It was a different time-- a brief stint of artists 'cleaned up', if you will-- what I mean is, while it was my control room the talent flowing through were watching what they eat and what they put into their veins... it was mineral water and vegetable trays, fresh lox and bagels, hard to come-by herbal teas and high-dollar imported water. I only heard the stories of mounds of coke on the producers' desk about the years prior: the continual tweaking that became commonplace in the studio sessions... uppers then downers... coke-heads that were hard-drinkers-- hard-drinkers that were coke-heads. You see, there were two types of addicts-- coke-fiends that drank so they could take more coke, and then there were the alcoholics that did coke so they could drink more bourbon: tweakers.
Don't get me wrong, I'm no saint. Funny, really... in my case, even when I was working 20 hrs a day, I still managed to squeeze in a six-pack before hitting the sack every night. And on a regular day? Forget about it. I could polish off a twelve like it was soda. Except I would never drink twelve sodas in 4 hours... that could kill a man, right?. Ah. The things I could have done... I digress, again. As I write this, I'm sitting on 6 years and 133 days in recovery.
I think the whole point of this rant can be summed up as my concern... my fear of becoming lost... even way back then when I was too stupid to live like I might see 34... I knew I was an addict. Exposure to the kind of drugs that I know were among those that entered my control room would mean certain death... figuratively, mainly, but certainly ultimately. And worse than being simply an addict, I am impulsive. Being impulsive can do wonders on a first date, for example. When it comes to things like grocery shopping-- did I really need those HoHo's?-- and drugs, however, we're talking about a bad cocktail... pun's for fun.