As I noted in a recent post, I’m trying to quit smoking. As a religious guy, I think I’ve been seeing signs encouraging me to quit with the aid of the nicotine patch and gum. You know how you always see cigarette butts on sidewalks? In the last week I’ve seen about four patches stuck to the sidewalk. “I know the sidewalk’s been a heavy smoker for a long time,” I thought, “but if it can quit, then I can quit.”
I’ve written on this blog before about my buddy Mike, my older buddy who got booted from the Marines for selling pot on base. Here’s part of our conversation from this morning:
“You’re never gonna’ make that one, son.”
I am not good at real basketball, but I love trying to make shots of litter into the trashcan. The trickier and more difficult the attempt, the better. I have come up with some good ones.
“Oh yeah? I’ll take it up a notch.”
I made a behind-the-back attempt from a ridiculous distance. The empty plastic jar of instant coffee was off by five feet.
“Nice try,” commented another down-and-outer who fritters away his mornings in the federal plaza. He laughed when I said that my specialty was empty vodka bottles.
“Good,” Mike joked as I returned to our bench, “now that you’re out of coffee maybe you’ll chill the fuck out!”
Like all my friends, Mike hates to see me wasted. But I also bug him out when I’ve got too much coffee in me.
“Actually, the term of my generation, or Generation Y or some shit, is ‘Chillax’.”
“‘Chillax?’ As in, ‘Take a break from chopping wood’?”
“Nice try, but it’s a combination of ‘Chill out’ and ‘Relax.’ Because, you know, they save two syllables with that neologism.”
“And then you go and waste ’em right back with whatever that last word was.”
“Yeah, but these stupid kids only use words that can be texted.”
“No fucking shit. They do that shit more than they actually talk. I was at my ex’s last month, and she’s on the front porch, texting my son who’s in his old room. I’m like, ‘Why don’t you actually walk to his room’?!”
“Are they fat? Or scrawny fucks like you?”
“They’re in shape, you know. It’s just a stupid thing.”
“Speaking of stupid things, I had lunch with that lady yesterday. She’s straight-laced herself, but her daughter is 21 and already an alcoholic. I don’t know if she really is or if it’s just the normal drinking of someone that age.”
“Could be either.”
“That’s basically what I said. But–you’ll love this–she said that she was doing fine until she went to that Otakon shit.”
Otakon is one of three or four conventions that entail that Baltimore has several Halloweens each year. People dress up like anime characters and you’ll see people dressed up like the characters throughout downtown. Everyone else laughs at them.
“Fuck, if my kid was into that shit, I’d become an alcoholic myself.”
He instantly laughed when he realized what he’d said, since we’re both drunks.
“I know you say you’re from a redneck area of Bawmore, but I’m from the edge of Pennsyltucky. And my dad was from pure redneck stock. But when I went through my freaky, skate fag stage, he had no problem with that. When I wore shit like a pink sock and a yellow sock to school, my refined mom worried that I was gay.”
“One of my boys went through a Grunge thing, with like black nail polish and a little light make-up. I was cool with that.”
“I could see you taking him aside and saying, ‘Son, I don’t care if you’re gay or what, but stay the fuck away from that goddamn Otakon shit. And if you look for more than two seconds at a My Little Pony horse [a Bronycon reference], I’ll fucking kill you’.”
“‘Here’s a bottle of Jack. Take that costume off and drink it. Want me to get you some coke’?”
“‘How about some whores, son?’ You’d get a call at four in the morning: ‘Mr. Lykens, we’ve got your son down here at Central Booking.’ ‘What’d he do?’ ‘Sir, he attacked an officer so we had to kick his ass.’ ‘Did he have a costume on? Did he really assault them or did he use a toy sword?’ ‘He just kept yelling, “Fuck you all”!'”
“That’s my boy!”
I picked up some nicotine patches yesterday because I intend to quit smoking. I was disappointed that they didn’t offer menthols.
Robin Williams back at rehab facility to ‘fine-tune’ sobriety
FoxNews.com July 01, 2014
Mental health professionals nationwide are mobilizing to deal with the situation. Temporary staff has been hired to attend to the quicksilver Williams, who requires four times as much labor as typical rehabilitation patients. Counselors who specialize in PTSD treatment have been pulled from counseling wildfire fighters across the nation, as they will be needed to counsel those who are counseling Williams.
Citing confidentiality protocol, no counselors overseeing his case were able to offer comment. Support staff, however, showed less discretion.
“I don’t give a fuck; I’m just a cleaning lady. I ain’t never really gave a shit about getting my work done too quick. But I sure as hell make record time when I do his room. Two minutes tops. I’m thinking like, ‘Just shut the fuck up!’ He’s trying to tell jokes about some Roosevelt bitch, Bill Clinton, and a filling station or some shit like that.
