Jeepers, had crazy crazy night last night. After art opening, which was mild and quite reasonable, went home to drink with teenagers, then opened up some champagne, after which was attacked by emotional crisis, resorting in quick retreat to where else...Voinland.
This is a sequel in many ways to two previous posts: the gay boyfriend, and Leave Now, it smells like onions.
Voin, as many of my faithful readers already know, is my gay boyfriend. He takes me shopping, chaperones me to all the best parties, general conspirator on all sorts of nefarious schemes, and my friendster friendster. Since I've met him, we've become combustible, exploding into all sorts of Russian grandmother fashion schemes, and terrorizing everyone with free stupid laughs at our expense. He's the best...though sometimes watching him layer five jackets, starting with neon and ending in macintosh can give me second thoughts.
But, like a true gay boyfriend, he has a 100% ERA with emotional curveballs. Last night I ran screaming from the apartment at 3am, phoned him, where he came rushing by in his little red car, and we sped off into the night so that I could cry on the highway. Terrible start. Anyways, in between several sputterings, smoked a couple of joints, felt more relaxed, and started to prepare for party at the flea market at Clignacourt.
Twice a year the flea market there hosts a big party. When we got there, at 3:30am, the party was most definitely on some strange legs. First, when we were circling the area, and everything looked dead, we tried to find someone to tell us where the party was. We turned the corner and saw a couple, the man holding a giant sunflower, and the girl, dressed all in white and highheels, keeling over on the sidewalk, lurching over a hood of a car, and puking her brains out, before sitting heavily down. Disgusting.
So we roll down the window and do the obvious.
-Excusez-moi, mais est-ce que vous savez où est la fête?
(Excuse me, but would you happen to know where is the party?)
-Oui, c'est juste là. Tu dois tourner et entrer par la rue derrière
(Yes, it's just there. You have to turn and enter by the street behind you.)
-Uhm, merci, bon soirée.
(Uhm, thank you, and have a good evening.)
So we park the car right in front of the entrance, and, piling out, are immediately assaulted by an unusually tasteless track of techno. Gluck. Then, at the door, there's a like gorilla asking us if we have invitations, and I say...NO, Vincent invited us.--Vincent who?--Vincent Voillat.-- Vincent Voillat?--Yes, Vincent Voillat.--I don't know any Vincent Voillat.--Oh really?--(silence)
--ok, go in.
Then, two steps through the door, something rings wrong. Everybody here is beyond wasted, tittering, doing weird rotating movements with the tops of their bodies while their bottoms are stationary. They don't seem to be drunk. They seem to be incredibly high. There's tons and tons of monkeys here, guys in suits. It's a nasty crowd and people are pushing and falling over each other.
We finally get to the bar, and Voin is freaking out...he's like, this place is awful. It's the most terrible party ever. But, hey there's the open bar. The bartender says, "we only have whiskey," which changes to "we only have white wine," to "we only have vodka," all in under 1 minute. This place is insanity. So finally snag a whiskey while Voin takes the vodka.
Head off deep into the house, which is jam packed, and everybody mad high, and finally find a weird slightly official looking room with, you guessed it, a "round table." So Julia screams out "it's a round table, let's go sit there."
But I'm not stupid. We're not round table material. I can see all those people sitting around the table...two of them have pony tails and one girl has seriously fake boobs...I'm not stupid... Those guys are responsible for this mess of a party. It's too obvious, and they're mafia to boot!
And then Voin says, "let's smoke another joint." And I'm too freaked out to say no. So, as he starts to roll, I realize that the whiskey is kind of weird...that it has this strange taste to it. And suddenly, just in mid-pause, Voin turns and says:
"Oh my God! This is a GHB party!"
"What WHAT WHAT!??"
"A GHB party. It's that new drug. You get really messed up and then you don't remember anything. People can take advantage of you."
"Shit, we're going to get ass-fucked!"
"Oh my God! What a terrible night!"
"Oh Voin, I'm such a loser!"
"Well....let's have a toast to that!!"
So we're too stupid to say no, and we keep drinking our dumb drinks, and smoking our stupid drugs, and nothing really happens. The two people seated next to us pass out from some sort of extreme inebriation. Other friends show up. We try to freak them out with GHB stories, and it works really well, that we move on to ACID..."There's acid in the drinks man!!!" That doesn't work as well because people are too buried in their GHB paranoia, and trying to say sober while frantically drinking more (why do we all want to get ass-fucked so badly?), that eventually friends go crazy and leave. We finally can't take it any longer and decide to brave the dance floor (because we need more drinks and the bar is there).
At the dance floor, it's even more dumb. There are these two guys dancing in front of a potted tree. There's flashing lights buried in the pot. Suddenly, one of the guys turns around and stands right in front of the other guy. He then grabs branches on either side of his friend's head and shakes the tree in tribal frenzy. Potted plant almost falls on top of the two of them, but instead they fall and potted plant wins.
Then, turn around to see two guys doing very lascivious licking lips dance, while pointing fingers in disco style, in sync, in front of girl standing on a chair. But the girl is a midget and with the chair, she's normal height.
Start giggling furiously. Finally night comes to an end as neighbours call cops for 18th time and this time the bribes don't work. Go home driven by designated driver, who might or might not be sober, but is definitely novice at stick shift.
Get home to realize that left keys at house (in mad sad rush), code for door changed and don't remember new code, landline disconnected from last internet use, and dacnar's cellphone turned off for night. Stuck outside in early morning cold. Manage, after 4 tries, to guess the new code (I'm so smart! Ok, they didn't change the codes after all and I was paranoid), then punch our apartment buzzer, let in, bed warm, hot chocolate, snuggle and all thoughts of bad vibes and stupid argument completely evaporated in loving embrace and warm feet. Almost ready to be ass-fucked, but GHB all gone out of system.
GHB FACTS (checked today)
GHB is usually taken orally. It is sold as a light-colored powder that easily dissolves in liquids or as a pure liquid packaged in vials or small bottles. In liquid form, it is clear, odorless, tasteless, and almost undetectable when mixed in a drink. GHB is typically consumed by the capful or teaspoonful at a cost of $5 to $10 per dose. The average dose is 1 to 5 grams and takes effect in 15 to 30 minutes, depending on the dosage and purity of the drug. Its effects last from 3 to 6 hours.
Consumption of less than 1 gram of GHB acts as a relaxant, causing a loss of muscle tone and reduced inhibitions. Consumption of 1 to 2 grams causes a strong feeling of relaxation and slows the heart rate and respiration. At this dosage level, GHB also interferes with blood circulation, motor coordination, and balance. In stronger doses, 2 to 4 grams, pronounced interference with motor and speech control occurs. A coma-like sleep may be induced, requiring intubation to wake the user. When mixed with alcohol, the depressant effects of GHB are enhanced. This can lead to respiratory depression, unconsciousness, coma, and overdose.
Side effects associated with GHB may include nausea, vomiting, delusions, depression, vertigo, hallucinations, seizures, respiratory distress, loss of consciousness, slowed heart rate, lowered blood pressure, amnesia, and coma. GHB can become addictive with sustained use.
According to the Drug Abuse Warning Network (DAWN), GHB emergency department (ED) mentions have increased from 56 in 1994 to 3,340 in 2001 (see table).