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Show Anting Alone Page i78 rang in Sam's ear). Yes, they'd all gone to this world-famous city park, where Joe Hill himself had been executed many years before, to be seen smoking $400.00/gram opiated hashish in fancy carved jade pocket b'hangs from the tourist traps of Thailand. Back in those adolescent early seventies, Sam's class-consciousness had been developing simultaneously and on a parallel tack with his sexuality. And his sexuality, of course, was permeated and stunted and bent by the so-called drug "culture." Sam's teenaged toadying to the rich had taken the form of romantic yearnings for inclusion in their drug orgies. (Yes, drug orgies - sex was no longer the number-one priority among seventies dope-teens.) But Sam was just too uncool to get in on it very often. Occasionally, just to get this lower-middle class hound off their backs, they'd toss him some low-quality dope - or even just plain poison dope. (Usually it was the children of lawyers who would toss him the lethal stuff; they were the only really homicidal rich kids Sam ever sucked up to.) Sam might get some fake, harmless oregano "pod"; worthless malt-sugar "coke"; or else strychnine-flavored "LSD," which produced convulsions and fantastic physical agonies and images of the TEMPTATION OF SAINT ANTHONY panel of Grunewald for eight to sixteen hours at a stretch; and sometimes Sam would get just plain old flat-ass out-and-out rat poison - all of which Sam accepted gratefully with a big grin, because he knew drugs made you more spiritual. And he had to take his trash-drugs all by himself in the basement of his parents' small house down on Dimple Dell Drive, all by himself because nobody even invited him to parties because he was too poor. And he ruined his young eyes. He wrung his young brain out to a mere |
