I'm gonna have to try really hard to start writing over here. This page gives me writer's block. I think its because I was depressed and pissed off when I started this one. It was supposed to be my secret hiding place. My place to really blow it out.
But that passed with the winter, I suppose. I hate the cold. It always seems so determined to hang on, clawing itself into months that should be bright and a tinge warm. It seems longer every year, and colder and wetter, and finally when I'm on the verge of a break-down... A sunny day, and then I'm fine.
I hung my heavy jacket in the closet with this blog shoved in the pocket. But if 17 whole people are going to hang out, I feel compelled to squirm uncomfortably, attempt a smile, and make small talk. I no longer like the idea of a place to piss and moan though... Although I may have been known to do so. I can't bring myself to make anyone the sole and constant recipient of negativity. Oh, and I'm short on it right now anywhoooooo.
So earlier, I was thinking. Remembering, actually.
Before I met my husband, to my knowledge, I never knew anyone who actually smoked crack. I always thought of it as an expression. "Did you see that hair don't?! That bitch must be on crack!" followed by a hardy har, a heedy heee heeee.
I know. -And since this is starting over, only a couple of you might know how hilariously ridiculous it is that I was so... Naive? Dumb? I don't know what that is.
Almost every one of his friends has smoked the rock at least once, though several years ago. None of them jumped in with both feet and fucked their entire lives, but they tried it. -And every. single. time this comes up and another one tells the tale, I'm amazed and enthralled.
I think it's funny that I'm accused of being rebellious when the fact is, I was clearly, deeply effected by the Nancy Reagan years.
I'm not judging them exactly. If anything, I'm impressed that they all managed to keep a handle on their shit- it just shocks me every damn time. -And the only reason I'm explaining all that is because I've been known to say, "Well your friends smoke crack!" and then maybe throw in some jazz hands. Or tap dance a little... It depends entirely on the expression it causes. Sometimes I just smirk. Or do a Sarah Palin blinky thing.
So last night, for whatever reason, I threw that out there, and he said, "Really? You really never met a crack head?" And I said, "Not til I met you, baby!"
And then I started thinking out loud. Poor guy.
Well... I guess there's a chance that Jon smoked crack, but probably not during the time we hung out. Maybe after I went to England... He and Sasha broke up as BFFs and moved out of the apartment for some reason, and that woulda done it.
When I first started hanging out with them, they were weed only people. They were the first ones I smoked with, and I didn't know there was any such thing as more fun than what we had going.
We'd go home, get vamped up, and then one of them would pick me up and we'd hang at their place, getting stoned and maybe a little tipsy in preparation for The Gay Bar.
OH! The Gay Bar, a moment of silence. -Our affair was short lived, but one I wouldn't trade for anything. I had more fun there, dancing with 7 foot tall, redheaded, green sequin encrusted drag queens, and wispy fairy princesses, and leather clad raver boys, than I would in the next three years of my life combined. I never laughed so much, danced so freely, or felt so light.
One night Jon dragged me into his room to help decide what kind of polyester nightmare he should wear to the club- he was way into shirts with flame jobs on them... And as I went straight for his walk-in closet, he went for his dresser. "Pssssst! You want somuh this?" he hissed, cutting a line of coke on his hand mirror.
"Oh, no thank you!" I tried to sound unaffected.
"Come on, girl! Lets get CRAZAAAAAAAY!"
"I'm good, but thank you. I gotta work tomorrow, and you know it freaks me out to be OUT THERE if I'm all fucked up. What kinda shirt are you into? Are you wearing leather pants?!"
"Oooookaaaay!" he said like *I'm* crazy, sashaying into the closet with me.
Five minutes later he was back at the dresser, "Heeeey! RrrrrrrRrrrrrRrrrrrRrrrrrrr Ya gotta try this!" he ground his teeth, a maniacle, wide eyed panic-wonder all over his face. It wasn't entirely scary or disturbing, it was also incredibly funny. Jon was about 5'6", slight, blonde with one of those unfortunate haircuts that could be combed into a Cesar, spiked, parted, etc... And he had it parted right down the middle, like Alfalpha, his usually pale skin had turned cherry red, his teeth stood out, too white in contrast, grinding back and forth- he was almost cross-eyed, and he really wanted a coke partner.
"Jon. You gotta chill out. You gotta caaaaalm dooooooown. I really appreciate it, but I'm not doing coke. Are you gonna be okay?"
"Don't tell Sasha!"
"Okay, I won't." I said, knowing that if he started fucking up, I would have to tell her for his own damned good. "Are you cool? Do you need some water?... Er... Juice? Whataya do for coke?"
"Aaaahahahahahaahahaah! Girl, you crazy! Come on!" -and off we went for The Gay Bar. After he cleaned the glass.
"RrrrrrRrrrrrRrrrrrrrRrrrrrrrr! Ya Rrrrrrrready?!" Yikes!
It wasn't until weeks later that Sasha told me she'd made him promise to leave all that shit alone if they were going to live together again. Apparently he'd gone through a period of addiction while they were in College. We tried to keep a better eye on him, but YEARS later, I would run into the former proprietor of that establishment, and hear that it was largely due to Jon that the place was eventually shut down. -Along with his business partner, they had everything from coke to heroin available in the rest room, and eventually the shit hit the fan.
It's a shame in this world. I hate to think of that place not being there anymore. I can't help but think one day I'll drive past it again, and then park, and just go inside to see what's happening. And I hate that it's not a haven anymore. It was THE perfect place to get your feet wet, if you were just exiting the closet. It was the perfect place for a hag like me, and I've never been in another joint with the same atmosphere.
Wait, what? Oh yeah. No. Never even SEEN a crack rock.
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