The result of this (semi-restrained) debauch is that I now have to convince an actual history professor that I was simply being hyperbolic when I said that I would write an academic paper on James Joyce and his probable drug use. He was drunk as well (and insufferably East-Coast) and made the mistake of believing a single word I said. Poor bastard4.
So several thoughts are bouncing around my poor, besieged cerebrum:
- History is the proud papa of most of the "hard sciences"6.
- Lit people, and by extension, all "soft sciences" people are weird (more below.)(not below, below7. below here)
- As you may have read in my previous blog, I get a sick, tight sort of pleasure screwing with psychologists/therapists, especially female mental-health pros. I know, I know, to the psych world out there it screams out some nonsense about insecurities and self-image. But to the rest of us, it's just good, clean fun. No actual people8 get hurt.
The mess that I am in happened after we were listening to some chicks at the party clucking like hens about Jane Austen. We quickly derailed the conversation with REAL literature (Joyce) and how you can't understand Ulysses or Finnegan's Wake unless you have taken the good drugs. This lead to speculation on Joyce's choices (heheheheh) of drug, hallucinogenic or otherwise.
At this point I pronounced with the assuredness and wisdom that comes from drinking too many Miller High-Lifes that Joyce did the drugs, I will prove it and publish a paper!
Fuck.
The professor seems to believe that I will actually do this.
However, I did recall a passage in Ulysses where the character buys some soap from a druggist and considers the following:
"Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character"
-- James Joyce, Ulysses, P81 (Penguin)
The narrator is talking about the chemist (pharmacist) and how, as a result of the drug smells in the air and being a druggist, he a shrunken dude; also, in overtones of self-realization, (the whole point of the book, really) the the narrator is talking about his experiences of getting really, really twisted and the exhaustion of recovering the next day, lather, rinse, repeat.
I have never once spoken with anyone, who has never taken drugs (of any nature), that even begins to comprehend the quote above.
Therefore, as the attitude towards drugs in general was more relaxed in those days, and only through experience (or a really good writing assistant) could an author actually understand how they change you (the better/worse argument will come at a later date), we come to the obvious conclusion that Joyce smoked the kind/chased the dragon/rode the rails/<insert colloquialism here>
Well, that's nice: I wasn't planning on getting in to a literary discussion with you unwashed yokels. But it seems to have turned out that way.
OH! I am no longer scared of space aliens.
For those that do not know me well, I have (had) only one fear. Space fucking aliens. (Those sneaky bastards, kidnapping and raping up the rednecks)
Well at the party I met my "Invasion of the Bodysnatchers" doppelganger.
His name was Pete. He was wearing a hat and was unshaved. He was, like I, built for comfort, not speed. He was wearing a GI Joe t-shirt. We both brought Miller High-Life (THE FUCKING CHAMPAGNE OF BEERS9). It creeped Bunny right the fuck out.
So yeah, your hero is simply too tough for the damned bodysnatchers, 'cause as everyone knows, if they make a double, they kill you or something; I survived, so I am no longer afraid of aliens.
<Ennui enters stage right. Exeunt alles.>
1 - It was billed as a barbecue. People, seriously: If there are not large meat items being slowly cooked via indirect heat and smoke, it is not a barbecue. It is just cooking outside. I will probably post on this subject alone soon2.
2 - Likely never, as I get kinda distracted by things3.
3 - Let's go ride bikes!
4 - I'm sure his parents were married5
5 - I mean, not to each other, but they were married.
6 - Philosophy is their mother, but she's kinda a hoochie: We're not at all sure about Meteorology's father. (At least those of us in Seattle are firmly convinced that Meteorology is the developmentally disabled result of a drunken, sweaty night in Cabo)
7 - this is below, below. I am having a blast with the footnotes thing. HA! I just realized, this is a footnote about footnotes. How meta is THAT? Suck it, Lit people.
8 - Most psych pros are NOT people, they are simply a biological placeholder for the sum of all their neurosis and "daddy issues". Have you never heard of "Physician, heal thyself"? I swear it's the main reason they get into psych to begin with. Trust me, I dated a psych major and then a full-blown psychiatrist - They were some crazy bitches. TOTALLY worth it in the sack, though. Crazy in the head means crazy in the bed.
9 - You know how I know that? IT SAYS SO ON THE GAWD-DAMNED CAN. <- for Zach
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