David Gans (tnf) Wed 19 May 04 15:47
Can't Find My Way Home: America in the Great Stoned Age, 1945-2000 is an epic work about the American experience of illicit drugs that combines autobiography, oral history, journalism, and narrative cultural history. We are pleased to welcome the author, Martin Torgoff, to the inkwell! Born in New York and raised on the north shore of Long Island, Martin Torgoff became an Associate Editor at Grosset & Dunlap Publishers in New York in 1975, where he specialized in illustrated books about the arts, entertainment, and American popular culture. In 1980, he published a best- selling book about Elvis Presley and his family, Elvis: We Love You Tender (Delacorte/Dell, 1980). Torgoff began writing for many national magazines; his stories on such diverse personalities as Jack Nicholson, Yoko Ono, Mel Gibson, Jeremy Irons, Joan Didion, and Don King began appearing on the cover of Andy Warhol's Interview, where he became a Contributing Editor. In the early 1980s, Torgoff's interests turned to film and television, and he began writing, directing and producing long-form pieces about musical and pop cultural subjects that have appeared on CBS, HBO/Cinemax, public television, and other cable channels. In 1986, Torgoff published American Fool: The Roots and Improbable Rise of John Cougar Mellencamp (St. Martin's Press), which was awarded the Deems Taylor Prize by the American Society of Composers, Authors and Publishers. In 1987, he wrote "Elvis '56," a critically acclaimed hour-long film about that single meteoric year in Presley's life. From 1999 to 2001 he worked as a producer in New York for CNN Worldbeat, which covered the international music scene. In 1992, Torgoff began Can't Find My Way Home: America in the Great Stoned Age, 1945-2000, a work of nonfiction about the American experience with illicit substances during the entire postwar era that consumed the next twelve years of his life. The book began as Torgoff's attempt to understand his own and his generation's journey through the experience of drugs, and expanded into the epic tale of how drugs went from being the province of the avant-garde/underground/ criminal fringe to being a mainstream experience that one in four Americans have come to know, and how drugs have profoundly altered the cultural landscape of America. * The interview is being conducted by Gary Greenberg, who characterizes himself as "a psychotherapist and recreational journalist." Gary lives in Connecticut with his wife and son and a shifting population of domesticated animals, which until last night numbered seventeen. But when he got home from a hard day of headshrinking he was greeted by six-year-old Joel bearing news of a dead chicken. And not just news. Joel was bearing the chicken itself, on a trash can lid, not unlike the head of John the Baptist, only without the blood and the apocalyptic overtones. In the last bit of daylight, Gary dug a hole while Joel held the hen and examined it thoroughly for wounds. They committed it to the earth together, and then Joel placed three rocks -- well, actually two rocks and a cinderblock -- on the grave, "so the animals won't dig it up," Joel said. Gary writes on drugs whenever he can. His articles and essays, which are also about science and bioethics, and occasionally about popular culture, have appeared in Harper's, Mother Jones, Rolling Stone, The New Yorker, Discover, and Tin House, among others. His work has been anthologized in Best American Science and Nature Writing, but the piece he likes the best is the first one he had published: "In the Kingdom of the Unabomber," a memoir of his two-year-long correspondence with Ted Kaczynski, which appeared in McSweeney's in Fall 1999.
Gary Greenberg (gberg) Wed 19 May 04 19:09
OK> I'll make this quick and easy. Everyone who cares about drugs should read this book. Its singular virtue, aside from the fact that it tells a huge chunk of the American Century story from a unique angle, is that it dares to start with the preimse that drug use exists and that while it can be dangerous and even deadly, it's part of our everday lives-maybe as consumersof drugs but definitely as consumers of culture. You don't, in other words, have to have ever smoked a joint or dropped a tab or snorted up a line to have partaken of drug consciousness. This book tells us not only how that consciousness has become sedimented in our society and embedded in each of us, but also goes some way to explaining why this has happened in the strange and often perverse way that it has, i.e., why there is a drug war. When you read that last sentence, you'll see why it's a good thing that Martin, and not I, wrote "Can't Find My Way Home." THere's a nice piece at www.martintorgoff.com/book-1.html that tells a little of the 14-year saga that writing this book was. But boil it down, Martin. What in the world possessed you to undertake this job?
