I’d ask if they have no shame, but we all know the answer to that.
Ah the Schadenfreude!
First, the stone which was cast:
David Carr: “If it’s Kansas, Missouri, no big deal. You know, that’s the
dance of the low-sloping foreheads. The middle places, right? [pause]
Did I just say that aloud?”
Every addict is formed in the crucible of the memory of that first hit.
Even as the available endorphins attenuate, the memory is right there.
By 1985, I tried freebasing coke and its more prosaic sibling, crack.
“Crackhead” is an embarrassing line item to have on a résumé. If meth
tweakers had not come along and made a grab for the crown — meth makes
you crazy and toothless — crackheads would be at the bottom of the
junkie org chart. In the beginning, smokable cocaine fills you with
childlike wonder, a feeling that the carnival had come to town and
chosen your cranium as the venue for its next show. There is only one
thing that appeals after a hit of crack, and it is not a brisk walk
around the block to clear one’s head. Most people who sample it get a
sense of its lurid ambush and walk away.
Many years later, my pal Donald sat in a cabin in Newport, Minn.,
staring into a video camera I had brought and recalling the crackhead
version of me.
I’ll take those folks from flyover country with the alleged “low-sloping foreheads” over a crack head any day of the week and twice on Sundays.
UPDATE: Bryan Preston of PJM writes:
Aside: The New York Times is now known to hire illegal aliens and crackheads. Just sayin’.
The alleged Paper of Record is the Paper With a Record.