40s and Adderall - Friday June 22 2001

When I got home from work, John suggested we drink forties of Old English malt liquor, pop some Adderall (prescription amphetamines designed to impart mental focus to those suffering from attention deficit disorder) and then clean the house (in preparation for giving tours to prospective renters). John had seven dollars in change from a coin jar in his room, and he thought it would be poetic to use these coins to buy the beer from Brockton Liquor, a seedy-looking package store a little to the east down Santa Monica Blvd.

Once we had our big luke-cold forties, we sat out on the front stoop drinking them and feeling empathetic from the adderall, swearing we'd be hanging out together once we moved to New York. I told John that one of the reasons I was taking this opportunity to move to New York is that I can't hope to find a housemate as idyllic as him. As the hour grew late, we lost interest in cleaning the house and decided to go find something fun to do instead.

On a whim I drove us downtown to Bathtubgirl Central in the Punch Buggy Rust. We arrived at the end of the Friday evening happy hour show. Linda was suffering from an attack of migraine headaches and Bathtubgirl was giving her a massage. John and I were all pumped up from the amphetamines and were determined to have fun no matter how low-energy everyone was being. This was the first time that John ever got a chance to have extended conversations with Snow and Bathtubgirl, and I think he was surprised by how charming they can be. I've sort of led John to believe that Bathtubgirl is a superficial, manipulative control freak, but she doesn't come across that way until you've been sleeping with her for at least three weeks.

Even though they still live together, it seems Snow and Bathtubgirl are officially broken up. Snow has his own bedroom down the hall and is in the market for a bed. His bed needs couldn't come at a better time for John, who is looking to unload his expensive $300 mattress. As for me, I found my mattress in the alley. What comes from the alley one day shall also return to the alley.

We drank some margaritas, smoked some pot and then tried to put on some Type O Negative. But then Linda complained that the ponderous metallic music was hurting her head, so we had to play namby pamby Dead Can Dance instead.

I was pretty fucked up on the drive home, but when it comes to drunk driving it all comes down to the force of will. I managed to find the will to navigate between the lines on the freeway, to drive about 60mph, to slow to 53 mph when we passed the cops, and to somehow get us home safely.