10
He was staying in the Lyndon Johnson room. A stroke of good fortune, the front desk assistant informed him enthusiastically. As he entered, he immediately realized that it was true. The quarters were a little bit nicer than the Wayne Newton and Gary Cooper rooms, which he had occupied on past visits. It was comfortably appointed and complete with framed news clippings and Life magazines featuring the enigmatic man who had once occupied the White House and – perhaps even more significantly – completely dominated the United States Senate in his prime. LBJ had been a legendary drinker, Peter reminded himself.
The hotel had been a stopping point in the old days for movie stars traveling from Hollywood to Sun Valley, Idaho on vacation. The layout of the public areas, the small rooms and faulty plumbing reflected the advanced age of the place, but it had a ton of charm and was saturated with its own history. And Peter liked it because it felt private: the kind of place he could stay and rest assured that he’d be left alone. But it was more than just the sense of privacy that he enjoyed – there was an intangible element, a heightened sense of self that he experienced whenever he visited. Here in the middle of the high desert, in a town nobody knew, in a hotel that time had forgotten, he felt like he was somehow more significant, as if the isolation and small population created an artificial premium on humanity.
After an hour in the room and a shower that ran from scalding hot to freezing cold several times, he made his way down to the “gambling hall” intent on a few drinks and some gaming. He went first to the bar, deposited a hundred bucks into the video poker machine and ordered a Stolichnaya-tonic, which went down fast and smooth, warming his insides and creating a tingling sensation all over his skin. After three of these his hundred dollars was all used up, so he proceeded to the lone restaurant and enjoyed a medium-rare T bone steak, baked potato and salad accompanied by a terrible house red wine that suited him perfectly. After his meal he lingered over a cigarette that was so satisfying he seriously considered calling it a night right then and there. It was hard to imagine that the evening could get any better than it already was.
And although he was certainly tired enough to turn in, he knew that it would be impossible to end the night without at least a little blackjack. So he ventured further downstairs to the subterranean bunker where the card games were dealt. Fortunately, there was a single game going with only one seated player, a quiet, skinny old timer with a wild head of grey hair. Peter took the first seat and attempted to cash in for a thousand dollars.
“You don’t need that much, buddy,” the dealer said as he saw the stack of large bills.
“You don’t know how much I bet,” Peter retorted.
“Maximum is twenty-five a hand.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. How long’s that been going on?”
“Quite a while. We had card counters came in here a while back – they cleaned us out. Had to drop the maximum.”
At first Peter was floored with disappointment. He had no drugs left and now he couldn’t get the action he wanted on the tables. Two out of his three main vices were being denied him. “Well, if that’s the case,” he began as he pulled half of the money off the table, “I’m going to need a drink ASAP.” The thought that at least booze was available twenty-four hours a day quelled his initial frustration.
“That I can do for you,” the dealer responded, sensing relief in the air.
“Can I play more than one hand?”
“Sure thing.”
Peter put a green chip on four spaces.
The game moved along pleasantly enough. The old man didn’t say much but he was a decent companion. The cocktail waitress came down every fifteen minutes like clockwork. And the dealer, a forty-something character named Gene, kept the game and conversation lively.
“What brought you to Ely, Gene?” Peter inquired.
“DUI.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me right. I was driving home from Salt Lake City to Reno. Shoulda taken the 80 but I had been through this town once before and I liked a little bar on the east side that had one of the prettiest bartenders I’ve ever known. So, like a moron I came south through Provo and hit the 50. It was a spring night – beautiful. I pulled over twice just to look at the stars in the sky.”
“Just get on with the goddamned story,” the old timer interjected, his first words since Peter had arrived at the table. “I’ve heard it a million times.”
“Okay, Joe. There’s no reason to get your panties in a bunch. So anyway, I had half a dozen or so pops at this bar – the woman I had come to see wasn’t even there, it was her night off – and I decided it was time to head out. It must have been two o’clock in the morning. I didn’t get five miles down the highway before I was pulled over. They arrested me and threw me in jail for the night. At that point, I had to stay around for court, which was a couple of weeks later. My intention was just to plead guilty and head back home. But the funny thing was, by the time the two weeks went by I had already lost my job and been evicted from my apartment, where I was four months late on my rent. So in reality I had nothing to go home for. The shit in my apartment wasn’t worth a thing: nothing but raggedy clothing and a soiled mattress.”