“Honestly, I don’t even do much cleaning anymore for him ever since I threw away a bunch of wadded up toilet paper next to his bed. He flipped out and said that it was the script for his next big movie. He then said in a weird voice, ‘I could use a stiff one right now.’ Then he starts saying, all crazy again, ‘Hey, did you hear the one about Jefferson…’ and I yelled, ‘No! And I don’t want to!’ and got the hell out of there.”
The overnight receptionist was more understanding, but admitted that his incessant calls throughout the night were a little bothersome. “A lot of them involve ‘Na-Nu Na-Nu. This is Mork calling Orson.’ Sometimes he’ll call, crying and apologizing for calling so often. I was actually kind of flattered when he called to tell me he loved me. The only call that really freaked me out was when he would not stop ranting about the bad reviews that Moscow on the Hudson got, blaming it on a feud with some Eggbert guy.”
The receptionist later admitted that she was on suicide watch, and that her Valium dosage had been doubled.
Williams’s entourage, meanwhile, is taking advantage of the break by having a team-building exercise in Iraq. “It’s really calm here, a nice change of pace,” said the Assistant to the Deputy Director of Public Relations.
Keep calm and carry on, everyone.
Disgraced ‘sheriff of the year’ who traded meth for sex gets 15 months in prison
“The tables have turned on…Once nationally lauded for his anti-drug crusades, the former sheriff admitted to a drug problem and was sentenced to 15 months in prison for repeated probation violations in a meth-for-sex case, the Denver Post reported.
“The 71-year-old, a one-time national sheriff of the year, missed 36 urine tests and tested positive for methamphetamine or alcohol 10 times in more than two years of probation, his probation officer told reporters…”
My curiosity is piqued concerning the well-known sex-for-drugs link: do methheads (or crackheads or junkies) get into it in the sack? Or do they just kind of phone it in?
Is Social Media Dependence A Mental Health Issue?
Baltimore police hot line number connects callers to adult chat
Toll-free number for internal investigations instead goes to ‘America’s hottest talk line’
“A phone number for filing complaints about Baltimore police officers connected callers this week instead to an adult chat line advertising ‘hot ladies’…”
I was able to acquire a transcript of one confusing exchange:
Hot Lady: Hi, gorgeous, I’m Sandy. What’s your name?
Caller: Uh, hi, but I’d rather not say.
HL: Oh, that’s too bad. What can I do to you today?
C: Well, you see, I was going to the 7/11 at the Market Place–
HL: Oh, I love that place. Do they still have those foot-long hot dogs? I could swallow them all, night, long.
C: Dunno’. But what happened was, this officer asked me for my ID–yeah I’d had me a few beers–but I told I didn’t have one.
HL: I’ll bet you have a lot of other things, though. A lot of big things.
C: I guess, but he throws me against the wall and starts putting his hands in my pockets–
HL: Stop, slow down. I’m gettin’ so hot right now. A man in uniform throwing me against a wall and putting his hands all over me. I wish you were that man.
C: I’d never be a cop. No ma’am.
HL: Did he have handcuffs?
C: Uh, I’m sure he did, but he didn’t put them on me. He let me go, but he was so rough and I felt violated.
HL: Did that turn you on?
C: Fuc–I mean, hell no!
HL: It would me. I love it when someone violates me rough. I think I’m gonna’ come!
C: Ma’am, if you have to go, I understand. But could you please put someone else on the line if you do?
HL: You’re so cute. So hot.
HL: Have you ever been rough with anyone?
C: Well, my brothers and me–
HL: Oh, how kinky!
C: Just ‘rassling.
[There is quite a long pause, and when she returns her voice has changed to a serious tone.]
HL: I’m sorry. I–I just can’t do this no longer. Mister, I was abused, too.
C: I’m sorry to hear that, Ma’am.
HL: It was in, in a different way.
C: Who would do that to a nice lady like you?
HL: First my dad, then my brothers–[She begins to cry]–then a couple other assholes.
C: Sure sound like assholes if you ask me.
HL: Where are you now? Can you get any coke?
C: I got some on me now.
HL: Can you make it to Nebraska? We’ll party. I’m done with this fucking job.
C: Nebraska! Maybe in, like, two days.
[Hot Lady gives Caller her address, where he tracks her down four days later. He learns from neighbors that she had committed suicide four nights ago. Despondent, he proceeds to smoke the crack, of which he had brought plenty, in a discrete area he could find near the Greyhound station.
[When the coroner gave his report on our would-be Romeo several days later, he noted, “Technically, I’ll rule this a drug overdose. But, in my nonmedical opinion, our John Doe died of a broken heart.”]