that in sheer quantity consumed.

     Mom didn’t much like me and my substance abuse but she put up with it. She knew where all my pot was hidden, almost preturnaturally. Once I bought a half an ounce of Jamaican that was so good that I actually went blind from it for five minutes. We smoked two bones between four of us and it hit me and the lights went out. I was scared as hell that I would never see again. My sight came back slowly and I calmed down. I hid the pot inside a pillow, inside a pillowcase, on my sister’s bed. My mom found it.

     She always had a soft heart for me, though. Once, I had hollowed out a book and stuffed it with a couple bags of reefer and a half an ounce of PCP, cut into gram and half-gram packets. When I returned to the book, the pot was missing but the plasticine packets of white powder remained. That puzzled me and I questioned her about it at some later date. She told me, “I know you smoke that crap but I know you would never take that other stuff.” What a great explanation. Go sell the white powder but don’t smoke the green stuff.

     I got caught smoking pot in my room on the day my sister got married. My old man punched me in the jaw and I ran out of the house. My friends and cousins, frozen in fear with my father raging in the room, told me that my mom came into the room and said, ‘”Sure, he smokes it. He hides it here…and here…and here…”, as she went from stash to stash and proved that she was no dummy.

     In later years we drank together, usually after meals. She taught me how to hide the empties. Once, at our NY home, my old man was putting in a new oil burner and getting rid of the old wood stove that had kept the place warm for years. When the stove pipe to the ceiling was removed, countless scores of stashed empties fell out. She would also open at a time two beers and drink one, leaving the other sit like it was empty. Good trick. My dad didn’t like anybody having more fun than him but she found her way around it.

     In high school, she would buy cases of beer for me because she said I would just get in trouble if I tried to buy it by myself. She would be in jail for that today but it was a caring gesture, from one enabler to another.

     There are a lot of good stories about my mom, which will turn up in my novel, Egypt Cemetery. I could write a lot more but the blog is full and I am on my way to visit her grave.

     Happy Birthday, Mom!

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Its Alright Maher (I’m Only Bleating) and more

***Today, we bring Abuse Bitz, Substance Abuse-related, short topics from here and there. It will be a regular feature*** 

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     HBO, the beast with two heads, brought us a new season of Bill Maher’s Real Time on Friday. Bill responded in kind by introducing his first guest of the new season, Michael Moore – another beast with two heads. It looks like he has two heads, at least, when they try to fit the wad of flesh under the baseball cap onto a single screen. It should have been reformatted but news is that, due to new trade agreements, the Chinese telephone directory companies have contacted Moore to ask for their ‘Chins’ back. Once accomplished, the whole head may fit to screen.

     That was an old joke but so is the act that Maher and Moore perform, the act of ‘caring liberal’. At the top of this article is a poster from the movie Manufacturing Dissent. It shows Moore for what he really is, a big, fat capatilist who owns stock in Dick Cheney’s war machine. It also shows an abrasive, scared, pathetic fool (Moore), trying to hide his own dirty laundry from a film crew which started out as fans of his and were not looking for dirt.

     The fact that Moore is receiving the John Steinbeck Award is too ironic to be humorous. The Herman Melville Award posed a much better fit. Steinbeck’s immediate family gone, so it is easy for strangers to co-opt his spirit and hang it on a pig, like a straw hat co-opted in Juarez and placed on a painted donkey. It is just wrong.

     Maher started out weak, sticking to familiar material, like defending Bacarat Obama, the man who is gambling our country away. It was obvious that Moore was brought in to add some needed weight to the season opener. Bill is fading fast in the tail lights of liberal popularity. While Obama has a lower approval rating than George W Bush, after only 18 months of avoiding the wishes of the people who voted for him, Hillary Clinton is more popular amoung voters and it seems like a woman President deserves a chance, now that our uber-liberal choice has turned out to be a $60 Billion war broker.

     What does this have to do with substance abuse? Where else can it lead? Who isn’t going to want to escape the reality of Maher, Moore and their deceptive, greedy. self-righteousness and the pathetic pantheon of liberal followers who have not gotten it yet? Gimme a Guinness, and a Magner’s, too. It is 745am and I need them both.

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     On the K2 front, our team of experts has been continuing to experiment in the name of  heads everywhere. Many people say that K2 is crap and that most of it is knock-off, fake product, which is worthless. That is because they have not tried it and, frankly, Gentle Readers, it is better for them if they do not. It leaves more for us.

