Thursday, June 3, 2010
01/24/06 (MySpace Blog Repost)
So I woke up about four hours early this morning (1/24) and the first experience that required some semblance of cognizance was this:
"JOEY!" - my dad
"YEAH?" - me
~I walk into my dad's office~
"What's up" - me
"Do you have any experience with LSD or Ecstasy?" - my dad
~dialogue alternating thus forth~
"No, not really."
"Can you get any?
"I dunno. I guess. Why?"
"My friend wants to try it."
"I can try."
~I walk to the door~
"Uh....which friend, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Uh....I'd rather not say."
"OK, see you later."
Now this is some sort of classic exchange that can be seen on any sitcom worth it's jump-the-shark moment. "Your friend" is always you, right? So is it my dad or his friend looking for the fix? Does this make me my father's de facto supplier? Are all the cool parents calling doses "L" now? How many licks does it take to get to the chocolatey center of a Tootsie Roll Pop? The world may never know.
That being said, this would mark the second such occasion that I have engaged in a drug related discourse with my dear old dad, a former(/current) narcotics (ab)user. The first would be approximately five years ago when my dad chastised me for not divulging my then-new marijuana habit, especially to a Deadhead/marijuana user
~I pause to look up the correct spelling of marijuana (I got it right!) in the 1996 Office Edition of the Webster's II New Riverside Dictionary. It's the first entry on page 420. Who puts these things together?~
such as himself, and then gave me a perfectly rolled doob that I smoked with my girlfiend at the time in a blissful pre-9/11 after hours schoolyard rendezvous.
Parents doing drugs is a funny thing. For the first 18 or so years of my life, I shied away from the temptation to try drugs based solely on my knowledge of my father's dalliance with the devil's candy. I guess drugs are sometimes a middle finger to the establishment (i.e. our parents) and when that gets taken out of the equation, they kind of lose some of their cache. Maybe that's just me.
Anyways I succumbed to peer pressure eventually, but it's still disconcerting talking to my folks about drugs, specifically my straight-as-a-razor's-edge mom, who is prone to turning her other cheek. It's also strange that my parents can co-exist given their radically different philosophies on mind-altering substances.
But anyways, it seems that a lot of my friends parents do or have done drugs of some kind. I'm not sure what that means for me or my friends or their parents for that matter, but it sure is fun to extrapolate on after some rum and cokes.
If you listen to one song today, I think it should be "Stomping Ground" by Bela Fleck and The Flecktones. Not that you will. Not that you're even swayed in the least bit by me telling you to listen to it. I wouldn't listen to anything you told me to. I can't even convey to you the importance of listening to this one song. I can tell you that Vic Wooten is one of the illest bassists you will ever hear and that the way he trades bass lines and his brother's drum hybrid creations for banjo licks by Bela and sax riffs by Jeff Coffin will stop you in your tracks. But honestly, what the fuck do you care? If I could accurately get that shit across, it would ruin the song anyways.
This blog entry is dedicated to the everloving memory of the purely fictional Ted Hossenfeffer. Apologies to Giovanni Ribisi.