I’m willing to state that I was once a certified party animal. I still can be under the right circumstances.  When I am in that particular frame of mind, I am very adventurous. It’s not like that is something I like to do every single day or night (anymore), but I was up for it in my younger days. And that included experimenting with mind-altering substances.

People who know me won’t be surprised by this: I am absolutely psyched about the fact that Massachusetts has decriminalized marijuana. And I support Barney Frank’s nationwide effort to legalize marijuana. Why? Give me a break. I’ve been in the business world for nearly 30 years. I’ve been out for lunches with both clients and suppliers. I have had drinks at lunch to the point where returning to work would be a joke. Many of my compatriots choose to go home from work and have a martini (or several, in fact). Me? I prefer to go home and smoke a fatty (or two), and I’m not alone in this sentiment. It’s as simple as that. Anybody remember Prohibition????? Legalize it. That’s what Bob Marley would say. Just frackin’ legalize it. NORML has it right.

The true believers in the drug war have no problem spreading the bull that marijuana is a gateway drug. It leads to bigger and better things (read: addiction to stronger drugs) because people become bored with the high and need continuously stronger highs to be satisfied. I’m here to tell you that is pure bullshit. I’m the living testament. If you do not have an addictive personality, there’s never a need to progress past the ganja.  If you do have an addictive personality, drug addiction may be just one of your problems. Hear me?

Pushing the envelope ever so slightly…

Okay, so I did push the envelope just ever so slightly. Forget the heroin and that garbage. I was never adventurous enough for that stuff. I could never in a million years understand how anyone could derive pleasure from something you simply cannot live without. It ceases to be pleasure at that point. I never entertained touching the stuff and I never did, even though several old friends did. I went as far as coke, and that was more than far enough for me.

I went on a coke bender for about six months. I was young (probably in my mid-to-late twenties) and working in high tech advertising and public relations at that time. Had I been a different type of person, this is the one drug I could easily have succumbed to. No question. This stuff was amazing if you were partying and dancing. There was no limit to the energy it generated. We used it freely in the bathrooms of the gay bars, and it was readily available. Two of my neighbors — a Boston jeweler and his beeeotch wife — had it whenever we wanted it, and there was no question that this crap dictated when that was.

It got to the point where we would be out all night. The bars would close at about two in the morning, then sometimes we’d stop and have breakfast, usually at Carroll’s Diner in Medford. After breakfast, we’d head home. It was common practice for me to jump in the shower as soon as I got home (usually about five in the morning), then do a line and immediately leave for work…without sleep. By noon, I’d be suffering like a dog and I’d swear I would never do it again. But I did. In fact, I’d usually somehow make it through the day. Then, I’d come home and crash for a few hours. By about nine or ten, it would be time to go out and do it all again.

Like I said, this went on for about six months. Then, I came to that magic moment when I immediately halted my use of coke. We were all wiped out after a week of partying, so we decided lay low for a night. I was alone at home listening to Bonnie Raitt. I decided to use what I had left in my latest stash. I did two lines. The effect wasn’t the same as when I was out with a bunch of people partying. I got into this introspective mode. This was immediately followed by the notion that I was having a heart attack from using coke. Of course, I wasn’t, but that didn’t matter. The long and short of this story is that I swore I’d never touch the stuff again, and I didn’t. That was the end of it. Although we all didn’t stop at the same time, my friends pretty much did the same. It was too damned expensive anyway.

Partying at the bars wasn’t adversely affected because we had POPPERS! Yes, people, amyl nitrate immediately took over the job coke was doing. It was cheaper. There are no addictive issues and the effect is about the same in a bar situation, albeit lasting a much shorter period of time.

Welcome back, my friends, to the show that never ends…

Of course, there were other little experiments along life’s pathway. One summer a work friend of mine, Ellie, asked if I wanted to try blotter acid. Oh, yeah. We decided to go for it. I was really young when I did this. I was probably about 22 or 23. We took a day off, and believe me when I tell you it was a glorious summer day. I drove over to her house in Peabody about nine in the morning. The plan was for us to go to the beach in Gloucester and do it there. We never made it.

