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TV And Drugs
I have some things I need to get off my chest. I don't know where to start. I guess I should go back about three weeks to the day I bought my first TV. Its only a five inch black and white but I had a buyer's remorse that was bigger than a WalMart Supercenter. I felt dirty about it. I was sure it would cut into my reading time. I was sure it would turn me into an idiotic zombie (and to answer your question, I don't know how you would tell the difference?). I was sure this purchase was marking the beginning of my end.
After a week of Simpsons reruns followed by King of the Hill reruns I felt a little better. I had done the right thing. I was still reading. And I was enjoying high comedy. I was watching Seinfeld reruns at night. PBS was running commercial free WWII era movies, with Bette Davis. I was staying up past my bedtime on school nights. But that's OK because maybe I'm getting old enough where I don't need eight hours of sleep. And then...
I finished reading William Gibson's Count Zero and picked up John Grisham's Street Lawyer. But a little sherbet after a meal is fine. I am not a snob. Light reading is important to the overall mission. But light reading and TV, there's a risk there, so I snagged Caleb Carr's The Alienist at the Thrift City and jumped right in. Outstanding. But look at all the back to back movies on Saturday commercial TV. That one where Richard Pryor takes all those kids to Oregon on a bus, and that Charles Bronson one where he grimaces and helps people by killing their enemies. And then I started hearing the voices. Throw it out man, before its too late. Its light, just toss it over into the cat jungle next door. Can I shoot it with my shotgun I asked the voices and they frowned and shook their heads if they had heads, disapprovingly.
I still haven't finished The Alienist but I'm a slow reader so don't give up on me. I'm not giving up on me. I think there is still hope for me. Tell them. No, I don't have to. Tell them yourself or I will tell them. Its not that big a deal. Tell them. All right all right, jimminy. I, uh, I. Go on. I watched recently three quarters of an episode of Touched By An Angel. But I'm not a bad person. I'm not going to hell in a handbasket. I'm not. I was tired, I just needed, I mean I was only...Toss It. No, no no, I will overcome. I will handle this.
Now this next thing I have to tell you is top secret so keep your traps shut about it.
There is scant evidence that the Pentecostals are growing a half acre of weed right next door to me. Here's what little I have: two days ago I walked out my side door, which orients me to look out over the 24 inches of my property and onto the 50 foot by 150 foot Pentecostal vacant lot, half of which is overgrown by six foot tall weeds and underfoot consists of love seat sized slabs of broken concrete growing obliquely from the mucky, oyster shell laden soil. And I am alarmed to see--in this mostly black skinned area--two well fed, well dressed white guys, one with a camera. I had my reading glasses up on my unkempt head, affecting the erudite sloven.
This is my favorite part. Where I get to say:
"Can I help you gentlemen?" The one who was the most well fed said he was just taking pictures of their building (the former dancehall that fronts Iberville and sits at the back of and perpendicular to the vacant lot) and I said "so you're with the Pentecostals?" I didn't make it sound so much like an accusation and the man said yes. "What are you going to do with it?" I asked and he said tear it down. I didn't suggest wouldn't it make a nice AIDS Hospice? "For a parking lot? I asked and he sneered like that'll be enough out of you, whippersnapper, but his oily smile said yes. Goodbye dancehall. "Ya'll can maintain this lot any better?" I said, and the man smiled or sneered and said we're working on it. Oh great, I thought, a group effort. The next day another man, well dressed, black, working class, came in a nice clean van and walked down the only avenue you can walk, the one I cut, and inspected the area. A lot of activity all of a sudden so I became suspicious and when the man went away I went out and looked around myself and let me tell you, what I found was a great disappointment to me. Barely ten feet from my side door, out there amidst the Pentecostal weeds, was a five-foot tall cannabis sativa. So that's what the church is up to these days I unfairly speculated. Well, I'll put an end to it. Tonight I'll go out there and rip that illegal rope from the ground. I'll set it afire if I have to. I won't have it around me I tell you. And hopefully this will be a valuable lesson to those Pentecostals: that only hard work and law abiding efforts are the way to the truth, and that the devilry of drugs should not besot thy path. Not to mention, they should have planted indica.