No Fuckin' Dope

I found out today that my father, like most men his age, had a fairly substantial drug problem. This didn't come as much of a surprise to me as it maybe should have.

Though this experience has founded itself in the context of my father's past, it is not his past that concerns me here. I had one of those experiences today where you've always had the requisite information to reach a particular conclusion, but for some reason, have never reached that conclusion. This is a very strange experience that, i'm sure, everyone has had. Also I thought that this particular context would make for a great story.

I've always found my dad's fear of drugs to be somewhat irrational. From a very young age my father has been unyielding in his attempts to rid my future of drug abuse. "Surely," I said, "drugs cannot be all bad, so long as they are moderated and tempered by a strong work ethic and a healthy social climate." To this he was totally unreasonable. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" he would say. So, as I said, from a very early age I had learned to fear drugs.

Even later in life, in college, when excitedly telling my parents about smoking pot for the first time, my father did not join in on my mothers silly enthusiasm. My little boys all grown up. Though he did not chastise me--whats done is done--he made sure that his position concerning the matter was clear and unassailable. "I just don't know why you would pollute your body with that shit" he said (and yes, though this is a line from a movie, he did, in fact, say these very words).

Even now, weeks from my twenty third birthday he tells me before I go out, half jokingly but also half concerned, "just try not to smoke too much fuckin' dope out there." This is how my father talks about drugs. When during my sophomore year in college I asked him if he's ever done any drugs he explained that he smoked some "dope" after college. This is the part that never made sense to me. Marijuana, for all of it's cultural bastards, has never really hurt anybody. What the fuck is my dad worrying about. "Do you really think you need to worry anymore?" I say as i'm walking out the door. "No, not really." He does worry.

I chalk it up to my dad's being a square. This explains everything. He's afraid because he never really new what it was about. He was in the navy. He was a straight arrow. While everyone was fucking around in the seventies he was in Viet-fuckin'-nam, plus he was a farm boy. He's from Nebraska. All he knows how to do is play baseball, shuck/husk corn, and move out to big cities. He doesn't know what he's fucking talking about. Hah! I don't have to fear drugs. I can love them. I can temper my habits with a relentless work ethic and good, healthy, safe friends. I'll experiment. I'll have fun. I'll be a better person.

I fear drugs. I fear them. To this day my father's sentiments bleed into my own. Smoking weed with my friends tends to fill me with a strange discomfort. I have never done cocaine. I've never eaten mushrooms. Methamphetamine terrifies me. Even my mild cigarette habit leaves me feeling compromised.

Today, after picking up my dad's brother from the airport, I figured it out. My uncle mentioned something in the car today about an old family friend, who according to my father, "smokes a lot of dope." His name is Michael. Michael is exuberant and fucking hilarious. He's from Brooklyn and is one of my father's oldest friends. When asking my uncle why Mikey doesn't come around anymore he explains, "he never really stopped partying." "All of that shit gets old," I said. "Exactly, he just never had a wife or kids and he always had cash, and so he always had stuff around. Your dad, I think, just had more responsibilities to deal with. I mean for a while he was pretty messed up."

My dad was "pretty messed up?" Of course he was messed up. Of course he did drugs. It was the seventies, everyone did drugs. He went to Viet-fuckin'-nam. I get it, my father isn't a square. He's a loose cannon, or at least, a normal guy. How fucking great. Everything makes sense now. My earlier understanding of my father now seems youthful, moronic even. I mean everything truly makes sense, more sense than before. Everything is clear, transparent. Strangely, I'm not angry or upset. I am fascinated. I feel reassured in my intuitions. My father's concerns seem founded. He is infinitely more credible. He has more experience, and in a strange way, he is respectable. If I have children they will know nothing of my binges, my vices, my seamy sexual behavior. Like my father, I will devour their curiosity with my obstinate stoicism. I feel close to him, and I thank God that he never disclosed the details of his past. Thank God that I have only seen my father smoke a cigarette once . Thank God that I have never seen him drunk, that sex was explained away by R-rated movies, and I thank god that I never heard my parents having sex.

Myspace Moods

I love the new myspace appendage of "moods." I love this fucking idea. I almost always laugh out loud when finally choosing a "mood." Currently, my mood is set to "accomplished." I think this is very funny.