I wish I could tell you exactly what kind of trip I took, but I can’t. All I can tell you is that it wasn’t unpleasant. I had been hearing about how LSD trips can go bust if you have a “bad” trip, but that was not my experience. What I remember vividly, however, is what Ellie did. We were sitting on her porch when we took the hits. Time passed, but I really have no idea how much time passed before we started feeling the effects of the stuff. When it did hit, I was feeling very three dimensional and what I was looking at was very surreal. I can tell you one thing for sure. Nobody was driving to Gloucester on this shit.

I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye, and it was Ellie. We had been sitting on her porch, but she got up with a purpose in mind. I watched her walk down to the sidewalk, then over to a Volkswagen Beetle (she had no idea who owned the car) that was parked on the street roughly between her house and the neighbor’s house. Suddenly, she was trying to pick it up and move it. I am not kidding. I actually watched her for a few minutes before asking her just what she thought she was doing. I remember exactly what she said, “This stupid car is ruining the painting. The bumper is in my painting.” Sure it was.

This is one old memory. I do not remember much detail about this day except that it was just plain out there. We did some more blotter acid and just hung out listening to music. I know I was safely back in my apartment for dinner, none the worse for wear. And that was the only time I did blotter acid. Ah, but there were other little forays into mindbending.

My friends and I went to see the movie Network with Peter Finch and Faye Dunaway and made the mistake of taking THC before going into the theater. By the time Peter Finch got to, “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not gonna’ take anymore!” I can assure you that was the last place we wanted to be. We made a beeline out of that theater, laughing like hell all the way. We never did finish watching the movie. Another time, Greg, Jack and I met up somwhere and decided to go back to my place in Melrose to cook dinner. On the way home from Boston, we took purple microdot (mescaline). I have no idea where we got it, but it was just peaking by the time we got to Garniss Market to buy some food to cook. We never bought any food and we never cooked dinner.

I have no idea what I was looking at, but I happened to be going up the cereal aisle when something on the Captain Crunch box made me take a laughing fit to beat all laughing fits. I was sitting on the floor in the store laughing like hell. Greg and Jack found me and literally carried me out to the car. We spent most of the night laughing. All I know is that we all woke up on the living room floor sometime in the morning. As I recall, I never went to work that day. Since I pretty much felt as though I’d been hit by a train, I called in sick and spent the day sleeping.

There have certainly been other magic moments during this phase of my life, but you get the idea here. Here’s something to think about: While law enforcement has been preoccupied with stopping the flow of recreational drugs, the nation’s pharmaceutical companies have created a nation of zombies addicted to prescription drugs. Wacky, isn’t it?

I’m a big fan of Mark Twain, and my favorite quotation from Mr. Twain also happens to be on my Facebook page right now. It reads:

“Religion was invented when the first con man met the first fool.”

I happen to feel that way about religion. Now, before all my Christian brethren get freaked on this statement, I’m not talking about spirituality here. I’m talking about religion. This is entirely different. To me, ‘religion’ is what man does with spirituality once he/she gets hold of it. It’s the part that mortal men (or women) play in delivering spirituality to the masses. I’ve always felt that way about religion, even when I was a kid. That is why it’s so weird that I spent nearly 14 years in Catholic school. I say “nearly 14 years” because I spent the first half of the first grade in public school. That’s because Immaculate Conception in Revere didn’t have space at the beginning of the year. So, in a nutshell, I’ve always had issues with authority and nuns and priests (mostly nuns) represented “authority.”

My sister Jo-Anne felt the brunt of my dislike of Catholic school, simply because she was already a student at Immaculate Conception once I arrived. Every time I did something wrong, she would get the call. I can’t remember every single incident, but I do remember one time when I absolutely refused to stay at the school for lunch. My house was just down the street, dammit, and I wanted to go home for lunch. It was, of course, a Friday and the absurd Catholic rule of “no meat on Fridays” was in force. See, that’s what I mean about mankind delivering religion. WTF does what you eat on what freakin’ day have to do with believing in God?

