Even though I don't like to smoke pot, it pisses me off when people say "stoner" when what they really mean is "dumbass." It's stupid and irresponsible to make no distinction between drug use and organic mental defect. I understand perfectly well, though, why people use "crack pipe" as a synonym for "crazy-ass fucked-up crazy-making thing used by crazy-ass fucked-up crazy people."
I once went out with a guy who, on our third date, with no foreshadowing whatsoever, pulled a bindle full of cocaine out of the pocket of his batik-print parachute pants and offered me a line. (Did I accept? It was the early 1990s; I was in my early 20s. Fill in the blanks yourselves.) Anyway. Fast forward three years. I'm still dating this guy, and he's not only in his senior year of college, closing in on his double major degree in history and philosophy, but also well into a love affair with his crack pipe, one which had me throwing a spectacularly loud and dramatic hissy fit in his dorm room one night. He'd told me he threw away his crack pipe a month earlier, and I found it in his little dorm-room microwave oven. I'd like to say I pitched the fit because I was worried about his health or future or whatever, but I'll be honest and say that I was just jealous because he loved crack infinitely more than he loved me.
Point being: By this time, I'd witnessed all sorts of fucked-up, coke-related behavior, but never anything to rival the singularly creepy crack-addict thing. I mean, I had this loveably fun, attractive, smart, athletic guy who, I'll admit, lied, cheated, stole, and had chronic nosebleeds, but who was, nonetheless, charming and sort of predictable in his shittiness. Then, all of a sudden, I had a boyfriend who was all of these things plus TOTALLY FUCKING CRAZY. Like, he couldn't think or speak in complete sentences. He never lost his temper, but occasionally called me awful names just before he passed out. He was all twitchy and unpredictably moody. And he'd keep firing up his EMPTY crack pipe and sucking on it for an hour or so, hoping to get the remnants of a hit from it. In between the useless hits he'd keep up his dumb-ass, Dubya-like chatter. So I guess he wasn't really very fun or smart or charming anymore. Or predictable. But he was, incredibly, still wickedly attractive, if creepily skinny. (And athletic. I used to go watch him play soccer and hold my breath waiting for him to drop dead on the field.)
This story should have some sort of unhappy ending, or at least a climax, but it doesn't. This man eventually got his master's degree and is now a high school history teacher. He's also a coach for the US Olympic Soccer Camp. He took up competitive motorcycle racing a few years ago and keeps winning all sorts of awards for, I guess, excellence in his age group (he just turned 46 a few days ago, which I find both hilarious and depressing). I know this because he called me a couple of days ago. I was busy cooking dinner for Tim S. and Alex, who were coming for dinner later that evening. You'll be happy to know that not only did I not tell him to fuck off and never call me again, I gave him my cell phone number.
I once went out with a guy who, on our third date, with no foreshadowing whatsoever, pulled a bindle full of cocaine out of the pocket of his batik-print parachute pants and offered me a line. (Did I accept? It was the early 1990s; I was in my early 20s. Fill in the blanks yourselves.) Anyway. Fast forward three years. I'm still dating this guy, and he's not only in his senior year of college, closing in on his double major degree in history and philosophy, but also well into a love affair with his crack pipe, one which had me throwing a spectacularly loud and dramatic hissy fit in his dorm room one night. He'd told me he threw away his crack pipe a month earlier, and I found it in his little dorm-room microwave oven. I'd like to say I pitched the fit because I was worried about his health or future or whatever, but I'll be honest and say that I was just jealous because he loved crack infinitely more than he loved me.
Point being: By this time, I'd witnessed all sorts of fucked-up, coke-related behavior, but never anything to rival the singularly creepy crack-addict thing. I mean, I had this loveably fun, attractive, smart, athletic guy who, I'll admit, lied, cheated, stole, and had chronic nosebleeds, but who was, nonetheless, charming and sort of predictable in his shittiness. Then, all of a sudden, I had a boyfriend who was all of these things plus TOTALLY FUCKING CRAZY. Like, he couldn't think or speak in complete sentences. He never lost his temper, but occasionally called me awful names just before he passed out. He was all twitchy and unpredictably moody. And he'd keep firing up his EMPTY crack pipe and sucking on it for an hour or so, hoping to get the remnants of a hit from it. In between the useless hits he'd keep up his dumb-ass, Dubya-like chatter. So I guess he wasn't really very fun or smart or charming anymore. Or predictable. But he was, incredibly, still wickedly attractive, if creepily skinny. (And athletic. I used to go watch him play soccer and hold my breath waiting for him to drop dead on the field.)
This story should have some sort of unhappy ending, or at least a climax, but it doesn't. This man eventually got his master's degree and is now a high school history teacher. He's also a coach for the US Olympic Soccer Camp. He took up competitive motorcycle racing a few years ago and keeps winning all sorts of awards for, I guess, excellence in his age group (he just turned 46 a few days ago, which I find both hilarious and depressing). I know this because he called me a couple of days ago. I was busy cooking dinner for Tim S. and Alex, who were coming for dinner later that evening. You'll be happy to know that not only did I not tell him to fuck off and never call me again, I gave him my cell phone number.
amadio:
It's funny how a story is never truely over until somebody dies.