– I wasn’t sure how open I was going to be when I finally got around to dictating the parts that I could remember about my time in NYC, but I feel like I’ve come this far, I finally appreciate who I’ve become and the idea of what I can grow towards in my future, that alone gave me my answer, as gritty as the reality was. The fact is I did a lot of drugs when I was in New York. Drugs were a large part of my routine, they were friends when I was alone, they were real, they were accessible and they are responsible for some of my more wild behavior, but not all of it. I’ve always smoked weed, probably will utilize its properties, even if just for pain management until I am old and shrivelly. That was my part of my growing routine but not all of it. Drinking has and always will be an issue of mine, a bane of my existence, really. Something I thoroughly enjoy and hate more than anything simultaneously, due to it’s full control and ability to convince me of things and to fully dictate my mood. Recently I took a break, which reevaluates my relationship with the booze beast. Getting back to my drugs of choice in NYC in my early 20’s. Having snorted a bit of heroin with an ex when I was 21 I knew it was something I did for three days and would never touch again. Designer drugs were massive in New York at the time and 2CB was our go to. To me it felt like a mix between really clean acid and Molly. The visuals and physical feelings outweighed the almost certain negative qualities. Part of me giggled snorting 2CB off of plates from CB2. When I say “we” I refer to the group I was fluent with when I was DJing weekly gigs at multiple venues. The duo was me and and an older friend, who was in his mid-late 60’s at the time and still a decade later DJs and puts out mixtapes often in Brooklyn. We will call him “L”. L and I would dose ourselves by mixing it in Gatorade walking down 8th Ave, unleash ourselves into secret parties, museums and huge venues to wander into weirdness wrapped in scarves and carrying things we’d found along the way. At the end of one of our 11 mile ventures down the water front, we landed in Emerald City and I had to get directions from a cop on a horse, while completely loosing my mind. The horses lips felt gigantic in my face. We walked down the water front mile after mile wanting to break and stop to rest from the hot sun and overwhelming hallucinations. Every time my friend reccommended a place to stop, I repeated just a little further. When I finally found a spot that seemed sufficient, I covered my head in a hoodie and watched the light show throughout the fabric. Once I was ready to walk I rose up and looked around. The spot I had chosen as my resting place was a triangular grassy embankment in the middle of a vehicle roundabout. We spent the subway ride home laughing at a coat rack.
-Jameson on the rocks and a Miller light, that was my jam at Macri Park. At this time, I was working there several days a week djing and barbacking, I was in much need of a vessel to type on and I had just saved some money to purchase one of those briefly popular Netbooks. The netbook was snuggly nestled in my book bag, which hung on the back of the chair I was sitting in. It was an oddly busy night, there was a different DJ on and the place was full. I drank with the staff and unwound after a long day of work at the coffee shop. I went outside to smoke, feet away from my drink and my bag, peering inside at it now and then as the staff also kept their eyes out for a fellow employees gear. I returned to my seat, bag still hanging and I sipped my whiskey. Within minutes I was spinning. At that personal era in Brooklyn I was drinking heavily. It had continued for years and years following, but most knew I was a tank so it didn’t matter because I got myself home. It was rare that I wouldn’t be the most sober person in the place no matter how much I’d been drinking. All of the sudden I couldn’t even see the bar in front of me. I have one flash after this point pouring myself into a cab and attempting to squish my address out of my mashed banana cheeks and walking up alone in my bed with a dominos pizza and no shirt on. There is zero doubt in my mind that I was drugged. I have never struggled so hard to get home or shot from 0-60 so quickly (except on a motorcycle). My net book was taken out of my bag and I’d never noticed, but I made it home safely on my own and I still remembered online ordering dominos.
-When I DJed there was a ritual in our drug use. We would drink and do bumps of cocaine the first half of the night, I smoked weed as well, though my partner In DJ crime didn’t drink. Once the night started moving we would wind up the tunes and at 10pm we would do ecstasy or Molly. One of our biggest nights, my partners birthday, all the freak friends came out to party. We played records and danced with everyone all night, heading back to his apartment with a few others. I headed to the bathroom and when I returned, lines laid across the table. They looked like beautiful snakes, glowing next to mimosas basked in the table’s low lit candle light. While engulfed in ranting conversation I was handed a rolled up bill. I lean over, plug a nostril and as I’m half way through the line I hear “oooh man, Mal”. It wasn’t coke. It was special K.
-One night after the bar, I’d brought home a co worker that I frequently slept with. We resorted to each other you could say, both from Buffalo, though he hadn’t been back in decades. We used to do cocaine all night and he would be so zipped up by the time we laid down that id have to pull on the ends of his hair and give him a head massage so that he’d fall asleep. We would sleep into the day with blackout curtains, order take out and part ways when the sun set again. We were just friends. Ships passing in the day. One morning I realized I was doing too much cocaine. He still in bed, I got up and sat at the table in the living room and did a line before heading into the coffee shop and he sat up out of bed. Nothing got this man out of bed when he didn’t want to. He sat there staring at me with this disappointed look on his face. I looked back at him, this tiny man who did so much cocaine that he would have nightly nosebleeds, someone who would sleep in whatever bed or couch gave him the darkest coverage from the sun, shaking his head in disappointment at my doing a line at 8am. That’s when I first slowed it down a tad.