Martin Torgoff (martintorgoff) Wed 19 May 04 20:16
At the age of thirty seven, I was coming to the end of a long run on drugs that spanned some twenty years, beginning wit the first time I ever smoked pot as a sixteen year old high school junior, turned on by my sister in the basement of my parents suburban Long Island home on November 4, 1968 (I remember the date very well because Nixon was elected president and I could hear the election returns filtering down from the den upstairs as I was getting high). My early years using marijuana and experimenting with LSD and mescaline were blissful, transcendental, truly mind-expanding--psychedelic in every sense of the word. When it ended 20 years later, I was caught in the throes of addiction and alcoholism. My universe had gone completely dark and it had become obvious that if I didn't completely change my life, it wasn't going to be worth living. Sometime after the first year of my sobriety, I began to take a hard look at my transit through drugs, from substances that had opened me in new ways and expanded my life, to drugs like cocaine and alcohol that shut me down, isolated me, and shrunk my world smaller and smaller. It seemed that I had lived through something very significant, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that in many ways my story was really a typical one. While the majority of my generation certainly never became full-bore alcoholics or addicts, we had all passed the same drugs in a demographic wave, in the process changing the country. So the book began as an attempt to come to grips, first, with my own story, but set against the backdrop of my generation, and the place where I wanted to begin was to come to an understanding of how the marijuana that had so changed my life had gotten to that suburban basement in 1968. And so I began to delve into the whole American experience of illicit drugs, but as seen from a cultural vantage point. It was like diving off a cliff...
Gary Greenberg (gberg) Thu 20 May 04 02:51
But you could have written a memoir of addiction and recovery; or you could have stayed focused on pot and answered your question about how it came to be in your basement more directly and without the difficulties you took on by doing a social history; or you could have done nothing at all. So why the historical approach? What is it in your expereience that made you say to yourself that the way to answer that question was to get into the way back machine?
Martin Torgoff (martintorgoff) Thu 20 May 04 07:32
It was the whole cultural package around getting high at the time that seemed so critical to the experience. Just thinking back to that virgin pot moment in the basement, there was so much more embroidery involved that just the substance itself. At the time, fall of '68, the "counterculture," as it came to be known, was only a few years old--it was still pre-Woodstock, only a couple of years past events like the Acid Tests and the Be In. My sister had brought it all down there to the basement, where she'd created her own little world. Batik and macrame. Incense. An old Persian rug. Posters and black lights. A hookah. Mandalas. Her all-important little stereo with its tiny speakers and FM hook up. Of course, it was the music that launched me. I don't think I've ever really recovered from that first Beatles song, "Blue Jay Way." What became instantaneously obvious was that the Beatles were creating music for the edification of the stoned mind (my stoned mind!) and I had entered the santctm sanctorum merely by being high and listening to it. Then she put on Sgt. Peppers from beginning to end and each song exploded inside my head. It was so beautiful and it made me so happy I remember having to fight back tears. And then the onset of munchies, which she expertly slaked with Ritz crackers and ice cream--scrumptious beyond description. And finally wandering upstairs tto the den, where my father was watching the election returns, a scowl spread out over his face at the prospect of Nixon's ascencion (my dad was Kennedy Democrat). The feeling of that room was very different--the panelling, my mother's needlepoint. He looked at me and said, "Where have you been?" "Downstairs, doing my homework," I told him--the first of many lies. From the beginning I knew I had to write about my father and his place in this story--that somehow the challenge was chart how the use of drugs had evolved from his time to my time, which was primarily a tale of cultural change which would entail a historical approach: what had happened from the time he'd come home from the Second Waorld War to create what was going on in that basement. The answer was in a book that was also downstairs, Kerouac's On the Road. There it all was, laid out poetically...