“So then what?”
“I plead guilty to driving under the influence. But the judge assigned me all these classes I had to take and there were fines I had to pay off over time, so I just figured it was easier to stay here while I was dealing with the hassle. It only took me a day to get this job and I’ve been at it ever since.”
“How long has it been?”
“Two and a half years.”
Peter was astonished. “But you must have taken care of all the legal requirements by now. You probably could have left town eighteen months ago.”
“That’s about right.”
“So what’s the deal? You must really like living here.”
“Not really.”
“The job pays well?”
“Fair to midland.”
“So how is it you’ve been here for so long?”
“I got a sweet little bungalow I stay in; it’s only two hundred and fifty dollars a month. Not many places in this world you can have a place of your own for two hundred and fifty dollars a month. Besides, I get a break on drinks at the bar after my shift and I can crawl home whenever I want to. It’s not so bad, really. Beats the rat race in Reno.”
The rat race in Reno? Peter had never heard it so described. He was about to say something, but decided it was best not to play the contrarian. “So do you think you’re here to stay, Gene?”
“I doubt it. I’ll probably take off in a year or so. I’m thinking of going to Eastern Washington, Spokane maybe. Who knows? I’ve gotta save up some dough first.”
“Well, with the cheap rent that shouldn’t be too hard.”
“That’s true. On the other hand, I drink, which is working against me a little bit. I guess it’s about a wash in the end.”
Peter understood exactly what he meant.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
The Tyranny of Chinese "Drug Treatment"
This article was posted today from the New York Times. Kafkaesque. The author is Andrew Jacobs:
Fu Lixin, emotionally exhausted from caring for her sick mother, needed a little pick-me-up. A friend offered her a "special cigarette" - one laced with methamphetamine - and Fu happily inhaled.
The next day, three policemen showed up at her door.
"They asked me to urinate in a cup," she said. "My friend had been arrested and turned me in. It was a drug test. I failed on the spot."
Although she said it was her first time smoking meth, Fu, 41, was promptly sent to one of China's compulsory drug rehabilitation centers. The minimum stay is two years, and life is an unremitting gantlet of physical abuse and forced labor without any drug treatment, according to former inmates and substance abuse professionals.
"It was a hell I'm still trying to recover from," she said.
According to the United Nations, as many as a half-million Chinese citizens are held at these centers at any given time. Detentions are meted out by the police without trials, judges or appeals. Created in 2008 as part of a reform effort to grapple with the country's growing narcotics problem, the centers, lawyers and drug experts say, have become de facto penal colonies where inmates are sent to factories and farms, fed substandard food and denied basic medical care.
"They call them detoxification centers, but everyone knows that detox takes a few days, not two years," said Joseph Amon, an epidemiologist with Human Rights Watch in New York. "The basic concept is inhumane and flawed."
On Thursday, Human Rights Watch issued a report on the drug rehabilitation system, which replaced the Communist Party's previous approach of sending addicts to labor camps, where they would toil alongside thieves, prostitutes and political dissidents.
The report, titled "Where Darkness Knows No Limits," calls on the government to immediately shut down the detention centers.
Under the Anti-Drug Law of 2008, drug offenders were to be sent to professionally staffed detox facilities and then released to community-based rehabilitation centers for up to four years of therapeutic follow-up.
But substance abuse experts say the system, part of a stated "people centered" approach to dealing with addiction, has simply given the old system a new name. What is worse, they say, is that it expands the six-month compulsory detentions of old into two-year periods that the authorities can extend by five years.
The community-based rehabilitation centers, treatment experts add, have yet to be established.
Wang Xiaoguang, the vice director of Daytop, an American-affiliated drug-treatment residence in Yunnan province, said the government detox centers were little more than business ventures run by the police. Detainees, he said, spend their days working at chicken farms or shoe factories that have contracts with the local police; drug treatment, counseling and vocational training are almost nonexistent.
