Halsey is the stage name of one Ashley Nicolette Frangipan, from New Jersey.
She is a 23-year-old pop artist who is on her second record, Hopeless Fountain Kingdom, having released Badlands in 2015. She has toured with Imagine Dragons and The Weeknd, recorded with The Chainsmokers and Justin Bieber, and is emo to the core, citing Panic! At The Disco as her all-time favourite band.
She spent her late teens dating a heroin addict in New York City and dropping out of college, so he had the regular rebellious lifestyle worthy of a TV biopic.
Oh, and she's way more into P!nk than she lets on, as can be attested by the video for Bad At Love, which she co-directed with Sing J. Lee:
There's a lot of Thelma & Louise in there, as well, of course. Because empowerment.
And because watching and getting inspired by Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore, Gas Food Lodging, Bound, Set It Off, Mulholland Drive, Frida, Suffragette, or Lost And Delirious is not cliché enough for a young soul who only pretends to be interested in cinema.
Showing posts with label heroin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heroin. Show all posts
Thursday, November 30, 2017
Monday, February 3, 2014
R.I.P. Philip Seymour Hoffman
Heeeeerrrooooooiiiinnnnnn
Be the death of me
Heeeeerrrooooooiiiinnnnnn
It's my life (...)
- Lou Reed, The Velvet Underground's Heroin
Academy Award winner Philip Seymour Hofman - a perennial favourite of mine as can be attested in my ''best-of'' lists - died today of an apparent heroin overdose at age 46 in his Manhattan apartment.
The hype machine will likely go nuts - and if it does, it will be more deserved than when it hit Heath Ledger, for sure - but while I don't think he qualifies for the moniker of ''greatest actor of his generation'', he surely ranks among the most consistent, and constantly original ones.
Like William H. Macy, he was as good as the seventh-role in a blockbuster as he was starring in an indie character-driven picture, and my favourite performance of his remains the scene-stealing sexually deranged obscene phone caller in Happiness:
He could be at turns nerdy, shy, subdued, over-the-top, depressed, strong, conniving, lost... always on point.
He will be missed.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Video Of The Week: The Breeders
It's hard to know exactly what to make of The Breeders: Pixies side-project (leader/singer/guitarist/songwriter Kim Deal was the Pixies' bass player and her twin Kelley Deal was almost their drummer), twin sisters' excuse to take drugs (Kelley went to rehab for heroin in 1995; Kim went to rehab in 2002, mostly for alcohol, but she also had drug issues), or one-hit wonders with other interesting - albeit less catchy - tracks?
The term ''breeders'' comes from the gay community: it is how they refer to heterosexuals; this has led to a wide acceptance of the band in their circles. Kim Deal is often said to be ''a straight man and lesbian woman's ideal girl'', although personally, I find Kelley to have aged much better.
In any event, Last Splash may have been their big hit record, but I'll always remember purchasing Pod, their first, in a bargain bin at a record store in 1993, at a mom-and-pop record store somewhere in Connecticut, near a rest stop where we stopped for some Burger King (I asked for "ham-boogers and French flies"... I thought I was hilarious, the cashier didn't care for my brand of 14-year old comedy) on the way back from winning a hockey tournament in Boston.
This song, Divine Hammer - which refers either to heroin or a wonderful penis - was the third single from Last Splash, and its video was co-directed by Spike Jonze, Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon, and transgressive filmmaker Richard Kern.
Kim Deal also tried to start a movement with All Wave, a means of returning music recording back to a time without computers, auto-tune, and all that digital crap. She even got a logo made for it, which I'll have to put on one of my releases someday:
The term ''breeders'' comes from the gay community: it is how they refer to heterosexuals; this has led to a wide acceptance of the band in their circles. Kim Deal is often said to be ''a straight man and lesbian woman's ideal girl'', although personally, I find Kelley to have aged much better.
In any event, Last Splash may have been their big hit record, but I'll always remember purchasing Pod, their first, in a bargain bin at a record store in 1993, at a mom-and-pop record store somewhere in Connecticut, near a rest stop where we stopped for some Burger King (I asked for "ham-boogers and French flies"... I thought I was hilarious, the cashier didn't care for my brand of 14-year old comedy) on the way back from winning a hockey tournament in Boston.