Gary Greenberg (gberg) Thu 20 May 04 10:07
>"Downstairs, doing my homework," Well, in a sense I suppose you were doing just that. Teh way that you frame your boook as a response to your father, and here I'll quote the book "You try and tell me how it all happened and what it all meant. Go ahead becaues I don't understand any of it, and I don't think I ever will. Go ahead and tell me: What did *any* of it really mean?" is wry and touching, but it also gets to the same question. One of the chief complaints about drugs is that they are antisocial, that they are a withdrawal of attention from the outer world to the inner. You write about the way that Tim Leary thought that his "Turn on, tune in, drop out" had been misconstrued as a call to this kind of withdrawal into Gnosis. But it seems that it was all there for you at once--the inseparability of the inner and outer worlds. Which is sort of impressive for a twelve-year-old, no matter how precocious he is. I think that to insist, sa you do, that drug use be seen in its full context, that indeed there is a full context in which to see it, in itself goes a long way to answering your father. But I wonder. What answer do you think this book gives him? ARe you satisfied with that?
Martin Torgoff (martintorgoff) Thu 20 May 04 11:29
Some of the elements that makes drugs so challenging to write about from any point of view are the many paradoxes and contradictions. There are patterns, but for every trend there's always a counter-trend, and one man's heaven easily turns out to be another's hell. The observation that drugs draws attention from the outer to inner world is a grteat example: it's true and/or not. The heroin that the beboppers used certainly allowed them to withdraw and turned them inside, but it also turned them toward each other; there was powerful social and cultural bonding in their isolation: us against the world. The marijuana that we smoked, the psychedelics we used, turned us inward and opened up whole new worlds, seperated us from the rest of the world, and also created bonding within our community. It served many needs and purposes. However, I think that as drugs became a mass consumer culture somewhere in the 70s and the drugs began to change to things like cocaine and ludes and booze, all of the cultural contexts of drugs began to change as well. It became much less about US and much more about ME (that's what happens when lawyers and accountants and stockbrokers are getting high, I guess). I suppose if I could boil the whole book down to a single line in answer to the father's question, it would be, Drugs changed this country as certainly as they alter an individual's consciousness, and the country changed in as many ways, positive and negative, as there are drugs and individuals combusting in drug scenes at any given time or place. That's why I believe the subject is worthy of such attention. If any of that comes across in the book, I'm satisfied with it and feel that if I haven't fully answered his question, at least I've given it my best whack...
Gary Greenberg (gberg) Thu 20 May 04 11:56
<scribbled by gberg Thu 20 May 04 14:20>
Gary Greenberg (gberg) Thu 20 May 04 14:20
Too bad your father didn't live to see his question answered with such care. Even if he didn't agree or even get it, he;'d have had to be impressed with the attempt. This idea that drugs and drug use is a variegated experience is another one of those truths that ought to be truisms, that a guy as smart as Martin Torgoff shouldn't even have to spend time saying. But as it sstands, we need exactly this, someone to say that heroin is really different from marijuana and tht heroin for one guy is differnt from heroin for another guy. Much of your book is dedicated to elucidating these differences, and one area where you really succeed is in talkibng about music. I found the discussion of heroin and bebop fascinating,a nd I was talking with a music professor about this part of your book. He said, "Well, sometimes I think that heroin was to jazz musicians what steroids are to athletes. No drug is going to make me into Barry Bonds or John Coltrane, but there's no telling whatthey'll do for someone like that." What do you think of this idea? And another question: Is it possible that bebop is somehow structurrally related to heroin, that the musical form is an expression of the drug's effect?