      One full month of experiments have cost a grand total of exactly $100 to date. This figure covers daily testing, several times per diem. I have bought knock-offs but they were good. They had slightly different labels and one tasted a little better but it comes down to this – five tokes and take a nap, three-four and you are nice and happy.

     I have heard conflicting reports about use of K2, JWH018 and similar compounds in the US Armed Forces. A month or two ago, I got a copy of an email that showed a ton of wonderful, sticky, black hashish from Afghanistan which had been siezed by authorities in the Soviet Union. Soldiers are drug tested so they were more interested in K2 than checking vehicles for hash or assassins (the word ‘assassin’ is a derivation of the word ‘hashish’, btw). Other sources say that the military has started testing our fighting forces for the scourge of K2 but have not been very keen on catching any other scourge, except maybe a pandemic of PTSD.

     Obama is spending mostly all the money the USA has on the military budget and the Afghans still manage to smuggle a ton of hashish out of the country under our noses? A ton of hashish weighs at least 1,800 pounds more than Osama Bin Laden and takes up considerably more space. It is almost as smelly, too. We have been trying to get him out of that same country for how many years? If the Army just employed the use of bloodhounds, they could find Bin Laden, tuit de suite. They even had his warm underpants to use for scent. One can only assume that we have a reason for not finding him, which may be explained to children after we are dead.

     Kudos to those crafty substance abuse enablers who got the hash to the soviets. The fact that they smuggled a ton past all those US soldiers is just one more indication of the brilliance, determination and love of drugs and how no army can stop it.

     It makes me proud to be a substance abuser!

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     Tonight, the other side of the two-headed HBO monster brings us an excellent offering, Boardwalk Empire, showcasing the talents of two of our fav substance abusers, Martin Scorcese and Steve Buscemi. So much has been said about Scorcese and his love of cocaine that I will not bore you with that and we small take a peek at Buscemi, who has amused and endeared us in wonderful roles in terrific productions like The Sopranos, The Big Lebowski, Fargo, The Simpsons, Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, Miller’s Crossing, Airheads and so many more!

      Buscemi, the substance abuse afficianado, is currently directing Queer, a film based on the book by William S Burroughs. Aside from bowing at the altar of that gentle and much-adored, wife-shooting, heroin-loving hero of the Beat Generation, he is also acting in a film version of the Jack Kerouac novel of 1957 (the same year in which Steve, Shane MacGowan, your Humble Author and many notable droogies were born), On The Road.

     While often cast as a  fast talking sleaze, Buscemi remains a solid guy, a man’s man, despite the fame. While studying acting under John Strasberg, he also worked as a NYC Fireman, Engine #55, from 1980-84. When the events of 911 deveasted the city, Buscemi worked anonymously, 12 hours a day for weeks, digging through the rubble of his old fire station, looking for missing firefighters.

     To this day, he still remains a volunteer firefighter with #55.

     As happens to many substance lovers, Buscemi was involved in a barfight about nine years ago in the hick state of North Carolina. He was stabbed in the throat, head and arm. He sustained a sweet scar to the face, which is hidden with makeup for films. Fellow actor Vince Vaughn was arrested for coming to his aid. Thanks, Vince! It makes us wonder what Vince was doing there, in a bar full of substances but we are glad he was…and what do you do in a bar full of substances?

     Watch Steve Buscemi tonight on HBO but if you really want a sleazy fast-talker, I would suggest Maher or Moore. It is their specialty.

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     The gang here at CFYSA would like to take a moment to remind you all of the upcoming elections. It is important that all substance abusers unite and put there votes behind a candidate who will stand up for our Constitutional Right to do what we want with our own bodies and minds.

     If you have found such a candidate, support them! If you have not found a concerned civil servant, get off your collective asses and find one who will work for you. Time is running out.

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     While Gil at the Office of National Drug Policy is quick to inform us that 21.8 million Americans, age 12 and up, abused illegal drugs last year, the figure pales in comparison to the 205.8 million barrels of beer produced by the US in the same year.

     That is actually a drop of 5 million barrels from 2008, which is unfortunate, since 210 million barrels would allow reach substance abuser 10 barrels each! At approximately 31 gallons per barrel, it could have knocked the socks of off the illegal drug market. It is brain-damaging and fattening; it causes traffic accidents, disease, violence, tv sports and other such forms of depravity. Ten barrels for each abuser! Yeah!!! It is really less than ten bottles a day, per person, but, hey, it is abusable product!!!

     Too bad it is legal.

    

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