A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || May 4, 2001 || 8:32 am

We were up in heaven / But now we’re in the mud / We fell off the wagon / You should have heard the thud / We were so superior / But that was just a phase / We were high on life / For fourteen boring days

Bartenders got insulted / When we would insist / On ginger ale, Perrier / Or soda with a twist / On the airplane we were good guys / We sat where folks don’t smoke / At the party they were all surprised / When we turned down a toke

We kicked nicotine and caffeine / And alcohol and cannibis / We copped an ounce of clarity and / We scored a pound of bliss / But I kept having nightmares / And you kept gaining weight / We gave in to our withdrawal pains / And finally took the bait

In no time we were hooked again / Suckers that we are / Life of every party and / The fly in every bar / Two weeks on the wagon / ‘Till we toppled off / I got back my headaches / And you got back your cough

We were up in heaven / But now we’re in the mud / We fell off the wagon, man / You should have heard the thud / We were so superior / But that was just a phase / We were high on life / For fourteen boring days

We were high on life / For fourteen boring days

Loudon Wainwright III, “Heaven and Mud”


The song makes me laugh whenever I hear it. It makes me laugh to such an extent that I will hit repeat three or four times.

Being a junkie is such a strange dichotomy….there are the stories that make you laugh and laugh, things that could only happen when you are so chemically altered that you start talking to your hand and shit. Then there are those things that are so morbidly gross (or is it grossly morbid??) about it all. Losing that span of time between 2 a.m. when you left the club and sort of coming to consciousness in the car around 11 a.m., never having slept in the first place. You just sort of slipped off out there…somewhere….

“Hey,” you think, “I am riding down the highway in my bra and skirt and unlaced boots.” Quick survey of your surroundings reveals your socks and shirt in the back window and your best friend driving along, humming away, physical appearance akin to yours, but not exactly knowing where her shirt landed. Maybe that’s why you took yours off in the first place? To make her feel more at ease. Yeah, okay….

I feel that I must add here the fact that I never fucked for drugs. I don’t know why, but that is important to me, okay??

I spiralled down one time, cleaned up, and then some years later spiralled down again. Toward the end of it, Sydd (aforementioned best pal) and I fell into a distinct pattern. I worked nights at the time and I would roll on in around 7:30 a.m. and wake her up. She and I both hate leaving the embrace of a good, solid slumber. The party playing waker would be the stoic victim, firm in the given task, steady in the face of the wakee’s hurled epithets and shoes. This was easy, knowing that the wakee truly had no idea of their vile behavior.

After rousing her and doling out the requisite shots of caffeine and nicotine, one of us would roll a joint or pack one of the many pipes we owned. “Smokaway, hey-hey!” and I would chill out and watch my Young Ones videos while she raided the cabinets (for a five-foot-one, 98-pounder, the girl could put away some food, let me tell ya) and got ready for work. At 8:55 she was immaculately groomed and out the door, aiming for a 9 a.m. clock-in at work. ~~Sydd drives worse than me, y’all.~~ I would then piddle around with laundry, writing, a long bubble bath and 11 a.m. would see her back at the house, yelling, “Hey man, where’s the pipe??” and we would smoke up and talk before she went back to work.

I’d head off to beddy-bye. If I was fortunate enough to be able, I would sleep until 9 p.m. or so. Then Sydd would set to the task of waking me. She would endure my abuses for about thirty minutes, then present my caffeine and nicotine to me. She’d then crank up the stereo or drag out my guitar and beg me to sing while she rolled us one. In all my years of pot smoking, I never did learn how to roll a decent joint. Some things you just don’t have a talent for. Some things you just cannot learn. I was more interested in content rather than presentation.

So we’d smoke up, and generally other people had congregated at the house while I snoozed my last couple of hours, bringing us food and beer and harder druggage. Sydd and I would huddle together on the sofa, giggling at our own private jokes and fueling the lesbian fantasies of the males (and hell, as it turned out later) and a couple of the females that hung with us. Around 11:15 I would glumly gather my things for work and 11:30 saw the door hitting me in the ass. Sydd would slip a tightly-rolled doob in my backpack and during my 3 a.m break I would sneak up on the roof with Maynard and Hubie and we’d smoke out in true Willie Nelson fashion.

I worked at a chemical plant. Lots of HazMat-worthy caustic shit in there. Many flammables and barely-stable concotions. Now isn’t that a little hoot??

7 a.m., gather my gear, wave bye to the guys and head out. Home again to start the routine over. Weekends were reserved for the ‘real’ substances, heroin and x and crystal and (fill in the blank, toots). And coke. Who can forget the MIGHTY, MIGHTY, I’m-a-gonna-grab-Jett-by-the-guts-and-always-sit-there-gnawing cocaine?? Yeah, I ran it, but I never, never smoked it like some cheap crack whore. Just who d’you think I am, mister? A junkie with standards, that’s what. What an absolute fucking riot.

Funny how Sydd and I worked. It was strange. We were exact physical opposites….I am dark-skinned, blonde, way tall. She is fair-skinned with black hair and tiny in stature. We both have blue eyes and in-your-face personalities. From the moment we first met, it was amazing. We shared the same outlook, attitudes and theories. We would seamlessly and effortlessly finish one another’s sentences. One of us was constantly beginning a conversation about what the other was pondering at any given moment. It was nuts. It was cooooool.

So it was no surprise when one Saturday morning after about 45 days straight stoned we looked at one another and said (I don’t recall who actually spoke the sentiment aloud), “Enough, maaaan….” and we smoked the rest of our stash and that was it. We threw away anything else and started turning people away at the door.

We still went dancing every single weekend, frequenting a new set of clubs where nobody knew us and there would not be substances given to us hand over fist. We went hiking and fishing and camping and road-tripped more. “I can have fun without drugs” was our mantra, individually and collectively. Every so often we would get high, but it became more and more infrequent and hard drugs never entered the picture anymore. We held marathon card games at the house where the only abuse involved Corona and large greasy pizzas. We shopped like hell. I have the best lingerie collection now.


as disappointing as it may be to some of you, I sometimes miss kicking back with Sydd and firing one up and bouncing ideas for stories and lyrics off of her. I miss our marijuana-fueled exchanges. It was like a warm, smoky blanket that calmed our over-active thoughts, eased our intense personalities. Hokey as hell, I know, but true….

Nobody worked it out »

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