Drugs Booze, etc

I staged an intervention before they were cool. It was 2001 and my friend had started selling his silverware and sneakers for crack. Three of us took him to Coney Island because we wanted to make sure we told him how much we loved him in the most depressing place on the planet. The beach was littered with needles and empty tiny plastic baggies. We sat in a circle silently contemplating what an awful decision it was to have an intervention at an abandoned carnival turned hobo paradise.

If you watch Intervention on A&E, the addicts almost always resist going to treatment. Continue…

I want to address a dilemma that I think many people of my generation are struggling with right about now. It’s both a physical and a metaphysical conundrum that may have intense psychological ramifications. This isn’t something you should enter into whimsically. On the surface it might feel right, but beneath, there could be lurking demons from beyond your birth. So I pose this to you:

Should I smoke pot with my Dad?

Here’s my big problem with it. It’s not me pushing the pot on him, it’s him pushing it on me. He actually said upon my arrival to his house,

“Jason, there’s a velvet box next to the T.V that has some Kush in it. Continue…

As I search my atrophied brain for things to write about, I’m usually drawn to something that happened yesterday or to a memoir type thingy. Today it’s the latter.

Jeremy Hoar (pronounced “whore” and yes, he had a sister) was my best friend in high school. He was a year younger than me, but 4 years cooler. Jeremy was way more attractive than me.  I was average to decent, and he looked like James Dean. I’m not just pulling out James Dean randomly, like he’s the default hot dude, he really looked like him. Jeremy was the perfect hot guy; humble, shy, interesting. Continue…

I went to college in the same town I grew up in — I was a townie which basically meant I could always get weed. I wasn’t your normal pot dealer, I didn’t have a ferret, there was no collection of Phish bootlegs, no black lights, and no kayak that I bought with Marlboro miles. During those two months on campus when no one seemed to have any weed, I would begrudgingly make a call and drive over to the bad part of town to buy an ounce off of someone I went to high school with whose life was completely in the shitter. Continue…