I’ll start with:
Memoirs of a Drugged-Up, Sex-Crazed Yippie
Tales from the 1970s counter-culture: Drugs, sex, politics and rock and roll
Available at Amazon and about any other store, including
the Publisher (for a reduced rate, 12.50).
Here is an excerpt, but don’t just stop there, I have swell comments at the end of this thing:
"Hey Mark! Do you want to buy some MDA?"
"Fifty dollars a gram," Harry answered.
I gave him some money I had in my pocket and he came back with a little piece of paper folded up with a pile of light brown colored powder in the middle of it.
Methylenedioxyamphetamine was more of a mid western drug trend. It was rarely mentioned in the news media and was not well known to the east or west coast drug scene. It may have been similar to ecstasy. I really don’t know since I’ve never tried ecstasy. Some people said it is a type of speed, some claimed it was an aphrodisiac, but for me it was a hallucinogen when I shot it up. And injecting was the only way I’d ever tried it.
We walked to my upstairs apartment by climbing the rickety wooden stairs on the side of a large white house that had been split into apartments. We walked though the living room, which was cluttered with boxes of my things that I had never unpacked and shelves that held my political science
and philosophy books. The walls were sparsely decorated with a few posters, such as the one from the Beatles’ white album and a Coca Cola parody that said "Cocaine."
We went into the tiny kitchen that had bare yellow walls, a white sink with a few dirty dishes and an old white gas stove. There was a large brown wooden table in the middle of the room, surrounded by four simple wooden chairs. I had to leave my door open to let some of the cooler night air in, since I didn’t have an air conditioner.
I put the paper with the dope on the table and got out some spoons. I also got out my shoebox of syringes. This substance called for a 1-cubic-centimeter diabetic syringe with a 26-gauge needle. I filled a glass with some warm water, got out a few Q-tips and we were ready to begin.
By now, Vic, one of my down stairs neighbors, came in. He noticed I had just arrived with some drugs. Vic and I often got high together. Vic was a tall stocky man with long stringy hair, who usually wore a T-shirt with a leather vest over it. He looked a little like a biker. He had a wallet with a chain attached to his belt, which was standard wear for bikers.
"What have you got?" Vic said.
"MDA," I answered.
"Can I do a small pinch?"
"You want some don’t you Harry?"
I took a razor blade and cut a small line for Harry to snort, since he didn’t like needles. Vic had his own syringe. Vic and I each put a few pinches in a spoon, added a little less than a cc of warm water and mixed it with the plastic red needle cover caps that came with our syringes. We stuck small pieces of cotton we pulled from the Q-tips over the tips of our needles and drew in the liquid. Then we tapped
the syringes to get all the bubbles out and pushed the plunger to get the liquid to the tip of the needle.
Next I took an old sock to make a tourniquet around my arm so my vein would stick out. I used my mouth and my knee to hold the tourniquet in place. I stuck the needle in and pulled the plunger, which immediately drew some blood into the syringe. I knew I had hit the vein. I released the sock, pushed the plunger, injecting the drug straight into my bloodstream. I pulled the plunger again, which pulled in more blood, so I could push any left over drugs that were still in the syringe into my veins.
The rush hit me immediately after I pulled out the needle. I felt the pulsating effects of the MDA. It felt like a surge of electricity or energy of some type. It tingled and I could hear a slight buzzing in my ears. Orange, red and yellow spiral patterns appeared to spring from the wall and rainbow like crystals seemed to flow from the light bulb on my ceiling. It resembled a psychedelic light show or one of those old psychedelic posters from a head shop. This was all typical of an MDA rush. I felt something else. It was a warm euphoric glow flowing all over my body. This was more typical of a narcotic high. The combination was so intense that I threw up on the floor. It was the kind of throwing up a person might do while flying upside down in an airplane for the first time. It wasn’t a bad feeling and the high I had was worth every bit of it.
"That must be pretty good stuff," Vic said. "It takes a powerful rush to make you lose your cookies."
"That’s why I don’t shoot that stuff," Harry said. "It is real good though."
It was the best MDA I had ever had. It was cut with some type of narcotic. I suspected heroin, since it was brown in color and Mexican heroin looks like brown sugar after it’s been cut a few times. I hadn’t drunk much beer at Quantrill’s and I was glad I hadn’t. Narcotics work best
Lately the doctors have been on about me drinking. "Don’t drink any alcohol," they keep telling me. I have hepatitis C and apparently drinking is like taking rat poison. But they said nothing about narcotics. So why not a little heroin now and then or oxycodone. How about some Dilaudid. Like the story says, the rush one gets from shooting these drugs takes your breath away. If it’s really potent, some people throw up, which is what my old friends used to call bucket chucken’ dope. It’s so strong it has people chucken’ their breakfast and they don’t care.
It’s a great high. As for it being addictive, smoking is addictive and people defend their rights to smoke. How about my right to shoot heroin. Some people will argue it can kill you and people die of overdoses. So if you’re squeamish about dying, don’t do it. Heroin is not for the squeamish. What’s a little death? Isn’t a good high worth the risk?
So go ahead, fire up a load and stick the needle in.
These last comments are meant as a joke.