"I don't think this is the ideal situation for people trying to recover from addiction," Wang said in a phone interview.
The Office of National Narcotics Control Commission did not respond to requests for comment.
Fu Lixin, emotionally exhausted from caring for her sick mother, needed a little pick-me-up. A friend offered her a "special cigarette" - one laced with methamphetamine - and Fu happily inhaled.
The next day, three policemen showed up at her door.
"They asked me to urinate in a cup," she said. "My friend had been arrested and turned me in. It was a drug test. I failed on the spot."
Although she said it was her first time smoking meth, Fu, 41, was promptly sent to one of China's compulsory drug rehabilitation centers. The minimum stay is two years, and life is an unremitting gantlet of physical abuse and forced labor without any drug treatment, according to former inmates and substance abuse professionals.
"It was a hell I'm still trying to recover from," she said.
According to the United Nations, as many as a half-million Chinese citizens are held at these centers at any given time. Detentions are meted out by the police without trials, judges or appeals. Created in 2008 as part of a reform effort to grapple with the country's growing narcotics problem, the centers, lawyers and drug experts say, have become de facto penal colonies where inmates are sent to factories and farms, fed substandard food and denied basic medical care.
"They call them detoxification centers, but everyone knows that detox takes a few days, not two years," said Joseph Amon, an epidemiologist with Human Rights Watch in New York. "The basic concept is inhumane and flawed."
On Thursday, Human Rights Watch issued a report on the drug rehabilitation system, which replaced the Communist Party's previous approach of sending addicts to labor camps, where they would toil alongside thieves, prostitutes and political dissidents.
The report, titled "Where Darkness Knows No Limits," calls on the government to immediately shut down the detention centers.
Under the Anti-Drug Law of 2008, drug offenders were to be sent to professionally staffed detox facilities and then released to community-based rehabilitation centers for up to four years of therapeutic follow-up.
But substance abuse experts say the system, part of a stated "people centered" approach to dealing with addiction, has simply given the old system a new name. What is worse, they say, is that it expands the six-month compulsory detentions of old into two-year periods that the authorities can extend by five years.
The community-based rehabilitation centers, treatment experts add, have yet to be established.
Wang Xiaoguang, the vice director of Daytop, an American-affiliated drug-treatment residence in Yunnan province, said the government detox centers were little more than business ventures run by the police. Detainees, he said, spend their days working at chicken farms or shoe factories that have contracts with the local police; drug treatment, counseling and vocational training are almost nonexistent.
"I don't think this is the ideal situation for people trying to recover from addiction," Wang said in a phone interview.
The Office of National Narcotics Control Commission did not respond to requests for comment.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Addict Recommends: (Restaurant) Piccolo Teatro, Sausalito, California
In a small restaurant in one of the coolest towns in one of the superlative counties in America a diamond is being born. I say “being born” because this aptly named “Little Theater” seems to be in a constant state of becoming, of evolution in a lively synthesis of regional cuisine, sustainability, originality and tradition. The management points to the influence of the Veneto Regione of Italy as a starting point for a discussion involving the cuisine. But to me this restaurant is so much more than can be described by the lexicon of any one region or style of cooking.
Located at 739 Bridgeway in the heart of downtown, Piccolo Teatro is a sophisticated blend of simple, time tested and classic comfort food with innovative twists reflecting the diversity of the Bay Area. A side dish as simple as the sautéed winter greens dances with the perfect balance of garlic, chile and lemon. The pasta and meatballs would be more appropriately named “meatballs and pasta,” if one were to accurately reflect the percentages. The Ragu of rabbit and polenta is rich but the flavor is cut perfectly with pecorino cheese. Don’t forget to order a salumi plate as an appetizer: the quality of the prosciutto, sopressata and coppa is simply unrivaled. And you’ve got to try the butter beans, an otherwise straightforward side that is coated luxuriously in truffle oil.
