emptyage

Does The New York Times Think You're a Baby?

I should probably just let it go, but a story in today's New York Times is just such a hand-wringing piece of bullshit that I have to weigh in:

In a 15-page package, [Wired] magazine gives some mild advice to people who want to enhance their cognition: “Think Positive,” it advises, and “Distract Yourself.” Then there is a somewhat disarming chart: “Do the Right Drugs,” it recommends, laying out the pros and cons of eight drugs — some legal, some not — that it says can “boost your cognitive output.”

Six are prescription medications, like Adderall, a potentially addictive drug that is often prescribed to children with attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. But the list also includes nicotine, which, according to Wired, aids in “memory formation and attention.” And methamphetamine, which the magazine says can “increase concentration and creative output.”

I wrote the story in question. And including meth in the list of drugs? Totally my idea.

I don't quite get what the Times' position is, other than "Wired is suggesting you do meth!" Well, no. That wasn't the point at all. Let's look at some of the side effects I listed: "Parkinson's-like symptoms, addiction, stroke, psychosis, prison, death." Oh, hey, and in the "what it does" column, I also note "Prolonged use can also make you stupid and crazy." Does that sound like an endorsement to you?

I'll tell you one thing about Wired that I really appreciate: we don't assume our readers are idiots. I've written for a lot of publications., and you'd be amazed at how many think you're fucking stupid. Apparently, the New York Times shares that sentiment.

Look, here's the thing: meth can help you focus and accomplish menial and creative tasks--just as is true of other amphetamines. It boosts dopamine output. Plain and simple. Does that mean it's worth doing? No.

Amphetamine has a long and storied history as a tool that has helped people, well, amp up their brainpower. Jack Kerouac is one famous case. His drug of choice for cranking out page after masterful page was Benzedrine. Benzedrine's active ingredient is dl-amphetamine, which is, of course, a close cousin to meth.

Now, that doesn't mean you should use it. Certainly long term use makes you dumb and crazy. I've watched friends ruin their lives on meth. It's a horrible drug that's less likely to turn you into the next Kerouac than it is this guy.

Why, this may shock you, but here's the thing: Cocaine is exceptionally fun. LSD? It genuinely alters your perception. I'm not suggesting that you do either of these. Both conspired, unsuccessfully, to kill me and I would no more try either today than I would attempt to put a rattlesnake in my anus. I am older and wiser and recognize that the benefits are not worth the risks. Despite my swinging-dick persona on Twitter, I'm more this guy than that guy. Drugs, especially highly addictive ones like speed or cocaine or heroin or ones with powerful psychological components like LSD, tend to not be worth the price you pay for their use.

But the viewpoint that illegal drugs are purely bad and have no positive contributions whatsoever to offer is simply nonsense, and we should put it to rest. We'll never solve society's problems if we can't at least speak honestly about them.

The bottom line is if you use meth, you're very likely to ruin your life. Which I noted. In fact, one reason I wanted to include meth was to help make the point that every drug has its cons.

But that does not mean the cons are the entire story. And as long as we're shaming, maybe the New York Times should be ashamed of itself for assuming we are a nation of six year olds who can't be spoken to honestly or trusted to make rational decisions.

For the last word on this, I'll leave you with the inimitable Bill Hicks:

Aquatic Park

I went swimming at Aquatic Park this morning for the first time this year. I used to go once or twice a week. I don't know why I haven't been back. I love it so very much.

I love to see the sun rise over the East Bay hills, and the Bay turn golden and light. The sensation when I first get in the water, and my hands and feet and face ache until they go numb. I love the smell and the taste of the salt water in my mouth. The feel of slicing through the water. On occasion there are seals. Other swimmers pass by in the opposite direction, old men wearing nothing but trunks, and movement their only source of warmth. Beneath the surface you can only see a few feet in front of your face. The water is dark and mysterious and older than nations. When I get out of the water I stumble up on the beach with unfeeling legs and feet, and peel down my wetsuit to my waist. And there's nothing like it, that walk back up to the car with the San Francisco air on my bare chest and back. Hot and cold at once from exercise, cold water, and morning fog. When I get to the car, I strip down to my swim trunks and shiver. My wetsuit and squid lid and goggles go in a plastic bin in the back. And then I wrap a towel around my waist, and pull off my shorts. Standing naked in the parking lot except for a thin bolt of fabric. Fog thick in the air. The warm and nervous feeling of finally tugging on my sweatshirt, and gingerly stepping into my track pants, while trying not to let my towel drop or pull up too high. (They cannot see me naked. These things they go away.) And then I'm in the car and the heat's turned on and so is Morning Edition, but quietly, more of a comforting ambient sound, a reminder of humanity, than news. And on the way home I stop in and get a strong espresso drink and a bite to eat, still in my track pants and hoodie. Hair wet with flip flops.

Hillary Who?

When I first heard about Hillary Clinton running for president, I wasn't excited because I didn't know her. I thought she was Hillary Clinton, the triangulator who would do anything to win. Who would vote for or against a war based on whether or not it would get her elected. But by the Fall, I thought she wasn't Hillary Clinton. She was John Kerry. Or Joe Biden. Compromised maybe, but ultimately a person with society's best interest at heart. And that's enough. I was for her. But then that didn't work out so well, and in January she turned into Lurleen Wallace. It was two for one all over again. That was just fucked up. And then in February or March she morphed into John McCain, or, well, not George Bush, exactly, but maybe a slight whiff of Dick Cheney: I'll answer the phone at 3 AM, motherfucker, and put the planes with the missiles and the hot hoary death in your ass. And I definitely wasn't down with that. And I guess neither was she, because before I knew it, she was Cesar Chavez. Or, more accurately, Michael Moore. Sucking down shots with the working stiffs of the rust belt. And now she's Mike Huckabee. Pitiable. Ultimately, of course, the problem is that she was always Hillary Clinton, and never herself.

I think Barack Obama does well because he comes across as Barack Obama.

Will You Let Me Be The Last To Know?

I want to be the last to know about something again.

I want to see a small run book or magazine, or a record, or a cassette tape and wonder where it was made, and by whom. I want something to come to me from far away. I want to be amused by simple things, because there is nothing else to do. I want to wonder how life is different in big cities, and whether the big city people would find it interesting here. I want to proudly show something off. I want a new restaurant to open up, and have the whole town be excited about it. And I want to be excited too.

I'm tired of being jaded and coy and on top of things. I'm tired of reading about it a month ago. I'm tired of having tried it already.

When I saw your picture, unabashedly having fun in a place that I cannot anymore--worse, that I could not permit myself to--it made me sad. It made me nostalgic for the person I used to be, who experienced the world through pictures in magazines and tenth-generation cassette tapes re-dubbed so many times that the hiss and pop seemed to map the miles between me and What's Going On.

But now I can't be bothered. Take me to the beating heart and I can't be bothered.

All The Sad Young Literary Men seems passé and cliché, I won't read it because I've already lived it--and besides who cares about people in their 20s. The band with the new, new sound just reminds me of The Fall.

And, oh, how I wish it were not that way. It's not that I want to be younger, I don't. Or happier, I could not be.

But how I long for innocence, and the smell of honeysuckle and decay in the air. For the whole world to lie out there somewhere beyond me, unknown and mysterious and full of surprises.