This song, Divine Hammer - which refers either to heroin or a wonderful penis - was the third single from Last Splash, and its video was co-directed by Spike Jonze, Sonic Youth's Kim Gordon, and transgressive filmmaker Richard Kern.
Kim Deal also tried to start a movement with All Wave, a means of returning music recording back to a time without computers, auto-tune, and all that digital crap. She even got a logo made for it, which I'll have to put on one of my releases someday:
Monday, December 28, 2009
J.P.: The Panhandler Who Owes Me $80
It's the time for giving, and receiving; TV ads urge you to do good and give to help people in faraway places. Many provide food and cash locally to shelters and help groups and food banks...
I did better, years ago: I cut out the middle-man. I gave a huge chunk of cash to a begging junkie. Sure, at first, I expected him to give at least some of it back to me, especially because it was supposed to be a loan. But I knew what I was getting into from the start.
It was probably 1997; I was working at L'Échange, the first ''job I've always dreamed of'' that ever let me down (we'll get to that eventually, I promise). Everyday, walking up or down St-Denis street, either while going to or from work, or just hanging out with friends, I'd cross him as he was asking for change. He had a friendly demeanour and stories galore, but I'd never stay too long.
Eventually, he started coming into the store to exchange some of the change he'd collected for bills, sometimes asking if he could page his dealer from the store phone. It only took a few months before he started coming in with 'hot' merchandise he needed to unload for cash. Being the authority figure at the store by that time, I'd always have to be the one to kick him out when he was selling stuff. But as Spring came along, he had a bike for sale: $10. I knew it was wrong, but it was a great deal, and someone was sure to buy it from him at that price, so I bought it; thing is, I only had a 20 on me, and not enough change in the register to trade, so I gave him the 20 in exchange for a promise to bring me back my change, which he did, 5 hours later.
One night, after going out, a bunch of friends and I were looking for a place to eat up on St-Denis when he comes up to me and asks for spare change, but I didn't have any. That's when he first asked to borrow money. I was in a good mood, and perhaps under the influence, so I gave him a $20 bill, right then and there, despite my friends telling me I was nuts. He promised to come bring it back the next day, right and my workplace; which he did.
Came another occasion where he borrowed another 20, which he gave back. Then 40. Same result. Then another 40. But that one never made it back. And every time I'd cross him on the street, he'd promise that he would, eventually, give it back. Then I was fired.
That's when he promised to not only give it back, but with interest - an extra 5 dollars a week taht h would be late for. We were probably in 2000 by this point, and I'd start seeing him more and more - but never on St-Denis. Now he was hanging around Place-Des-Arts, sometimes at McGill. Always remembering our ''new'' arrangement, always up-to-date with his current debt, neevr more than $5 in his pockets at a time, but always ''on the verge of getting clean, man, I swear, I'll be on methadone next week'', which, of course, never happened.
I stopped adding to his debt towards me at $80 - it was just unfair.
And I stopped seeing him around in 2003. I hope he isn't dead; not just because I want my money back, also because he was genuinely a good-natured junkie, one that only lied to those who knew the deal and weren't going to fall for it anyhow, and was polite to the rest.
It'd be too much to hope that he'd gotten out of it, that he'd overcome his habit; only those who can afford to can manage to get off heroin - I'm talking Hollywood-type money; most people are on it until death comes to free them.
There are two ways to look at it - either I got screwed out of $40 and helped feed his demons and make his dealer rich - or I had money I didn't really need at the time (it'd be a totally different story nowadays) and made someone happy for a minute. These days, I'm eyeing #2.
I did better, years ago: I cut out the middle-man. I gave a huge chunk of cash to a begging junkie. Sure, at first, I expected him to give at least some of it back to me, especially because it was supposed to be a loan. But I knew what I was getting into from the start.
It was probably 1997; I was working at L'Échange, the first ''job I've always dreamed of'' that ever let me down (we'll get to that eventually, I promise). Everyday, walking up or down St-Denis street, either while going to or from work, or just hanging out with friends, I'd cross him as he was asking for change. He had a friendly demeanour and stories galore, but I'd never stay too long.
