 "WITH A HEAD FULL OF SNOW:" KEITH RICHARDS AND THE MEANING OF FATHER'S DAY
If there are two things that I have a great deal of recent experience with, they would be dead fathers and giant, heaping piles of cocaine. One sort of sucked, the other was, quite simply, the greatest thing ever.
After a particularly nasty experience in 1987, I swore off cocaine and promised myself to have nothing further to do with it. You see, I was 17 and was attending the engagement party of a much older friend of mine. A baggie of blow was produced and I learned for the first time that snorting a bunch of coke after drinking sixteen beers was a bad idea. Further, I learned that it was a worse idea still if said coke was probably cut with speed.
Turns out that the comedown is horrible. After feeling as though I was going to die the following day, I decided that was an experience that I had no desire to repeat, so I did not indulge again until 2005. A full 18 years! That's much better than my far more destructive hobby, falling in love, which I do every 18 minutes.
I really wasn't looking to snort a ton of cocaine then, either. But I had passed a drug test that I had to take for a job that week, and what can a poor boy do? As it happened, my great friend and spirtual advisor, Dr. Reverend, had scored a great quantity of blow that weekend and invited me to share. I'm not one to insult my good and gracious host, so I did some. Okay, that isn't entirely true. I did a lot.
I learned a very important lesson that weekend: I like cocaine. I like it a whole lot. I liked it so much that the good Doctor had to put it away, lest I snort all of its cokey goodness until it - and my golden septum - was gone. I also learned that, while cocaine isn't addictive, I can see why people can do a whole bunch of it and begin thinking that it is. I was greatly surprised by this, enamoured of central nervous system depressants as I am. This might come as a surprise to you teenagers, but I'm not a real "up" guy and I much prefer substances that inspire oblivion, the more complete and total, the better.
What I think I love most about coke is the mechanical chopping of it. I could chop coke all night. Snorting it is a secondary - if still powerful - pleasure. In '05, I used my credit card for my choppery. When the good Doctor produced some more Columbian fun for a belated birthday surprise, I had an even better tool to chop up my fun. I used my Ontario security license, issued by the Ministry of Community Safety and Corrections. It might have been the best idea I've ever had, certainly a better idea than writing about it now is. That's probably not a good idea at all.
 This time, the good Doctor and I were on fire, huffing our way through the overwhelming majority of an eight-ball by ourselves as his lovely wife watched placidly. Did I mention that Dr. Reverend has the best wife ever? Any of the women that I've been with would have given me endless amounts of shit for my pharmaceutical enthusiams, but not Mrs. Reverend. I suppose that this is why I never married. We began at two in the afternoon and finally wrapped up our evening at about 1 am.Did you know that things that are fun are even more so when you do them for 11 uninterrupted hours? I didn't. I thought that only applied to sex.
Speaking of which, I learned another of cocaine's marvellous side-effects. It kills my sex drive! I fucking love that about coke. I was talking about sex almost relentlessly on Saturday, but for the first time since my infancy, I had absolutely no desire to engage in any. There was nary a twinge in my putz at all. I've never felt so liberated before! For that reason alone, I'm thinking of going on an "all crack" diet. I might actually get something done that isn't me for once. I could completely ruin my life for that!
And this time I was smart. I only had thirteen beers with my blow. The secret is to start your drinking after you start snorting, not before. That seems to be key.
Anyhow, I got home and started writing about my drug-fuelled adventure with Dr. Reverend. But then I stopped. Originally, I thought that I was just tired. Eleven hours of doing blow can take a lot out of you. But then I thought it might be a good idea not to post it because there are any number of people who read this blog who really shouldn't know about my hijinks.
It was only tonight that I realized why I didn't post my tale of the past weekend's excess.
Keith Richards had a way cooler story.
"The strangest thing I've ever tried to snort? My father. I snorted my father," Richards was quoted as saying by the British music magazine NME. "He was cremated and I couldn't resist grinding him up with a little bit of blow. My dad wouldn't have cared," he said. "... It went down pretty well, and I'm still alive."
That kids, is why one should never try to upstage Keef. It never works and someone only gets hurt in the process. Read any book about the Rolling Stones in the 70s. You'll find that the trail of corpses left in their wake is endless.
 I don't think that the Human Riff actually injested his dear old dad with copious amounts of blow. This is likely another example of him fucking with the press. He's been doing it for years, starting with the infamous story of his having all the blood in his body changed so he could tour America - heroin free. Complete horseshit and probably medically impossible, to boot. But that didn't stop the story from entering the rock n' roll pantheon of tall tales. Snorting Bert is probably Keef's attempt to top it.
If only I'd heard the story on Friday! You see, my dad was cremated, too. And my mother still has him! In a handy box even. That, combined with a hearty helping of the good Doctor's cocaine, and we could've had a story to tell generations of kids to come!
I think Dr. Reverend would have gone for it, too. He had a good relationship with my father and a sense of humor not unlike my own. But I doubt Mrs. Reverend would allowed such an atrocity to occur in her home. That might be just a little too much, even for a saint like her.
Which leads me to another lesson I learned this weekend, that I was right to never get married. I came close a couple of times in the last decade. Shit, one woman proposed even as she was destroying my fucking life. But marrying any of them would've been a mistake. Those women would've kicked me in the balls for even entertaining the idea of of snorting their father-in-law with heroic amounts of illegal drugs. Okay, maybe Zombie would let me get away with diabolical shit like that, but she's perfect. And taken. So very, very taken
And that's why I'm better off without a wife!
Easy Listening Recommendation of the Day: Moonlight Mile By: The Rolling Stones From: Sticky Fingers
Permalink Labels: Celebrity Skin, I Hate Music, Life With skippy
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