2001-03-13 - Morning
Caffeine withdrawal does odd things to me. Take yesterday, for example. I�m high-functioning enough to churn out one of the longest-ass entries in the history of Diaryland and yet at the same time I�m nearly blind with one of those awful coffee headaches that feels like someone�s sandblasting the insides of your eyesockets. And any notions of trying to do any actual work quickly vanish into the La Brea tar pits that my brain has turned into. I had the attention span of an autistic two-year-old yesterday.
This morning, I noticed there were still some coffee beans down at the bottom of the container, and if I collected every single one of them I�d have just enough for one pot of coffee. I felt like a damn coke addict getting down on all fours to sniff up all the snow he just accidentally spilled on the carpet.
Which is funny, because I�ve actually seen cokeheads do that.
It was at a club in L.A. in the mid-�80s, of course. Cocaine was still de rigueur for whitebread club-kiddies back then. Hell, maybe it still is--I only tried it once and I hated the way it felt. I love the rush caffeine gives me, but this felt as if I�d just had 10 cups� worth mainlined into my bloodstream all at once, and that was too much. I never went near the shit after that.
Anyway, on this particular night I really, really have to pee. There�s only one stall in the men�s room that my wheelchair could fit into, and naturally it�s taken.
I wait.
And wait.
And wait some more.
Meanwhile, the three beers I just had are about to do a goddamn Chernobyl in my bladder.
The next band is about to start, too, and I want to see them. So before I give up and go outside to piss in the alley, I listen carefully for any telltale ass-wiping sounds indicating that the guy in the stall is about done.
I hear snorting.
Sure enough, through the crack in the door I can see the flash of light from the little mirror the dude�s got in his hand.
Aw, fuck. You mean to tell me I�ve been sitting here in misery like a good little gimp for the last 15 minutes while Mr. Bret Easton Fucking Ellis in there gets lit? No way I�m going out to the alley now. It�s the principle of the thing now.
So, quietly, I sneak up to the side of the stall, and when I judge that the guy�s least expecting it, I start hammering on the door as loud and hard as I can: WHUMPWHUMPWHUMPWHUMPWHUMPWHUMPWHUMP. This is followed by the tinkly sound of the mirror being dropped on the floor, then a loud FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK. Then, through the space under the stall door I can see him crawling around and sniffing up as much spilled coke as he can along with God-knows-whatever else is part of the residue on the men�s room floor of a club in Hollywood.
In retrospect, I�m surprised the dude didn�t kick my ass. But as he left all he did was glare pissily at me. I just gave him my best little Jerry�s Kids smile and locked the door behind him before he came back and decided to beat the shit out of me after all.
I tell you, that�s the most satisfying whizz I ever took.
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