I don’t talk about drugs much, you know; it’s not what people seem to want me to address, and I’ve actually used way fewer drugs than the average hip person. It’s not like I get invited to groovy drug conferences like Annie Sprinkle (www.anniesprinkle.org), who is in the loop with all the mind-expansion folks who go to Hawai’i for their shindigs. Of course this is understandable, since being with Annie is very mind-expanding whether or not you do drugs at the same time.
I don’t talk much about rock and roll, either. But it’s Meth Awareness Day, and I just feel like celebrating with a little awareness of something other than the War-On-Drugs variety.
So two things. One, I want to send my thoughts into the ether for all the people I know who’ve died because of meth. It turns out that this party girl Tina has a very nasty side, and several people in my life have crossed her unsuccessfully. And I want to sing out to my old friend who’s still fighting speed — that’s what meth is, speed — because after losing his dear lover to AIDS, it’s easier to go out and get on with his life when he’s high. I hope his life is returned to him in one piece, and without the meth.
You know, just about the time when San Francisco was becoming a beacon of the sexual revolution, people stuck signs up around town that said “Speed Kills” — I wish people today would remember that, and realize that they were right.
One problem is that speed makes people mad to fuck. Dancing and having sex — it’s a pure party drug for many people. What’s not to like about something that can make you do both activities all night? But anything you take to make you more into the sex gets in the way of the sex: you have to pick the mind-altering space you *really* want. Almost every kind of drug, especially done to excess, gets in the way of sexual connection eventually, though some are much, much worse than others… even aclohol and nicotine. Hey, don’t you remember the billboard with the limp-cigaretted Marlboro Man? What do you think they were trying to get at?
But let’s look at the other side of the coin for a minute. I just had dinner with the inimitable Violet Blue, and she told me something I had somehow missed: the Meth Act is actually *part* of the Patriot Act. Now, which war do these people want to fight? There’s *already* a war on drugs, one that costs our culture plenty (I wonder if it’s an accident that a report came out today stating that one out of every thirty-some people is in jail, many of them on drug charges). And I am trying my best, though I’m no friend at all of meth or meth-cookers, to wrap my mind around the idea that stopping meth use will also stop the terrorists at the border.
It won’t wrap. Perhaps I need some LSD? Sweet mama, I hope the Republicans are not getting into acid now. That is just the *last* damn thing we need.
Sudafed or other epinephrin analogs can only be sold now if you sign a paper at the drugstore and get your name put into a database. The Patriot Act, like the country’s biggest direct mail clearinghouse, is not collecting enough names just by tapping phones and scamming libraries (to which the librarians, bless their little hearts, put a stop as if Bush and Rove were snot-nosed spitball-throwers in the stacks). Now, perhaps being inspired by the snot-nosiness of it all, they’re taking your name if you have allergies.
Happy Meth Day, people. Let’s all celebrate by taking a nice spin with the ol’ vibrator — it’s a natural high.