Martin Torgoff (martintorgoff) Thu 20 May 04 16:38
Yeah, it is really too bad my dad didn't live to see the book finished. He died in '94, just as I was first getting into the writing, and his death really knocked me off the rails for the better part of a year. But who's to say; if it's true that we carry around the people we love in our hearts forever, he's here right now as I type this. The bebop and heroin topic is endlessly fascinating. Although the part in my book about jazz is decocted down to the story of Bird and Jackie MacLean, one of his proteges, and does not get too deeply into it, I discussed this very question about the drug and its relation to the music itself with many people, from critics like Gary Giddins and Ira Gitler, to guys who were producers working with heroin addicted musicians like Orin Keepnews (in his case Bill Evans). And I read all the memoirs by the jazzers and the books about them, of course, in addition to getting into it with musicians like Jackie. Not surprisingly, very few of them agree about it. My own analysis is that the relationship was powerful, but not in ways that are obvious. You simply can not have a situation, wherein a large majority of the significant artists from 1948-1958 were using drugs together, and it not have a huge impact. It was truly a golden era that produced a large and rich body of classic jazz--how could a bunch of guys have accomplished that when they were always strung out or on the nod or in some state of crisis? Well, they didn't actually play much music when they were nodding, of course--they couldn't have. They played it after taking a shot and getting "straight," with enough of the drug in their system, and at the right time, so that they were quite functional (they tried their best to time it that way). I don't believe that dope ever gave any jazz musician better chops (although many who followed Charlie Parker might have until they learned otherwise); what it did do, however, was relax them, allow them to detach completely from all cares in the world and concentrate, whether it was on practicing, gigging, writing, arranging and recording. Most people wouldn't understand that--heroin as a working tool?--but it was insulation and armor, and in that lifestyle, at that time, it worked very well as such (until they hit bottom). Can you hear it in the music itself? I think it comes through the most in the ballads. Just listen to Miles' cover of Monk's "Round Midnight" that he did with the famous quintet in '56. Miles was newly clean and had just passed through four years of hard addiction and every player on the stand with him was strung out at the time. There's an aching, desolate, lonely poignancy to that music--a dark outlaw quality, seductive and subterranean, of people walking that jagged edge of night. To me it's a set piece about dope.
Gary Greenberg (gberg) Fri 21 May 04 05:27
Another quote from Can't Find My Way Home: "Perhaps it was fitting that when Charlie "Bird" Parker arrived at JP McGregor STudio in Hollywood on Monday July 29, 194346, to record his version of Lover Man... he was so strung out he was barely able to stand." I remember when Garcia was like that, only of course it was not in the privacy of a studio. I think it was the Well's own Richard Gehr who called him "palpably smacked" and the "leaning tower of Garcia," and as usual for Gehr, the description was right on the money. That was at the point that whatever clarity the drug had given him had been compromised--maybe by something as mundane as poor oxygenation of his brain, maybe by something even worse, like a mini-stroke, maybe just by his sheer weariness of being Jerry GArcia, who knows?--and to follow him on one of those excursions was to run into one blind alley after another, the monotony of failure. One night at Oakland Coliseum, must have been in '94, he turned the first break in Fire on the MOuntain into a 5 or 6 minute ordeal of tangled rifflets. It was heartbreaking and chilling. And yet--another quote: "The myth of "Lover Man" whould therefore always ential at its core the image of a righteous dope fiend and the romantic notoin that somehow heroin and all the pain and melancholy and self-obliteration it involved might fuel and authenticate and ensure the creative growth of the music called bebop. It was a peculiar and compelling muth that would provide heroin with a dark glamour, along with an irresistible mystique of creativity and freedom." I am very curious abour your use of the word "myth" here. Myth has this double meaning--on the one hand a folly, on the other a powerful narrative that without delivering the scinetific truth still delivers meaning. What exactly do you intend here? To debunk this story? To validate it? Both? Neither?
Gary Greenberg (gberg) Fri 21 May 04 05:28
And would somebody see if they can get Gary Lambert here before we stop talking about jazz?