Anyway, things really began to go downhill when the homeroom nun (okay, I can’t remember specific nun names back that far). It could have been Sister Honorius. She was one of the nuns I had at Immaculate, but I can’t really remember what grade I had her in. She said, “Come on, Deborah, tell me a fish story.” I know I began my response saying, “I’ll tell you a fish story alright…”  But everything that came after that is a blank. However, since my sister was called down to the room, it could not have been very nice.

I know my sister (not ‘the’ sister) pulled me outside in the hall to talk to me and I know she was pissed. But I also know that I went home for lunch. My mother fed me (of course, it was Friday so I had a tuna fish sandwich), and then promptly delivered me back to school…with a warning. Needless to say, I ate lunch at school for the rest of the year. But I didn’t like it.

I didn’t have the opportunity to stay at Immaculate until the bitter end. My dad died and I stayed at Immaculate until we settled somewhere else. I remember that I’d get a ride from my evil Aunt Buddy back and forth to school until we settled in. As it turns out, we ended up living with my evil Aunt Buddy in Medford. That’s when I enrolled at Saint James Grammar School. (This is where I met my partner in crime, George.) I cannot remember in-classroom specifics here at all. I’m not sure what that means. I do remember one incident. I used to sing in the choir, and one Sunday my friend and I were tossed out because we were leaning over the railing and spitting on people’s heads as they walked in below us. The only other thing I remember is getting everyone to skip church and go to the park for an hour instead. See. Great disdain for authority of any type. And religion in general.

Fast times at Arlington Catholic High

I continued on in my catholic education by choosing Arlington Catholic High. My mother was thrilled. I chose that school simply because all of my friends were going there. George was behind me by a grade or two, but he also ended up going there. So did Linda. Remember her? She was my first lesbian relationship experience that I wrote about several posts ago. So, it was great. Getting there was another story. Winters were brutal because we had to take three buses to get there, one from home to Medford Square. Then, a bus to West Medford, followed by a third bus that would drop us off in Arlington Center. By the time we got there, we were freezing.

Then there was the catholic school uniforms. These were dead ugly. They always consisted of a pleated, plaid skirt. In the case of good old AC high, it was a gray, red and white combination with a white shirt and gray vest — all wool. We’d die in the summer. It was absurd. It wasn’t that I was into fashion. I hated fashion. Didn’t care much for it and still don’t. But I hated that they were trying to make us all the same. That’s what the uniform felt like.

The assumption is that Catholic school kids are good kids. They don’t do anything wrong. They don’t get in trouble. Forget that shit. We were no different than anyone else at this age. Kids were fooling around in the back seats of cars. Some were drinking and smoking. Hell, the Mayor of Medford went to Arlington Catholic and he was a party animal! At the end of every school year, we’d have to clean out the homeroom we were in for next year’s incoming class. One day we sent the mayor out the window with a rope to go get us pizza.

I remember little tidbits from Arlington Catholic, but nothing in great detail. I remember that I was put into room 101 my freshman year. Any room ending in “01″ meant it was the academically advanced class. Now, we considered the kids in that class dweebs who didn’t know how to have real fun. It also meant that everything was harder. Hard work was not on my agenda at that time. I was sure of one thing: I was determined to keep myself out of room 201 next year, and I succeeded by not doing so well in a couple of subjects…like Latin. Latin. WTF kind of life skill comes from taking Latin? None. Absolutely none. We were forced to take Latin because it was a Catholic school and the Sunday Mass was still being conducted in Latin.

Sister Ruth taught Latin. She was brutal. She had bucked teeth and the spit would really fly when she was in the process of reprimanding you. All I can remember from her (at least once a week) was, “Miss Della Piana, you’re getting under my skin and making a dent.” Yeah. I’m sure I was.