Piccolo Teatro serves lunch daily and breakfast on the weekends, but my four visits have always been at dinner time. This allows me a one hundred percent certainty of enjoying their excellent bar before I get into my meal. They have, hands down, the best martini olives I have ever tasted. Their wine list is discriminating, and well represented by a healthy number of unique Italian selections.
And if all that I have described isn’t enough to bring you in, let me tell you with absolute certainty that the service equals if not exceeds the quality of the food, wine and spirits. From the management to the servers, bartenders and even the bussers, cordiality and knowledge are the touchstones. These are people that are proud to work at this restaurant and want to share that pride with its patrons. Run, don’t walk, to Piccolo Teatro.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Honest Addict, Chapter Nine
9
The Jag started rough. It not been driven for several days and the temperature was quite cold. It was a funny old car: it needed constant attention and was always breaking down with great attendant expense: that part at least was expected. But it was also temperamental when left to rest for a few days, like an elderly person who has slept too long and too deeply. Peter always thought that a little break should be good for an automobile, but this was simply not the case with his. He would have gotten rid of the car years ago were it not for the fact that he loved her so: the long, aerodynamic hood that contained the V12 engine, the simple luxury of the leather and wood trim interior and most importantly the fact that she was over twenty years old and completely anachronistic in form, especially in the context of his erstwhile workplace, where the she had been surrounded in the parking lot by the latest model Porsche and Mercedes.
Once he was through Sparks and on the open road she started to purr and he knew that there would be no problems in the immediate future. Beyond the town of Lockwood he passed through the scenery of the Hafed and Clark Bluff Canyons and into the town of Mustang, from where the famed whorehouse took its name. Continuing down Highway 80 through Patrick and Wadsworth, he turned onto Highway 95 near Fernley and began heading southeast. Along this stretch he witnessed a long cargo train bearing yellow and black Union Pacific cars; a living fossil, he thought, still viable in the digital age, a sturgeon of the desert plains, a horseshoe crab, a crocodile.
Before Ragtown Highway 95 morphed into Highway 50 and Peter knew he had reached the first significant milestone in his new journey: the aptly-named “loneliest road in America,” which, after the town of Fallon, opened long, wide and empty into the great and mysterious Nevada wilderness.
At the town of Cold Springs he noticed that the car was running a little low on gas, so he pulled into the first filling station he saw, which, he regretted, was a full thirty cents more expensive than several he had passed only half an hour earlier. It struck him as odd that he would consider losing twenty-five hundred dollars gambling over a period of a few days a bargain, but would shudder at an additional five dollar expense in gasoline. Nevertheless, this was how he felt.
The pump was a virtual antique and the gas came slow, a tenth of a gallon every few seconds. As it was quite obvious that filling the large capacity tank was going to take some time, Peter proceeded into the attached store to buy a soda.
Behind the counter was a middle aged man sporting a worn baseball hat and a burning cigarette between his cracked lips. Smoke curled directly into his right eye, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He stared at Peter with a look that was part confusion and part apathy. He wore a bushy moustache that was completely grey under his nose, but gradually became a yellowish brown over his upper lip. Peter wondered whether this was a natural pattern or if perhaps years of smoking had discolored the bottom portion. From his knowledge of used ashtrays and nicotine stains, he was inclined to think the latter.
Peter pretended to peruse the soda selection carefully, but really he just wanted to break the silence that brooded over the room. It seemed fortunate when the stranger spoke first.
“Ain’t often that we see them kind of cars around here.”
“No, I guess that’s true.”
“What year is it?”
“Eighty-five.”
“Nope, we don’t see many of them, that’s right. California plates, too.”
“Uh-huh.” Peter was becoming a little unnerved from the tone of the conversation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so off balance in a dialogue.
“What in the world brings a fella like you around here, headed into the big nothin’.”
“The big nothing?”
“I saw which direction you came in from. You’re headed east.”
“That’s right.”
“Nothin’ out there.”
“There’s plenty out there.”
“Like what?”
“That’s my business, wouldn’t you say?”
“I guess so. Just curious.”