Martin Torgoff (martintorgoff) Fri 21 May 04 08:01
This image of Garcia is so sad; is there anything more heartbreaking in the world that a junkie spiraling inexorably downward? It reminds me very much of a scene that Nat Hentoff described about a particular night at a club in '55 when he went to see Charlie Parker jam with Mingus and Bud Powell, and Bird and Bud were in such bad shape and playing such bad music that they began insulting each other onstage. Mingus stormed off, followed by Bud, leaving Bird there by himself--a lost soul in the stagelights, "disappearing irredeemably into himself." These moments are like epiphanies of addiction, in which affliction is ultimately revealed as a thief, first and foremost: of promise, resources, time, relationships, health, and in some cases, life itself. I wrote about Bird to illustrate the Myth of the Righteous Dopefiend because to me, as the prototypical polydrug abuser/addict/genius artist of the American Century, he founded it. What's truly astounding is how faithfully the paradigm replicates in successive generations of the rock era. Were Lennon, Clapton, Garcia, the Allmans, Janis (need I continue to enumerate?) consciously following the path trod by Bird when they became junkies? Was there romance to it? You bet, albeit of a perverse kind. I could have just as easily called the phenomenon the Romance of Self-Destruction. Your definitions of "myth" apply perfectly: folly but also a powerful narrative that delivers meaning without scientific truth. If nothing else, addiction provides tales of epic proportions (perhaps the one thing left in the end that has meaning, which is precisely why addicts tell their stories in recovery: its their basic truth). And so, yes, I sought to both validate and debunk the myth. As Huncke once told me, "If there wasn't romance there, none of us would have started fucking with it in the first place." By the way, just a strange footnote: Garcia once watched me pass out. I guess it was an od of sorts. Having ingested a large quantity of hashish along with various and sundry other substances, I went to see the Dead play the Nassau Coliseum (must have been '72 or thereabouts) and was up front, right against the stage, when I went out like a light. When I came to I was laying flat on my back. The crowd had made a circle around me, and when I looked up, he was staring directing down at me, with this expression that said, "Oh, Jeez. There goes another one."
Gary Greenberg (gberg) Fri 21 May 04 09:08
But of course romance has two meanings also: emptyheaded love and awed awareness of the sublime. The hard thing to elucidate here is the role of the drug consciousness in the creative endeavor, something people have been working at understanding at elast since deQuincey wrote his confessions, which are, of course, both a denunciation of and a paean to opium. One of the great benefits of making distinctions between drugs, and also of acknoweldgin the significance of set and setting, is that it can help untangle this dialectic between drug-assisted creation and destruction. In your book, you shift nicely back and forth between events that were related in time, like hte psychedelic scene in SF and the ampthetamine/proto-punk scene in NYC, giving a sense of how drugs were working very differnet kinds of transformations and distortions in the same country at he same time. I wonder, though. Do you think that drugs have a signature form of creativity that is inherent to them? Do you think, in other words, that he aesthetic difference between the Grateful Dead and the Velvet Underground is related to the difference between acid and speed? Can there be an aesthetics of drug-assisted creativity?
Gary Greenberg (gberg) Fri 21 May 04 09:09
<scribbled by gberg Fri 21 May 04 13:27>
Martin Torgoff (martintorgoff) Fri 21 May 04 11:54
Someone once said (I think it was Marianne Williamson and I'm sure she got it from somewhere else) that the definition of a miracle is a change in perception. Sounds trite, but contained within it is the spiritual awakening, and it also really explains those miraculous-seeming aspects of drugs that can make them so attractive, especially for creative people. The ability to see/experience something differently is fundamental to artistic breakthrough, and if nothing else, some substances can allow that, if only for the time we're under their effects. Allen Ginsberg always come back to Blake when he talked about this--"The eye altering alters all"--the notion that if you change consciousness, everything can change with it. The whole drugs-creativity issue is something that I've thought about alot, pro and con, and it can go on forever with so many different twists and turns. But when you come down to specific drugs and specific sets and settings, personal and cultural, then it gets really interesting and much more viable to analyze, which is why I tried to tell the story of drugs in American culture by organizing the narrative around specific drug scenes through the decades. The question of speed vs acid in the Dead vs. Velvets dichotomy is a great one. The Dead certainly took speed at one time or another, just as the Velvets did acid, but never as drug of choice, and I don't think there's a more clear example of how the different drugs shaped the different aesthetics of the music and the over-all sensibility than "Dark Star" vs. "White Light, White Heat," one song a classic of psychedelic transcendentalism and the other the ultimate musical rendition of intravenous methedrine. Psychedelics vs the cold hard drug of the Nazi blitzkreig. One of my favorite quotes in the book is Mary Waronov, the underground actress who danced with the Velvets, talking about the culture clash and contempt when the Velvets went out to play the Fillmore in '66: We spoke two completely different languages because we were on amphetamine and they were on acid. They were so slow to speak with these wide eyesoh, wow!so into their vibrations; we spoke in rapid machine gun fire about books and paintings and movies. They were into free and the American Indian and going back to the land and trying to be some kind of true, authentic person; we could not have cared less about that. They were homophobic; we were homosexual. Their women, they were these big round-titted girls, you would say hello to them and they would just flop on the bed and fuck you; we liked sexual tension, S&M, not fucking. They were barefoot; we had platform boots. They were eating bread they had baked themselvesand we never ate at all! Of course, in the end, it was speed that really scorched the psychedelic culture, in the East Village and the Haight. It was speed that was taken the night Manson sent his minions out to do his evil bidding, not LSD.
