the power of powder

Despite the rain, I went outside to see if pirating cable teevee was a possibility.

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atthew Hart invited Angela, Deya and me to go with him up Carter's Mountain to visit Peggy, Zach and the Baboose in their cozy basement pad. I didn't really want to go, but Matthew was being persistent. He had a way of making me feel like I had no choice in the matter.

So we gathered up the cold Red Hooks left over from last night and piled into Deya's car and headed up the mountain.

It was a miserable day to be outside. When it wasn't drizzling, the rain came pelting down. From Peggy and Zach's apartment, the Piedmont was obscured by a flat wall of grey. Despite the rain, I went outside to see if pirating cable teevee was feasible. I guess not; the house is attached to the telephone and cable networks by a seemingly unhackable microwave link.

It had a strong bitter taste that lingered for some minutes in my mouth despite plenty of rinsing.

We watched videotapes instead: a really bad early Sylvester Stalone comedy, Scarface, and then a movie about the comic travails of a con man. In the middle of Scarface, Zach, Matthew and I went on a beer run. We stopped at Kappa Mutha Fucka to pick up a little pure Dextromethorphan Hydrobromide (DXM) powder that I happen to have. DXM is the active ingredient in tussin. The advantage of psychic journeys made with DXM powder is that there isn't the unbearable process of chugging down a whole bottle of cough syrup just to get to the trace amounts of DXM; instead you eat a few milligrams of white powder and pack your mental suitcase.

It may or may not be a crime to possess DXM powder. As a drug, DXM isn't a controlled substance, though it may be illegal to do with DXM as I did once we got back up the mountain, that is, eat 300 milligrams of it and wash it down with a Natural Lite. Zachary did likewise. It had a strong bitter taste that lingered for some minutes in my mouth despite plenty of rinsing. But the bitterness was a trivial torture compared to the horrible taste and, most importantly, repulsive odour of tussin. DXM powder is completely odour-free.

It seemed that the powdered DXM started working its magic a good bit earlier than is usual when it's ingested as cough syrup. In retrospect, though, it seems I could have been mistaken. Eventually, though, I had the unmistakable tussin feeling: a subtle unusual lack of orientation, along with a mild euphoria and a lowering of inhibitions. Whenever I would move, I could feel it all the more. Later I even felt like dancing, music or no.

It has more the appearance of mutual self esteem bolsterment than genuine affection.

Us Aquarii returned to Kappa Mutha Fucka and continued drinking beer and such. Deya and Monster Boy both took some DXM powder, and I ate another 200 milligrams. Usually when I drink tussin, I feel mildly nauseated for an hour or so afterwards. This time I was pleased to not be experiencing any stomach upset at all. Deya and Monster Boy were not so lucky; they both puked. Deya eventually had a good time, but not so poor Monster Boy. He lay on the couch expressing a real fear that he was going to die. I assured him that he was going to do okay and that he should try to psyche himself into a happier mental state. He did a little better after that, but I overheard him saying later that he never wants to eat DXM powder again.

Periodically Matthew and Angela would go off to Matthew's room to reconsummate their torrid affair. Their "relationship" is starting to seem really sick to me. It has more the appearance of mutual self esteem bolsterment than genuine affection. Matthew and Angela both need hobbies. They don't need alcohol, or each other, or girls, or boys.

In her DXM-intensified benevolence, Deya was particularly impressed.

At some point I noticed that my Best of REM CD had been horribly scratched, as if it had been used as a frizbee. I was irate, but as usual, there was no one to blame. Surely the person responsible had been in blackout at the time. Something about the DXM seemed to intensify my rage. I flung the CD in disgust. That's more like the behaviour of my housemates than it is like mine.

programming while on DXM

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he computer I set up for Matthew was still on the floor in the living room, so I wrote a little program in QBASIC that printed an undulating line of random characters from bottom to top. That was pretty cool, and we who were on DXM enjoyed it, but I kept having ideas of how to improve it. I was obsessed, continually tweaking the code to make the display less predictable and more colourful. In the end I had a marvelous little display rolling. It was the perfect to look at while on DXM. In her DXM-intensified benevolence, Deya was particularly impressed, especially that I'd written a real computer program so fast and while under the influence, to boot. The program was really short and simple. Here it is, should you ever want to try it out on a MS-DOS machine near you:

D = 4 1 W = W + 1 IF INT(RND(1) * 223) = 200 THEN D = RND(1) * 56 + 4 IF INT(RND(1) * 231) = 121 THEN B = RND(1) * 15 E = SIN(W / D) * 77 FOR T = 1 TO ABS(E) COLOR RND(1) * 15, B PRINT CHR$(RND(1) * 86 + 15); NEXT PRINT GOTO 1

Haunted House on DXM

Ocean has Josh's same upfront conviviality, the kind that most often manifests itself as a generous eagerness to find conversational points of agreement.

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till pleasantly under the influence DXM, Deya and I went on a walk through the rain to the Haunted House, me holding an umbrella to keep us both sort of dry. We wanted to visit Tyler. Ever since Matthew's big falling out with Rory, there's been a disconnect between the Haunted House and Kappa Mutha Fucka, and one of the civilian casualties has been Tyler. Deya and I hung out at the Haunted House for awhile by ourselves, waiting for someone to show up. After awhile, Ocean, Tyler and Allen the Scottish Guy materialized. We drank some of their beers, engaged in unmemorable small talk, and watched the Simpsons. Deya later remarked that Ocean reminds her of Josh Smith, but "without the pelvic thrusts." She's right. Ocean has Josh's same upfront conviviality, the kind that most often manifests itself as a generous eagerness to find conversational points of agreement.

After the Simpsons, Deya and I went to Old Dominion Fried Chicken for potato wedges, which we ate back at Kappa Mutha Fucka.

Another Abundance House Potluck

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onster Boy had finally recovered from the DXM when Franz called from Abundance House inviting us all to come over for another of famous Abundance House Vegan Potlucks. Monster Boy, Deya and I all decided to go.

There were a lot of familiar faces at Abundance House, especially those familiar from the days of the Dynashack: Ches, John, Elizabeth, Catherine D. and Deeohji, Catherine's neurotic codependent German Shepherd.

I agreed, saying I'm more used to telling her "goodnight" or "get the hell out of my bed."

They'd all seen the article about the musings in the Cavalier Daily and were impressed by the good publicity I'd garnered. I wanted to tell the tale of the Kappa Mutha Fucka Melrose-Placesque soap opera (the one about which you know only half the story unless you're on my mailing list), but Deya demanded that I stop, so I did. Instead, I told about yesterday's visit from Angela's mother and about my adventures in Quebec with two girls and a wealthy bank robber.

Cory the (former) Coffee Cart Girl poured me a glass of nice red vino, and I gave her a back massage, which is a very rare thing for me to give anyone.

Deya went home, taking her car with us. Monster Boy remarked that it was odd to be saying goodbye to Deya. I agreed, saying I'm more used to telling her "goodnight" or "get the hell out of my bed." To this a suddenly feline Elizabeth responded, "Rahwww, Rahwww."

I wonder sometimes if perhaps the big American secret is that everyone here smokes pot.

Cory, Elizabeth, Franz, Monster Boy and I went upstairs to smoke pot. I don't know very many people who don't smoke pot. I wonder sometimes if perhaps the big American secret is that everyone here smokes pot.

Soon Cory went off to bed and Elizabeth was getting kind of cozy with Franz on his bed, so Monster Boy and I bid them adieu and walked back to Kappa Mutha Fucka along the Lynchburg line railroad tracks.

Read some more tales of tussin.

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Get a sense of what I was like exactly eight years ago today.

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