Peter sighed. It was better to not be defensive. “I’m just driving. And it’s not the first time I’ve covered this country. Call it a vacation, if you want.”
“Seems a little odd to me, a grown man just drivin’ for the sake of drivin’ – vacation or not.”
“It’s not so odd, really,” he replied with attempted enthusiasm. “Actually, if you think about it, it’s about as American an activity as you’ll ever encounter. Though it’s perhaps becoming more rare, with the price of gas nowadays.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Well, just think about the great books on the subject, for instance: Kerouac’s On the Road, Steinbeck’s Travels With Charley, even Nabokov’s Lolita are all perfect examples of the road trip narrative in American literature.” The moment he spoke the words, Peter became embarrassed, knowing that his thoughts had been wasted and came off as haughty.
The stranger snorted and looked in another direction. It was obvious he considered the discussion finished. Peter decided against the drink but still had to pay for the gas. He approached his unnecessary nemesis with a strange trepidation.
“Tank full yet?” he inquired.
“Yup. Fifty-eight eighty five.
Peter threw three twenty dollar bills on the counter and turned immediately. “Keep the change,” he said over his shoulder as he left. The man said something contradictory in reply but it was too late. His customer had made a very hasty exit.
***
The last half joint was burning fast between his fingers due to a good wind, and was about to expire after only a few hits. He tossed it to the ground, neither happy nor sad to have finally done away with the remainder of the pot, but aware that he was unlikely to come across any more in his current location. His head felt right, for the moment anyway, as he stared blankly at the dramatic white-capped peaks of the Toiyabe mountain range, which rose from the floor of the landscape like a jagged saw tooth.
It was not exactly silent. There was the wind, which was the source of a satisfying background noise that reminded him of the now distant ocean. From somewhere within the Jaguar came small pops, creaks and pings as the engine cooled in the brisk air. Once every ten minutes or so a car passed in either direction and sped off into the distance, a fleeting companion. The sun was high in the clear light blue sky, casting a filtered winter light on the ground. It was peaceful here on the side of the road, he thought; everything seemed to be in its proper place.
Peter got back into the Jag, fired her up once again and flew down Highway 50 at an eventual speed of ninety-five miles an hour. He only had to slow down for the towns: still Austin went by in a flash. On the road he felt whole and satisfied, a man at harmony with his life. At times thoughts and memories drifted into his mind and were completely processed, enjoyed or resolved as circumstances dictated. Alone with his conscience, memories and emotions, he would burst into laughter one instance and his eyes would well with tears the next. Other moments were filled with an absolute absence of thought – a profound emptiness, a lack of consciousness even of his own being which could only be achieved behind the wheel of a hurtling automobile, a state of mind as close to Zen as he could ever get.
It was with his psyche thus vacillating between these several states of mind that he continued his journey, passing through Eureka without even really noticing it. And when he saw the sign that indicated he had arrived at his final destination for the day he was almost disappointed and considered driving on into the dusk. But the town of Ely was too special a place to pass up and he was getting hungry. He pulled into the parking lot of the Hotel Nevada and Gambling Hall, parked and got out of the car. It was quiet, the air was very chill and there was a light dusting of snow on the ground. The town of nine thousand souls felt like it contained more like nine hundred. In the contiguous United States there is no settlement of similar size more isolated than where Peter stood. This thought gave him great satisfaction.
The Jag started rough. It not been driven for several days and the temperature was quite cold. It was a funny old car: it needed constant attention and was always breaking down with great attendant expense: that part at least was expected. But it was also temperamental when left to rest for a few days, like an elderly person who has slept too long and too deeply. Peter always thought that a little break should be good for an automobile, but this was simply not the case with his. He would have gotten rid of the car years ago were it not for the fact that he loved her so: the long, aerodynamic hood that contained the V12 engine, the simple luxury of the leather and wood trim interior and most importantly the fact that she was over twenty years old and completely anachronistic in form, especially in the context of his erstwhile workplace, where the she had been surrounded in the parking lot by the latest model Porsche and Mercedes.