Cynthia Dyer-Bennet (cdb) Fri 21 May 04 12:02
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RUSirius (rusirius) Fri 21 May 04 12:41
This is an incredible book! Not just an interesting subject, but maybe the best writing I've seen in a book about the subject. Anyway, no question... just congratulations. I meant to contact Martin personally and then I noticed you were here...
(bratwood) Fri 21 May 04 13:03
Yes, it is indeed a great book. Thanks for writing it. The historical approach is perfect. And I especially enjoy seeing how the various players were interrelated. In the seventies, I did my college English paper on LSD and behavior modification. It's been fun to revisit the topic.
Gary Greenberg (gberg) Fri 21 May 04 13:33
The quote from Mary Woronov reminds me of another reason that the book was so much fun to read: So many interesting voices, some of them not often heard, like trumpeter Howard McGhee , some heard in other contexts, like Woronov, but not usually about drugs, and some famously interested in drugs but still saying new things, like Ginsberg. (Oneo f the great things about his book unfolding over so long a period of time is that we have fresh quotes from dead people.) So as long as I'm gushing about the book itself, let's talk for a second about the making of it. Youve made documentary films, and it shows in this book, what with all the strong voices. Did you ever think of doing this in film? Why is this a book rather than a movie?
Andrew Alden (alden) Fri 21 May 04 16:18
Why we're waiting, I wanted to say how eye-opening it is to go over the last half-century's history along the axis of drugs rather than the succession of presidents, wars, generation XYZs and technology. Sure it introduces its own set of distortions, but it unmasks distortions in all the other conventional narratives. And I loved getting a better perspective on some of the eras and "scenes" that I lived through myself.
Martin Torgoff (martintorgoff) Fri 21 May 04 16:25
Wow, thank you, R.U.--that's a wonderful compliment coming from someone who once edited a mag called High Frontiers! How great that you're a part of our discussion. I enjoyed meeting and interviewing you so much. It was really cool to come into that cyberpunk-rave scene going on out there in the early 90s, even though by that time I was almost two years in recovery and the strongest substance that ever made it into my mouth was a cup of coffee, a piece of chocolate, or a certain part of my then-girlfriend's anatomy (all very powerful psychoactive substances, I can assure you). Like so many of the people I interviewed who so graciously gave of their time and shared significant life experiences with drugs, you helped make this the book that it is. I only wish I could have quoted you more extensively. And thank you as well, Donna. That's amazing that you did your college paper on LSD and behavior modification. Goodness knows you had lots of subjects to write about in those days. Myself, my college years were one lengthy exersize in this particular subject. Gary, I've dreamed of doing this as a doc, and as I write this I'm putting the finishing a treatment that breaks the whole thing down to 7-8 hours, a la a Ken Burns-style series. I'm just about to sally forth with it onto the blood-stained fields of doc funding. . Nothing like it has ever been done in the history of television, and I agree that it could be incredible, but the problem is (of course) the subject. The ideal scenario would be to cobble together the funding from private sources and do it for PBS, but it's very sticky in an environment where conservatives are controlling the money that funds these kinds of things from the NEA and NEH. There could be real editorial pressure as a result. There are other more commercial venues, like HBO, but then the agenda becomes to make it more HBO-commercial. These were the very reasons it had to be done as a book first: no influence, nobody telling me jack-shit about how it should look or play (except for my editor telling me it couldn't be so damn long). I wanted people to know exactly where I was coming from with the book before I tried to do the film. Your point about "fresh voices from dead people" makes me realize how sorry I am that I didn't videotape so many of these people who are no longer with us when I had the opportunity--Ginsberg, Huncke, Leary, Paul Rothschild, Michael O'Donoghue, Terry Southern, Jerry Rubin, Claude Brown, Kesey--major voices in this story. So it ain't gonna be easy, but I intend to give it my best shot.
