- Strange memories during another long night doing the electronic dose-e-do of internet poker, Facebook, Netflix and other distractions. First off, I have come to the realization that one must come to grips with the fact that most of us are really bit players on the world stage. Even if we somehow break the bonds of normalcy and transcend to some higher plane of recognition by becoming known to our peers in our various fields, none of us will really amount to much on the global scale of history, so history will forget us. Keeping that in mind, we all still have our own treacherously beautiful stories to tell.
- With that being said, I remember one night in Rivercide, a long, still, hot night in August, circa 93, the kind of evening shade where the winds die down at dusk and leave the whole city in a slow death spiral measured in minutes. After a day of drinking that started before noon with the pair of us, my boon companion Timothy (a man with whom a year later I would go on an epic journey to meet our idol Hunter S. Thomson) and I went out completely hammered out of our steam sweating skulls looking for doses, and in the process we completely killed the vibe of a hippie orgy in its larval stages with our drunken belligerence.
- Before I continue the narrative, I have to say that this wasn’t the only orgy I’ve killed. It was one of several with my own terminal “negative vibe,” but I’ve never had a partner in crime before or after since this one unique moment in time. That night, we barged into the potential dealer’s joint as he and a couple of his male confederates had been priming the pump for a couple of hours on six women with good food, wine, weed, drugs, candles, incense, music and massages. We were like sumo wrestlers just busting open the door and throwing salt everywhere. I’m pretty sure we were the death of that party. I think I immediately said something like, “Sorry to fuck up your gangbang, but we need some acid.” The look in a couple of the girls’ eyes said, “Oh, these guys are trying to fuck all of us.”
- The dealer was a kind of creepy Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs looking dude, who years later would get Teacher of the Year all the while subsidizing his weekend crack habit with gay tricks (true story), and his shock was palpable. When we found out he allegedly didn’t have any acid, Tim said, “Well, if you only have enough drugs for this little party here, you’re not much of a drug dealer now are you?” Buffalo Bill grabbed a joint and gave it to us as a consolation prize and couldn’t get us out of there fast enough, but I’m petty sure the damage was done. This wasn’t a seasoned group of swingers showing up to a fuck-party house to let it all hang out. This was a calculated gamble and gambit where every move had to be orchestrated correctly, with one small misstep destroying the whole process, more of a hostage negotiation than an orgy. And, we pretty much threw a monkey wrench into the whole thing before heading off into the sweltering night in the mad search for what some consider fun.
- It didn’t seem like it at the time, but looking back it’s a memory I cherish dearly, not as much as our several day quest to meet Hunter S. Thompson the following year, but that trip had a slow rhythm to it with breaking laws in several states and luck panning out like you deserved it for some reason. This quick night of explosive lunacy was just that . . . a rapid drunken, drug addled Three Stooges sketch with lots of collateral damage quickly in the wake that’s only realized in the aftermath laughter later that hopefully lasts for years and years. Sometimes, it really is better to be part of the “out-crowd.”