Once he was through Sparks and on the open road she started to purr and he knew that there would be no problems in the immediate future. Beyond the town of Lockwood he passed through the scenery of the Hafed and Clark Bluff Canyons and into the town of Mustang, from where the famed whorehouse took its name. Continuing down Highway 80 through Patrick and Wadsworth, he turned onto Highway 95 near Fernley and began heading southeast. Along this stretch he witnessed a long cargo train bearing yellow and black Union Pacific cars; a living fossil, he thought, still viable in the digital age, a sturgeon of the desert plains, a horseshoe crab, a crocodile.
Before Ragtown Highway 95 morphed into Highway 50 and Peter knew he had reached the first significant milestone in his new journey: the aptly-named “loneliest road in America,” which, after the town of Fallon, opened long, wide and empty into the great and mysterious Nevada wilderness.
At the town of Cold Springs he noticed that the car was running a little low on gas, so he pulled into the first filling station he saw, which, he regretted, was a full thirty cents more expensive than several he had passed only half an hour earlier. It struck him as odd that he would consider losing twenty-five hundred dollars gambling over a period of a few days a bargain, but would shudder at an additional five dollar expense in gasoline. Nevertheless, this was how he felt.
The pump was a virtual antique and the gas came slow, a tenth of a gallon every few seconds. As it was quite obvious that filling the large capacity tank was going to take some time, Peter proceeded into the attached store to buy a soda.
Behind the counter was a middle aged man sporting a worn baseball hat and a burning cigarette between his cracked lips. Smoke curled directly into his right eye, but he didn’t seem to notice or care. He stared at Peter with a look that was part confusion and part apathy. He wore a bushy moustache that was completely grey under his nose, but gradually became a yellowish brown over his upper lip. Peter wondered whether this was a natural pattern or if perhaps years of smoking had discolored the bottom portion. From his knowledge of used ashtrays and nicotine stains, he was inclined to think the latter.
Peter pretended to peruse the soda selection carefully, but really he just wanted to break the silence that brooded over the room. It seemed fortunate when the stranger spoke first.
“Ain’t often that we see them kind of cars around here.”
“No, I guess that’s true.”
“What year is it?”
“Eighty-five.”
“Nope, we don’t see many of them, that’s right. California plates, too.”
“Uh-huh.” Peter was becoming a little unnerved from the tone of the conversation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so off balance in a dialogue.
“What in the world brings a fella like you around here, headed into the big nothin’.”
“The big nothing?”
“I saw which direction you came in from. You’re headed east.”
“That’s right.”
“Nothin’ out there.”
“There’s plenty out there.”
“Like what?”
“That’s my business, wouldn’t you say?”
“I guess so. Just curious.”
Peter sighed. It was better to not be defensive. “I’m just driving. And it’s not the first time I’ve covered this country. Call it a vacation, if you want.”
“Seems a little odd to me, a grown man just drivin’ for the sake of drivin’ – vacation or not.”
“It’s not so odd, really,” he replied with attempted enthusiasm. “Actually, if you think about it, it’s about as American an activity as you’ll ever encounter. Though it’s perhaps becoming more rare, with the price of gas nowadays.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Well, just think about the great books on the subject, for instance: Kerouac’s On the Road, Steinbeck’s Travels With Charley, even Nabokov’s Lolita are all perfect examples of the road trip narrative in American literature.” The moment he spoke the words, Peter became embarrassed, knowing that his thoughts had been wasted and came off as haughty.
The stranger snorted and looked in another direction. It was obvious he considered the discussion finished. Peter decided against the drink but still had to pay for the gas. He approached his unnecessary nemesis with a strange trepidation.
“Tank full yet?” he inquired.
“Yup. Fifty-eight eighty five.
Peter threw three twenty dollar bills on the counter and turned immediately. “Keep the change,” he said over his shoulder as he left. The man said something contradictory in reply but it was too late. His customer had made a very hasty exit.
***
The last half joint was burning fast between his fingers due to a good wind, and was about to expire after only a few hits. He tossed it to the ground, neither happy nor sad to have finally done away with the remainder of the pot, but aware that he was unlikely to come across any more in his current location. His head felt right, for the moment anyway, as he stared blankly at the dramatic white-capped peaks of the Toiyabe mountain range, which rose from the floor of the landscape like a jagged saw tooth.