(rosebud) Fri 21 May 04 16:33
This is an excellent book and has jogged several events, during my youth, that I had forgotten all about. I apologize that I am in the middle of the book and haven't finished. Trying to savor it all. In post #4: >>My sister had brought it all down there to the basement, where she'd created her own little world. Batik and macrame. Incense. An old Persian rug. Posters and black lights. A hookah. Mandalas. Her all-important little stereo with its tiny speakers and FM hook up. That immediately brought back an old, but very fond memory. We had a basement bedroom that the oldest child residing at home had the privilege of taking over. My older brother inhabited the basement bedroom most of my childhood until he left for the service. Inside the cedar closet he left behind his collection "Rat Fink" comics by Ed "Big Daddy" Ross, model cars of hot rods that he built, Beach Boy albums (I remember looking at their clean cut image on the albums and thinking "I bet they would never do drugs.") and a letterman jacket. While my brother was in Viet Nam I took his room over. He was sent home from Nam with an serious eye infection and thank goodness he never had to go back. While my brother was home taking a break he helped me decorate my new bedroom. We visited several "head" shops and bought black light posters and incense. I took up macrame and bought an old rug from India. We spend most of our day in an old Ford Pinto driving around and shopping. He told me of the drug culture going on with the soldiers in Viet Nam. I wish now that I had written it all down. I suppose at the time I never thought it would be so significant.
Martin Torgoff (martintorgoff) Fri 21 May 04 18:04
It's such a paradox to me. We share so many of these experiences--getting high in basements, always some secretive place like out in the woods, or some desolate parking lot--always "outside"--and yet for so many of us since the 60s it began right in our families: brothers and sisters. In other words, "inside" and the same time it was "outside."
(rosebud) Fri 21 May 04 18:32
I am still sharing it. One of my younger sisters is a landlord on a two house plot. She has chosen the basement of one of the homes to live. I told her that she chose to live in the basement apartment because she spent too many years in our old basement bedroom and that seems to be her comfort level. She probably wouldn't know how to live above ground. Two weeks ago she threw a dinner party. I stuck to the wonderful vintaged wines while she smoked dope and drank a bit of the wonderful vintaged wines. Things don't really change that much when she comes to my house for a family gathering or party. She and whoever of my guests will go out to my lanai and smoke. Of course with a family dinner party my mother will often be in attendance. Sometimes she will ask what my sister(s) are doing outside in the cold. Then she will catch herself and say, "Oh. Never mind."
Marcy Sheiner (mmarquest) Fri 21 May 04 21:39
Fascinating discussion. Martin: Having gone thru a period of immersion in drugs and then doing the withdrawal/recovery dance, what's your perspective on how your own response to drugs changed over the years? Do you still feel positive about your early experimentation? I ask this because when I began using pot and then LSD and mescalin, I shared the Leary philosophy that this was an enlightening experience, that true "reality" was the drug experience not the everyday mundane. Now when I look back on the five or so years when I was in a perpetual stoned state and at my behavior and the decisions I made during that time, I feel very differently and wonder just how much the drug experience screwed up my life. I don't strongly disavow my explorations; I just wonder if they were more damaging than I acknowledge.
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