And then there was Sister Georgiana. She was big, loud and quite imposing, and she wasn’t going to take any shit from any of us. I believe she taught Physical Science??? Not really sure.  All I know is that I sat in between probably the only two black kids in the entire school — Donna Bell and Paula Mont. I can remember to  this day exactly what they looked like. They were absolutely hysterical and they would just get me going. It never failed that we got caught every time we had the class. One time our laughing really got to her, and Sister Georgiana slammed her fist down on the chalk board ledge and took the damned thing right off the wall.

Out of control at Aquinas

I ended up moving on to a two-year Catholic college. There were reasons for this that had nothing to do with the fact that it was Catholic. It also had it’s share of stupid rules that I thought were oppressive, and I was determined to change them (although I complied at the beginning). Here’s a stupid rule: We had to wear skirts or dresses as though we were secretaries already employed in jobs. Absurd. After putting up with the uniforms at AC, there was no way I was going to wear dresses and skirts.

I simply started wearing jeans and cords to school. I was suspended once for that. Then again. Finally, I remember approaching the student council and urging them to start a petition to get rid of that foolish rule. Listen, we were paying to go to this school, so why should they tell us how to dress? The fact is that we weren’t working. We were students. We eventually won that battle. I was determined to have a good time in spite of where I was, and it turned into a great two-year party.

First, it was an all-girls school and it was truly my coming of age in that respect. A group of us hung around together all the time, and I was involved at various times with three of them. Of course, none of them ever knew that about each other because they were too afraid to openly talk about it. It was not easy to be gay at that time and, frankly, it was also scary to come to terms with the fact that you might be gay. My partying went well beyond that, however.

The sleepover was one thing I remember. They had this Aquinas tradition where the students spent one night sleeping over at the school. The seniors generally got to abuse us at this little event. You know, like making us roll uncooked eggs the length of the entire main corridor with our noses. Or blindfolding us and making us brush each other’s teeth. By the time we got to this, it was really late at night and a couple of us climbed out the bathroom window and headed for my car. We had stopped at Blanchards, our favorite local liquor store (and our favorite lunch spot, by the way) and bought some rum and coke. It was the perfect time to take a break. While we were out there, someone also suggested we might want to smoke a fatty since were at the far end of the parking lot and hidden under trees. We weren’t sure how we were going to get back in, but we really didn’t care at the time.

Luckily, we did get back in without much trouble. Someone had left the bathroom window partially open, so we forced it open the rest of the way and climbed back in. Everyone was pretty much settled down in the lounge in sleeping bags. Some had already fallen asleep. But we had the munchies, so we decided to see if we could find something to eat. All we could scrape up in the kitchen was a jar of jam. Somehow, and I really do not know how we found our way up there, we ended up in the chapel where the only thing we found to eat was a bag of communion hosts. We decided that they were probably still unblessed, so it would be a minor sin. We sat down and ate damned near half a bag with the jam. They were disgusting, but we were desperate for food. The funny thing is that nobody caught on that it ever happened. We simply sealed up the bag and put it back when we were done.

We knew that some of these nuns were fully capable of having a good time. We could tell. (And I was absolutely sure that Sister Carroll was gay, even though we never confirmed it.) So, one night we had Karen’s house to ourselves because her parents were at their summer house in Kingston. We decided to invite a few of the nuns over to a spaghetti dinner. I’m not sure if we ever got to the food because we got them drunk on Cape Codders. I mean, drunk. We got them so drunk that they couldn’t even drive themselves home. We had to take them home later that night (not that we were in much better shape). One of my friends drove their car back and I drove them in my car. We literally had to open the door and take them to their rooms. Then, we were so drunk we had a hard time finding our way out. It was like some kind of ancient catacomb. We continued to be friendly with this pack of nuns, but nobody ever mentioned a word about that night. We just kind of let it slide.

Sleeping with women. Eating hosts because I had the munches from smoking dope. Getting the nuns drunk. You know, if there is a Supreme Being up there somewhere keeping notes, I could be in big trouble.