Tag Archives: drugs

How are you feeling?

My coworker just walked past my computer screen.  And if he happened to look, he would’ve seen that I was on Dictionary.com looking at the definition of “sad”.

I don’t feel particularly sad, but…looking up the definition of “sad” is admittedly a pretty sad thing to do.

Contemplating sadness got me thinking about Eeyore.  I never connected with Winnie the Pooh when I was little, and I especially didn’t connect with Eeyore–which is funny because I lived up the street from a donkey farm.  But Eeyore’s deal isn’t that Eeyore is a donkey.  Eeyore’s deal is clearly that Eeyore is sad.  And wears a pink bow. 

With age I’ve come to better understand Eeyore’s condition/s.  It’s painful to see such a sad creature.  This video below makes it less painful.  And it’d be even less painful and more amazing if drugs were involved:

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This post was meant to be a “rave” about the lyrics in the song “Already Gone” by the Eagles…

I’ve never been to a rave.  One time, when I was but a young, doe-eyed college student, this dude from Seattle sat next to me on an Amtrak train.  He was huge into raves.  He asked if I’d ever been.  When I said no, he said that he was positive I would love them and that I had to promise to go to one at my absolute earliest convenience.  He was very adament about the whole thing.  He went as far as to say that I seemed like a “rave type”.  Which sort of threw me, but I smiled and nodded as I always do with strangers with whom I ill-advisedly engage.

Long story short, I’m almost positive the guy had killed multiple people in his lifetime.  He totally had the look of the kind of guy you expect to see on a “Dateline” or “20/20” special: crazy white guy full of sexual rage and misogyny.  He initially introduced himself as Peter.  As the train ride and our conversation progressed, though, he revealed that he actually went by a different name.  He said he had a pair of progressive parents who encouraged him and his siblings to rename themselves.  Peter was very excited to reveal his self-given name to me.  He let the anticipation build (though I wasn’t actually anxious to learn it).  And after an extensive, extensive explanation of his love of Japanese swordsmanship, Peter told me.  His other name was…

Cutts. “With two t’s!” 

Had it not just so happened that I ended up transferring to a different train than Peter/Cutts, I have no doubt that I would’ve ended up drugged and cut.  Slashed, even.

So, yeah…who feels like raving?

(It pans out at the end to show two words above the stage that tell exactly where you are in case you weren’t sure.)

Gary Busey and other studs

It’d stand to reason (and I’d really prefer) to have “Man In The Mirror”,”Rock With You”  or another MJ song stuck in my head, but instead, for intermittent days on end, I’ve had the 1988 Poison classic “Nothin’ But A Good Time” in there.   

I think it started after Bret Michaels nearly died while performing at the Tony Awards a month ago.  I catch myself humming the chorus over and over.  Then I’ll stop, take a moment to figure out what song that is, realize what song that is, and rack my brain over why it has grabbed a song by that walking infection of a man and refuses to let go.  Eventually I give up and decide that I’ll stop pressing the issue and just ignore it–praying that this won’t be the time that the red bumps form.

Keeping with the graphic imagery, earlier tonight I had an exciting revelation about Gary Busey.  Conan had Kevin Connolly of “Entourage” (a show I don’t really watch) as a guest.  Connolly recounted the time when Busey guest starred and proceeded to chase him around the set, catch him, hold him down, and tickle him.  After the interview I realized that Busey and one of the contestants on this season of “The Bachelorette” (a show I make a sad, conscious effort to watch) share similar features.  Not just any contestant, but my favorite contestant–Michael.  He got kicked off already, but he’s a break dancing instructor who apparently lives, like, two minutes from my apartment.  Now that Jillian has sent him home it is clear to me that I need to get my hands on his address, sit on the curb across from his door, hold a red rose boutonniere, and hum the choruses of 80s hair band tunes to myself until he notices me.  It doesn’t matter that he looks like a younger version of an infamous Hollywood mad man–all that matters is that his apartment is potentially within walking distance to mine so that I never have to stay the night after we bang.  I mean…stay the night after we watch Lethal Weapon and floss our teeth.  Because that’s what people who look like this have no other choice but to do:

A few more years, a few more kilos--it'll be effin uncanny.

A few more years, a few more kilos--it'll be effin uncanny.

Ode to the Library

This is probably an unnecessary statement due to the name of this blog, but…I love the library.  It’s such a wonderful concept.  Books, magazines, CDs, DVDs all in one place.  I especially love the library now that I’ve moved to Queens.  Back in Massachusetts, in my hometown, the library was ruined by the menopausal women who worked there and by the possibility of running into someone terrifying.  Someone like…the home economics teacher who my older brother assaulted, or the guy who told me about my brother looking at porn in first period, or the other guy who told me he was taking the school bus to my house to buy drugs from my brother, or just running into my brother himself.  Just kidding.  He doesn’t go to the library.

But in Queens it’s different.  It’s also an adventure, but not one that will stir up nostalgia for my childhood.  Last time I went, for example, I was writing poetry on the second floor when a guy approached me holding a Bengali/English dictionary.  “Are you American?” he asked.  “Yes,” I said.  He asked me to pronounce “enthusiasm” with my American accent.  Then he explained that in Bangladesh he learned English, but it was British English.  And he said something about eggplant and okra, but I didn’t understand.  Then the library was closing, so we had to part ways, but he invited me to the Indian restaurant owned by his uncle where he works. 

At the library in my hometown you’d never get invited to an Indian restaurant.  You’d get slammed with a $30 fine for returning a copy of Angela’s Ashes that was (probably) damaged before you took it out.  Then you’d drive to the ATM, drive back to the library, and hand the heat flash of a woman two twenty dollar bills with tears streaming down your face because now you can’t afford to bail your brother out of jail.