Also, I noticed that one of the "moods" listed in the options was "drunk." I didn't laugh out loud at this at first, but quickly thought of what it means to "be drunk," and also, what it means to "feel drunk." Basically, I think it's funny for a person's "mood" to be drunk. Actually, I guess, the more I think about it the less I think it's funny, and the more I think it's kinda lame. Like that friend who's hanging out totally sober and when asked the metaphysical question, "how are you?" responds with, "I feel drunk." This is a terrible thing for any of your friends to say. How can one respond to this kind of assertion? What do you means you feel drunk? Are you drunk? Are you okay? Hopefully, you're friend is, in fact, drunk and you can both have a laugh, but if he/she's not, then you're fucked; because, ultimately, your friend wants you to ask the latter question, "are you okay?" I suppose I've changed my mind. Being drunk is something that ought only to be a physical state; namely, drunkenness ought to be a level of intoxication. When the idea of drunkenness enters into the world of feelings the notion becomes convoluted and theatrical. My friends do not ever feel drunk without actually being drunk.

Going Home

Dear reader,

I'm sorry. I've been negligent. At first I was going to write once a day, twice a day. Unfortunately, this quota is just to difficult to fill.

I've been busy. I've been busy drinking and gambling with my life in New York City. Everyone here is a threat; everyone is a threat to me. They know where i'm from. They can see it in my eyes, my ears, my shorts, my shoes. They are all looking at me, sizing me up, but i'm faster than they are. I'm smarter and blessed with a supreme advantage: I'm from California. I'm cooler than they are, more handsome, more vigilant. I see the short, balding man in front of me with his khakis and his loafers. The tall Scandinavian woman to my right.

It is not that these people are any more violent that the rest of the world, but there are simply too many of them here, crammed on an island, a street, a train. Why would anyone live like this?
"New York's the best fucking place on earth."
"Why do you say that?"
"The streets, the nightlife, the Yankees, the fucking pizza."
So there are millions of people here for those very things. All of these people are a threat. At the end of the subway train an obese woman with two children argues with a toothless black man in gray sweatpants and a white undershirt. He has lied to her about another woman and she does not want him to touch here.
"Don't touch me. Don't fucking touch me."
"I know I lied to you..."
"fucking stop... don't touch me"
There body language is nerve-racking. The woman is sitting down and attempting to read a book in between curses and threats. She is reading to her children, one of whom is straddling her knee, facing her, while the other lays next to her on the bench. The man is standing up, bent at the waste, leaning over her with his hand on the wall behind her. I'm staring at them. She looks over and sees me. Oh fuck.
"Shut up... be quiet" she says to him, clearly aware of the scene they're making.
To my surprise and relief the toothless man does not retaliate by speaking directly to the train.
"What?! I'll be as loud as I want!"

But it's getting worse. The man is totally pathetic. He is fucking oblivious. The two children have some idea of what's going on and are clearly upset. He is relentless. He continues to tell her, "I lied to you," as if such a concession would ever work to defuse this situation. I'm looking at them again. I pity her, with both of her children so young and this asshole. She sees me; she looks directly at me. Now he's looking, what the fuck? I'm fucked. They're going to kill me, and steal my money and max out my credit card having unprotected sex in a cheap hotel. Fuck.

Now she pushed him. The obese woman with two children just pushed the toothless, relentless, oblivious black man, and she did it from a seated position. At this point i've stopped watching and they are yelling again. The dialogue is the same but it's getting louder, she is becoming more terse. She is enjoying this! He is too for that matter. He is begging her at this point and she is shrugging it off. Oh fuck, I looked. He's on his knees now, pleading for her to take him back and she is unyielding, unmoved by his desperation. He is louder than ever. Everyone on this train is loving this, but I cannot watch. And suddenly, there is silence.

At this moment, the toothless man reaches into his backpack and pulls out a gun. Swinging around to face the woman, he pulls the trigger. The shot is deafening. Everyone jumps because they were pretending not to care, and so therefore, not keeping their eyes on the toothless man. There are two more shots. People are panicking. I leave my bag on the floor, leave my friends, and run for the far side of the train. Another shot rings out and the construction work to my right throws his hands over his face. Blood splashes the windows; from the outside the subway train looks like a shot from a fucking horror movie. Another shot and I hit the ground. My hands clutch at my neck and feel their own blood. "what an asshole. I'm shot. I'm going to die. I've been shot by this toothless man."

All of this shit lasts for about five stops on the subway. When the man finally leaves and I see him walking up the stairs towards the exit I think, "I would have survived." If everyone died, I would have survived. I'm from California, and besides people who have no teeth and appear to be in their early thirties spend money on crack, not firearms. It would have been much more plausible if he had a knife. That would definitely up my chances of escape. I notice that i'm sweating a little bit and I can't help but think that i'm totally fucking ridiculous. This happens all the time, several times a day. My stomach was in fucking knots after all this; my stomach has been in knots ever since I came to New York (and half the time i've been on the upper east side). It's my father's fault. He's done this to me, and now I can never relax.

So I'm going back to California where there aren't any mosquitoes, and there are beaches, and wonderful, wonderful shopping malls.