It was not exactly silent. There was the wind, which was the source of a satisfying background noise that reminded him of the now distant ocean. From somewhere within the Jaguar came small pops, creaks and pings as the engine cooled in the brisk air. Once every ten minutes or so a car passed in either direction and sped off into the distance, a fleeting companion. The sun was high in the clear light blue sky, casting a filtered winter light on the ground. It was peaceful here on the side of the road, he thought; everything seemed to be in its proper place.
Peter got back into the Jag, fired her up once again and flew down Highway 50 at an eventual speed of ninety-five miles an hour. He only had to slow down for the towns: still Austin went by in a flash. On the road he felt whole and satisfied, a man at harmony with his life. At times thoughts and memories drifted into his mind and were completely processed, enjoyed or resolved as circumstances dictated. Alone with his conscience, memories and emotions, he would burst into laughter one instance and his eyes would well with tears the next. Other moments were filled with an absolute absence of thought – a profound emptiness, a lack of consciousness even of his own being which could only be achieved behind the wheel of a hurtling automobile, a state of mind as close to Zen as he could ever get.
It was with his psyche thus vacillating between these several states of mind that he continued his journey, passing through Eureka without even really noticing it. And when he saw the sign that indicated he had arrived at his final destination for the day he was almost disappointed and considered driving on into the dusk. But the town of Ely was too special a place to pass up and he was getting hungry. He pulled into the parking lot of the Hotel Nevada and Gambling Hall, parked and got out of the car. It was quiet, the air was very chill and there was a light dusting of snow on the ground. The town of nine thousand souls felt like it contained more like nine hundred. In the contiguous United States there is no settlement of similar size more isolated than where Peter stood. This thought gave him great satisfaction.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
A Quote From Oscar Wilde
"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it."
- The Picture of Dorian Gray
- The Picture of Dorian Gray
Monday, January 4, 2010
Addict Recommends: (Bar) The Eight Ball, Cotati, California
It was well over a year and a half ago, and I was at the Eight Ball with a lady friend who was soon to move on to greener pastures. I know for sure that it was a Tuesday night, because I recall belting out some karaoke Sinatra and the gal performing a surprisingly decent rendition of “Loving You” (It’s easy ‘cause I’m beautiful) while she stared at me as if I was the only person in the room. I’ll gladly tell you I was the envy of more than one of the many guys in the bar that night.
We were outside having a smoke after indulging our inner lounge singer when a twenty something blonde, skinny girl came up and asked us for a light. I surmised from her sweatshirt that she was a student at Sonoma State University just down the street. The place is literally teeming with these types, so if young, dumb and drunk is what you’re into, you’ve come to the right place. Anyway, this one was drunk for sure and the three of us began conversing.
“What are you up to tonight?” my girl asked.
“Whatever I can get into,” Blondie replied. “I'm fuckin’ pissed at my boyfriend."
“Why is that?” I inquired.
“Sonofabitch took off earlier tonight with some other chick. I told him, ‘hey, you’re supposed to be goin’ home with me.’ But he didn’t give a shit. ‘I’m a poon hound and you knew that,’ he told me. ‘We have an open relationship.’ Well fuck him! You know what? I’m a peen hound, and I’m gonna get some dick tonight if it’s the last thing I do!”
“Damn, too bad I’m with somebody,” I chuckled.
“Shut the fuck up, you idiot,” my girl replied.
And this pretty much sums it up for the Eight Ball. You will be hard pressed to find a bar before Berkeley to the south and Eureka to the north with more young, drunk chicks looking to get laid. In addition, the drinks are stiff and cheap, the bartenders are relatively friendly, (Brett is an especial favorite of mine) the juke box is well stocked and the pool tables are straight and clean. And yeah, it’s a dive. So you’ll feel right at home.
The only thing I can’t understand is why I’ve never been able to score coke at a place called the Eight Ball.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
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