I'm a big fan of the Theory of Relativity. The following
first occurred to me while I was weeded out of my gourd, naked, and listening
to the Flaming Lips and Van Halen, though not at the same time.
When life seems out of whack, it's best to get back to the basics-- what your
mom or junior-high TAG teacher used to call "getting your priorities straight"
and your hippie neighbor refers to as "grassroots." And while I love
getting some, being straight, and watching Roots in late-night syndication,
not to mention doing all of the above with the help of some quality grass, there's
already an equation out there into which you can plug in your own standards
and behavior at any given moment to see if something's out of proportion.
Call it behavioral V-8, troubleshooting; whatever. Remember when Han Solo plugged
C3PO into the Millennium Falcon's hyperdrive so he could learn how to fix it?
It's just like that, and doing this yourself will prevent you from being the
Bathroom Buzzkiller at your next fabulous house party-- think of how much more
blow you can cram up your face if your chin no longer wags about how goddamn
fucked-up your path to righteousness has gotten of late, and who's to blame
for it all!
Your salvation, simply put, is right here:
E = mc2
To begin, take the three elements necessary to sustain life on
Earth-- sex, drugs, and rock and roll-- and start substituting them for the
variables Energy, Mass, and the Velocity of Light (c). Then "plug them
in" (as your pre-algebra/gym coach used to tell you) in whichever combination
best describes your antics, keeping in mind the following guidelines:
1. Be honest. God is watching.
2. There is only one balanced form for this equation, so if yours
doesn't turn out similarly, you will slowly start seeing why and how your transmission
isn't working-- or whatever your social deal happens to be. Maybe it's time
for a new serpentine belt, or maybe you just require a little rotation. The
great thing in any case is that everyone's different all right, but there's
only one answer to all life's highly subjective and individualized little questions--
relatively speaking, of course. The "right way," then, is only and
always as follows:
Rock and Roll = Sex x Drugs2
3. Now think back to the last time your bitching and moaning really bummed
the shit out of your crackhead friends. What were you doing, what was the big
fuss about, and most importantly, what WEREN'T you doing?
Take my friend Jesse for example, who once dropped a half-ounce
of Peruvian baby laxative on a coffee table (shouldn't it be called a whiskey
table?) and proceeded to whine about how not-high he was, all the while frenetically
crossing the room like one of those wind-up Chihuahuas from Spencer's Gifts
that had had a Sears car battery nestled up against its plastic prostate.
Not-high, my suppositorized ass! I think one of poor Jesse's
eyeballs actually fell out by the fireplace, but who knows, because I never
did find the remote-control to press "pause" on his one-man program.
All the while, we're trying to watch one of the silver screen's great faits
accomplis, Let There Be Rock, and he doesn't even know the fucking
music's cranked to Eviction Level 3.
Man, I hadn't seen the guy in 2 years, and I probably won't until Nancy Reagan
plays bass for Metallica or something, because shit, man, at the end of it all
I had to watch Jesse deny my other friend Brian "his" last line, and
never got any leg all night long because everyone was in a shitty mood on account
of Jesse's not-highness. Fuck.
Jesse's big problem was that he tried to change the equation. That stupid night,
his version looked like this:
Drugs = Sex x Rock and Roll2
or maybe like this:
Drugs = Rock and Roll x Sex2
...but sadly, it hardly matters where the last two variables go because Drugs
took the place of Energy, the variable that can stand alone on the left side
of the equation, being equal to the product of the other two. In our version
of the Theory of Relativity, this variable, which can and will abide independently
for time immemorial, should be Rock and Roll.
4. People live without sex-- or at least, so I've heard-- and drugs... well,
shit; even I've gone without, although the way I see it, if you're reading this,
you're getting off on something. But try imagining a world without music. No
really, try it! What's that? Oh, there's no such thing! Not even for the deaf,
the paraplegic lay, Amy Grant, Michael Bolton or Yo' Mama.
Einstein knew this to be the case for good old-fashioned Energy as well, which
really helped him with that Nobel Prize thing later on in life. I can live without
the speed of light, or at least, it's a hell of a lot more plausible than living
without Energy, and Mass... well, try having Mass without Energy. Not only is
such an idea ludicrous, it's also Lutheran.
Try having sex without music. Clunky.
Try doing drugs without music. Junky.
Maybe you're a nymphomaniac. Can't say I blame you, but where's the slo jams,
the art... the freakin' SOUL, sister? Where's the drugs to distract you enough
to get out of the sheets and into the shop to recondition a bit? After all,
even the boys down at Snap-On Toys know you should change your oil every 3000
miles, you rancid slut. Or three months, whichever comes first. Maybe you're
one of those insipid types that always has to call it "love," and
blackmail your boyfriend who has been shredding drums since the halcyon days
of keeping Clearasil in business, strapping on the chastity belt until he promises
to cancel the Japan leg of his tour, claiming that his "hobby" has
just gone too far. It's boring barnacles like you who invented fucking hobbies
in the first place.
5. The correct proportion of the last two weaker elements is likewise invariable:
recall how indiscernible Jesse's organization of sex versus rock and roll was
because of his being stranded in the proverbial blow-blizzard?
This was his second deadly foible, albeit a common symptom among those who
start spelling "drugs" with a capital-D. There is, at the risk of
sounding like a broken record, only one way to go on the right side of the equation
as well, which is to make sure that it is drugs, and not sex, that gets the
exponent. Obviously, this is not because drugs thus get amplified by their own
power--rather, they should be the smallest variable of the three, requiring
"to the power of two" just to make the cut.
Raging, chronic alcoholics don't remember getting it on, cocaine dick is only
funny as a conversation piece (except in Texas, where Bushes must reproduce
by just adding Jack Daniels or something), and heroin...shit, man. If you've
never had a squeeze who couldn't kick, send me your address and I'll forward
you a certificate for the Luckiest Motherfucker of the Year award, along with
a coupon book for 12 free dinners at Shari's where you can eat my shit all year
long. And you can send me your vibrator.
Even weed has its limits: smoke pot every time you get busy, and before you
know it, you'll actually be eating lunch during your lunch breaks, watching
movies in theatres, and using the loo to take a piss. When Becca Jo the tambourine
player is straddling your '74 Satellite while her cousin Ramona dangles from
the awning of the neighborhood bar come closing time, and you have to go home
real quick and get your pipe, you'll wish you'd listened.
Sometimes I think people get it wrong so often because of the cliche, "Sex,
Drugs, and Rock and Roll," but if you really stop and think about it, it's
saving the Best for Last. You don't try to break down a cake if you're out of
eggs and milk, and you shouldn't get your recipe for life wrong either. Because
spice really is the spice of life, but as everyone who's ever read "The
Dirt" knows, your cake will fall if you grease the pan too much, and it
will harden if you use too much sugar.
Bon appetit, and let there be ROCK!
Romalyn Schmaltz is probably not her real
name. Then again, if you confessed to seven felonies per paragraph, you might
use a pseudonym as well. She may or may not live in Portland, OR, and this is
her first essay for Lime Tea.
