give your jar of crappy old Speed to me.

One thing you can for sure say about a Green House Party: There’ll still be a good 15 folks drinking beer on the front lawn 72 hours later.

‘Fuck YES!!’ Someone may exclaim. ‘It ain’t a party unless it goes on all weekend!’

‘You know,’ a cohort will point out, ‘I don’t think it’s still the Weekend.’

‘No way,’ the beat goes on, ‘Even better!’

There’ll be silence for a bit of while. Till someone says:

‘I have no idea what day it is!’

The party stragglers respond with 2 words, sung in wastoid unison.

‘Right On!’

Happens every time.

Another thing happens at every Green House Party. I show up, say some Hellos & look for my buddy grooveBeaker. Find, say hi & high-5 him. Peel a lap around the inside of the house. Built in a circular concept – with no doors to separate the kitchen, living & dining room – it takes about 7 to 15 seconds, dependent on traffic conditions, to route the entire first floor.

I first ran into grooveBeaker in the kitchen, then split – to not be rude – and dashed around the house. Met back up a few seconds later a few steps from where I left him. Acted casual. A little surprised to see him again so quickly. Took a step past him, then pretended to remember something; a question I wanted to ask. Small question. Nothing to see here.

By now the farce is comic – grooveBeaker knows my Game. He gives me the nod. Before I pop the Question I dart my eyes around the crowd of faces. It is always good in these moments to have a Plan B. So I made a quick mental tally of other likely Prospects.

‘Yo, uh so grooveBeaker there,’ I stammered reluctantly, ‘You you know got like any…’

grooveBeaker eyed me blankly. His expression revealed nothing. He could’ve finished my sentence for me. Or cut straight past the verbal mumbo jumbo & just dispensed the festivities. He could. But why would he? He stood to gain nothing by making it easy.

I saw that he was unwilling to cooperate. It jarred me from my feigned pleasantry. I mean am I some kind of god damn old lady?

No!

‘Yo I’m Mike E bitch!’ I explained. ‘I go crazy without Dexedrine. And we wouldn’t want that, right? So fork ‘em over you dumb honky slut!’

His chin began to tremble. For a second I thought he would cry. I wondered if maybe grooveBeaker was getting too old for this shit. Until I realized my friend was strained to hold back a bellyfull of laughs.

Wonderful. You’ve heard the old adage: Laughter is the Best Medicine.

‘What did you just call me?’ He asked.

‘I called you? No way. You called ME, pal. For medical advice. Remember? Asked me if it was true that laughter was good medicine. Yeah. Boy. Shit is fucking spectacular medicine. As your doctor I advise you to laugh like a hyena on PCP. Yeppers – best medicine ever! Now…seeing that you got a whole belly full of that BOMB shit…it would be psycho pharmacologically advantageous to give your jar of crappy old Speed to me. Thanks for calling!’

Like jazz; make-believe in motion; poetry.

In short, a smashing performance. I felt like a million bucks. Where moments earlier I felt like I owed some dude $50!

I closed my eyes and savored the moment. Felt a mile-long drug eating grin curl from lip to ear. I quietly thanked the Cosmix Gonzo for making me so smart. The Cosmix Gonzo didn’t answer. I figured because the Cosmix Gonzo was speechlessly pleased.

I peered through my squinted eyes. grooveBeaker stood there still. But his mind was far away.

I raised my eyebrows. Held my hand out to receive my hard-won pile of Dexies. Looked intently at my friend. He looked like he wanted something from me. I was stunned. How much more could I give?

‘I have no idea what you just said Mike E.’ grooveBeaker informed me. ‘It didn’t matter. But I must know what name you just called me.’

My outstretched hand fell wearily. Righto. Jokes over then. Pity. I thought it rather funny. But to the dude with pills – only one who counts – my very good joke never happened.

Oh well. At least I’d get to call him a dumb honky slut again.

‘I called you a dumb honky slut,’ I replied, ‘You Dumb Honky Slut!!’

‘That’s what I thought Mike E. I love you man!’ grooveBeaker’s voice welled with emotion. He hugged me.

Great. Maybe I’ll make a t-shirt that says I WENT TO THE GREEN HOUSE PARTY AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY HUG!! A long hug.

The Cosmix Gonzo hates me.

grooveBeaker stepped back. Finally. A nearby lady party-goer called us Homos.

I told her to go lick the carpet and hit her up for speed.

‘Yeah — I got Adderall.’ The lady party-goer said, then looked at grooveBeaker. He gazed at me like I was the coolest thing to come along since the doctor who diagnosed him with ADD. ‘But you can’t have it. Cause you’re kinda Cute you know, but — what’s in it For Me?’

‘I hope you’re happy.’ I told grooveBeaker.

‘Happy as a speed freak in an orchard of amphetamine trees! You know why?’

‘No.’

‘Because you called me a dumb honky slut.’ My friend beamed, ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone ever said to me!!’

‘Of course it is. Yeah. Shit I tell you what – give me a pile of Dexedrine’s and I’ll wish you HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!’

Just then DJ 20 MG happened coincidentally by. ‘Well that was a pain in the ass huh?’ He said, ‘I almost gave up!’

‘How long you been stalking me?’ I asked.

‘The whole time. I know what it means when you circle around and find grooveBeaker 3 or 4 minutes after you get here!’

I handed him a pill. He looked at it & me. ‘Just one?’ he asked, ‘Dude – that took an hour! Don’t short me!’

‘You know what?’ I asked, laughed & broke the pill & ate half. ‘grooveBeaker’s girlfriend thinks you’re one Dumb Honky Slut!’

‘That’s right — me & yo Momma!’

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3 Responses to “give your jar of crappy old Speed to me.”


  1. 1 galloway August 13, 2006 at 6:54 pm

    There are secrets involved in looking good for the printed page, just as there are in preparing yourself for the photographer.

    About greenhouse parties, however, you should be sure of only two things.

    The first one is that there will be at least fifteen people drinking beer out on the front lawn seventy-two hours after you arrive.

    The second is that whatever brought you here, you don’t want to be one of them.

    In an open plan building, how do you know where you are?

    It’s a circular concept: no doors, living and dining, eating, sleeping, piss in the shower and wash up in the crapper… how the f**k are you supposed to know the difference?

    What the hell are friends for if not to confuse you, ever so slightly?

    I won’t be held to this in a court of law, but I used to know someone like grooveBeaker.

    He’s gone now, and he’s not coming back.

    When I was a kid we used to go scoring dexies, blues and bombers on a Friday night.

    You could get 100 blues or dexies for about £5 in 1968.

    Now and again someone would come up with Durophet, black bombers; they were a little more expensive but worth the extra.

    We’d start off with maybe ten, then another twenty, and so on.

    By Sunday morning you didn’t need anything else, apart from maybe just a nice smoke of something to take the edge off.

    And then it was back to work on Monday morning: F**k the Pope and flaunt the Devil, with another weekend just five days away…

    Great days.

  2. 2 galloway August 20, 2006 at 3:57 pm

    7 days

    And not a new post in sight…

    How do you expect your friends to react?

    Should we worry?

    Are we to fret?

    Cyberspace awaits

    Your latest post to the net.

    With baited breath and

    more than one sleepless night and

    No drugs to detract

    From our pityless plight…

    We wait.

  3. 3 Mike E August 20, 2006 at 7:10 pm

    oy oy oy! I’m back…

    Well sort of. Just turned my computer on for the first time in a weird week. To celebrate I’m going to write Something Good. But not right now — the Simpsons are on. So you have to wait.


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