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Show Anting Alone Page 181 this strychnine - couldn't even faze Rasputin - ; and Sam would dignify these eight-hour strychnine seizures of his by telling himself that they were "relivings of the birth trauma." (Yeah, oh yeah sure, Sambo. Relive your birth trauma right before your mom's eyes, right in your mom's kitchen.) So Sam burned cool into himself (his phrase) with rat-poison dope. It was a synthetic "cool," though. It was not the sated tranquility of the truly rich, but really just a petulant, unconsidered, callow cynicism which only found release in destructive activity: disrupting his mom's meal preparations; breaking furniture and burning joint-holes in the rug in the living room - things like that. You see, in the twisted, upside-down world of post-sixties America, it was (and still is) a form of social climbing to methodically and irreparably damage your central nervous system with controlled substances. And young Sammy liked to make himself look "burnt." And he just couldn't wait until he got some knuckles on the backs of his huge hands, instead of just the four dimples in the baby pudge. In the early seventies at least there were a handful of youngsters left who still maintained a pretense of using psychedelics and narcotics and uppers and downers in an attempt to become more spiritually adept; whereas nowadays the youngsters are cynical about dope as anything more than a "buzz." Take your pick: one generation destroying their intellects and their perfect young bodies in a search for Lennon's instant Karma, the other merely for a "buzz." Now, the Marxists saved Sam from all this. (Or at least they saved him from the immediately lethal drugs, the cheap, impure stuff.) Karl Marx |
