Read Online Red-Dirt Marijuana: And Other Tastes by Terry Southern - Free Book Online
Authors: Terry Southern
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might have been expected, take quick deep drags, wink without smiling, and say in a low voice, “Crazy, man.”
He never identified himself, but he was usually remembered as “an old guy who knew a goddam hell of a lot about music,” or again, by such as the drummer, as a “pretty stuffy cat.”
“Ralph,” said Professor Thomas, “let me get this straight. Do you mean you’re going to submit to drug injections?”
His hands clasped under his chin, Dr. Warner smiled, even sheepishly, though as one could see, with a certain secure pride.
“What sort of drugs, Ralph?” George Drew came in, having already chosen a side. “Heroin, I imagine,” said Dr. Warner easily. Professor Thomas started to speak, but took a sip from his drink instead and pursed his lips.
“This may strike you as a bit old-fashioned,” he said then, completely ignoring George Drew, “but isn’t there a very real physiological danger in heroin injections—for a man of your age, Ralph?”
Ralph Warner shook his head. “I won’t main-line,” he said soberly. “Just skin-popping. Anyway, on single dosages, cardiac response is negligible. I’ve looked into it, of course.”
George Drew, who was thirty-five years old, was beginning to resemble his undergraduate photographs at Princeton. He sat forward in the chair, spoke carefully and, as usual, seemed to put an emphasis on every other word. “Ralph, as I get it, ‘main-line’ is to take the stuff directly into a blood vein; and the other, ‘skin-pop,’ or ‘skin-popping’ is a muscle or tissue injection, right? But now, what exactly is the difference?”
“Flash,” said Dr. Warner expansively, then paused to smile at Professor Thomas who had audibly scoffed over the question. “You see what I mean by language, eh? Well, the immediacy of effect in main-lining is called the flash. Something you don’t get in skin-popping, where the effect is relatively gradual.”
“Just what is the effect?” asked Professor Thomas, as though he were already bored with it.
George Drew shifted in his chair, impatient; and Dr. Warner waved his hands, vaguely protesting. “Oh, I’m sure it’s very subjective, of course, Tom. A sort of will-less euphoria, I suppose. Sensations of security and general well-being. Wish-fulfillment. Self-sufficiency, if you like. Followed, I imagine, by depression, or letdown.”
From Bach to Be-bop was, by publisher’s choice, the title of Dr. Warner’s book. And the Doctor sometimes told the story of how he had indulged them in this, only, of course, after stressing its obvious anomaly.
The book’s opening plate was a diagram of the ear, and its second a sample of cuneiform writing; moreover, it was not until page fifty-one that there was mention even of Gregorian chant. And yet he would often end the story by admitting their point that, after all, three-quarters of the book was so concerned, with Bach and thereafter.
“What I tell them is this: ‘I’ll write it. You can name it, eh? And you can sell it!’ ” A well-received story. A funny story by a famous man, and the way the Doctor would laugh and shake his head gave the impression that he thought publishers like young women, dealings with whom called for, if anything, a slightly amused condescension.
“For one thing,” said Professor Thomas at last, “it’s against the law. Very much so. Against the law, and dangerous .”
“Calculated risks, eh Ralph?” said George Drew happily.
“Or, occupational hazards,” replied Ralph Warner, glowing with modesty.
“Good Lord!” Professor Thomas finished his drink. “I’ll stick to Scotch myself.” He poured himself another and stirred in quite a bit of soda. “Drug poisoning. Addiction. An unclean needle and you could die of tetanus during your euphoria.”
“Please,” said Ralph Warner, half jokingly, “let’s not speak of needles. ”
“Well, there you are,” said Professor Thomas and took another sip, grimacing.
Shortly
He never identified himself, but he was usually remembered as “an old guy who knew a goddam hell of a lot about music,” or again, by such as the drummer, as a “pretty stuffy cat.”
“Ralph,” said Professor Thomas, “let me get this straight. Do you mean you’re going to submit to drug injections?”
His hands clasped under his chin, Dr. Warner smiled, even sheepishly, though as one could see, with a certain secure pride.
“What sort of drugs, Ralph?” George Drew came in, having already chosen a side. “Heroin, I imagine,” said Dr. Warner easily. Professor Thomas started to speak, but took a sip from his drink instead and pursed his lips.
“This may strike you as a bit old-fashioned,” he said then, completely ignoring George Drew, “but isn’t there a very real physiological danger in heroin injections—for a man of your age, Ralph?”
Ralph Warner shook his head. “I won’t main-line,” he said soberly. “Just skin-popping. Anyway, on single dosages, cardiac response is negligible. I’ve looked into it, of course.”
George Drew, who was thirty-five years old, was beginning to resemble his undergraduate photographs at Princeton. He sat forward in the chair, spoke carefully and, as usual, seemed to put an emphasis on every other word. “Ralph, as I get it, ‘main-line’ is to take the stuff directly into a blood vein; and the other, ‘skin-pop,’ or ‘skin-popping’ is a muscle or tissue injection, right? But now, what exactly is the difference?”
“Flash,” said Dr. Warner expansively, then paused to smile at Professor Thomas who had audibly scoffed over the question. “You see what I mean by language, eh? Well, the immediacy of effect in main-lining is called the flash. Something you don’t get in skin-popping, where the effect is relatively gradual.”
“Just what is the effect?” asked Professor Thomas, as though he were already bored with it.
George Drew shifted in his chair, impatient; and Dr. Warner waved his hands, vaguely protesting. “Oh, I’m sure it’s very subjective, of course, Tom. A sort of will-less euphoria, I suppose. Sensations of security and general well-being. Wish-fulfillment. Self-sufficiency, if you like. Followed, I imagine, by depression, or letdown.”
From Bach to Be-bop was, by publisher’s choice, the title of Dr. Warner’s book. And the Doctor sometimes told the story of how he had indulged them in this, only, of course, after stressing its obvious anomaly.
The book’s opening plate was a diagram of the ear, and its second a sample of cuneiform writing; moreover, it was not until page fifty-one that there was mention even of Gregorian chant. And yet he would often end the story by admitting their point that, after all, three-quarters of the book was so concerned, with Bach and thereafter.
“What I tell them is this: ‘I’ll write it. You can name it, eh? And you can sell it!’ ” A well-received story. A funny story by a famous man, and the way the Doctor would laugh and shake his head gave the impression that he thought publishers like young women, dealings with whom called for, if anything, a slightly amused condescension.
“For one thing,” said Professor Thomas at last, “it’s against the law. Very much so. Against the law, and dangerous .”
“Calculated risks, eh Ralph?” said George Drew happily.
“Or, occupational hazards,” replied Ralph Warner, glowing with modesty.
“Good Lord!” Professor Thomas finished his drink. “I’ll stick to Scotch myself.” He poured himself another and stirred in quite a bit of soda. “Drug poisoning. Addiction. An unclean needle and you could die of tetanus during your euphoria.”
“Please,” said Ralph Warner, half jokingly, “let’s not speak of needles. ”
“Well, there you are,” said Professor Thomas and took another sip, grimacing.
Shortly
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