Eventually, he started coming into the store to exchange some of the change he'd collected for bills, sometimes asking if he could page his dealer from the store phone. It only took a few months before he started coming in with 'hot' merchandise he needed to unload for cash. Being the authority figure at the store by that time, I'd always have to be the one to kick him out when he was selling stuff. But as Spring came along, he had a bike for sale: $10. I knew it was wrong, but it was a great deal, and someone was sure to buy it from him at that price, so I bought it; thing is, I only had a 20 on me, and not enough change in the register to trade, so I gave him the 20 in exchange for a promise to bring me back my change, which he did, 5 hours later.
One night, after going out, a bunch of friends and I were looking for a place to eat up on St-Denis when he comes up to me and asks for spare change, but I didn't have any. That's when he first asked to borrow money. I was in a good mood, and perhaps under the influence, so I gave him a $20 bill, right then and there, despite my friends telling me I was nuts. He promised to come bring it back the next day, right and my workplace; which he did.
Came another occasion where he borrowed another 20, which he gave back. Then 40. Same result. Then another 40. But that one never made it back. And every time I'd cross him on the street, he'd promise that he would, eventually, give it back. Then I was fired.
That's when he promised to not only give it back, but with interest - an extra 5 dollars a week taht h would be late for. We were probably in 2000 by this point, and I'd start seeing him more and more - but never on St-Denis. Now he was hanging around Place-Des-Arts, sometimes at McGill. Always remembering our ''new'' arrangement, always up-to-date with his current debt, neevr more than $5 in his pockets at a time, but always ''on the verge of getting clean, man, I swear, I'll be on methadone next week'', which, of course, never happened.
I stopped adding to his debt towards me at $80 - it was just unfair.
And I stopped seeing him around in 2003. I hope he isn't dead; not just because I want my money back, also because he was genuinely a good-natured junkie, one that only lied to those who knew the deal and weren't going to fall for it anyhow, and was polite to the rest.
It'd be too much to hope that he'd gotten out of it, that he'd overcome his habit; only those who can afford to can manage to get off heroin - I'm talking Hollywood-type money; most people are on it until death comes to free them.
There are two ways to look at it - either I got screwed out of $40 and helped feed his demons and make his dealer rich - or I had money I didn't really need at the time (it'd be a totally different story nowadays) and made someone happy for a minute. These days, I'm eyeing #2.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Chasing The Dragon
This one is a weird one; even today, bits of that evening come to me in bizarre flashbacks that barely make any sense until I tack them on to whatever hazy memory I have and somehow the events are reconstructed a little bit more.
There was a particular night this summer, I must have played a show and then we'd gone to party at the bar near my house afterwards, it's pretty much the only way I can account for my friend, The Big E, to have been there.
The details of what went on before things started fucking up are still hazy today; it could have been a night where the Lady Of The House and My Dad had been there where an old woman came on to me a bit hard, grinding against my leg while I was just sitting calmly and talking with the folks at my table, then proceeding to give me a full-on ''I Touch Myself''-style show on a chair she'd pulled next to me and acting like a stripper (but keeping her clothes on, at least). Eventually, though, she was tossed out of the place, and chances are she ended up fucking some panhandler in an alleyway somewhere.
Then again, it may have been a totally different night. Oddly enough, I mostly remember the details of what happened after we'd all had, perhaps, a little too much to drink. There was this drunk nerdy girl, the type you see in movies - kind of cute but that you're pretty sure that is she took her glasses off she'd perhaps be hot, or maybe she'd be the type to get gang-banged by a boatload of sailors, you never know - anyhow, she was playing pool, for all we knew, but at some point when that ended, she came to sit at our table. By then, The Big E and I were the only ones left.
Beers followed glasses of Jack Daniel's, then beer made a comeback. The girl was visibly way too fucking drunk - and so was E. E doesn't require much - usually a single shot of vodka will help derail his whole night - and, even though he stayed on beer all evening (he dislikes JD), he was way past his point of tolerance. Myself, I was in my comfort zone. Closing time - 3 AM - was rearing its ugly head, and I was just getting started.
Last call came and I ordered us a massive round - two beers each, and a quad-JD (four ounces) more for me. They let us finish our drinks before closing the place down, but apparently my partying mood was contagious. Many of the other customers decided it'd be wise to continue ingesting booze in the alley behind the bar; I went home (not even a block away) to grab a 40-ouncer of JD, that I planned to share with Big E.
When I got back, E and the girl were standing outside the bar's locked door, in full view of any and every passer-by, facing each other, forehead-against-forehead. I wouldn't have a problem with it, despite the girl saying she had a boyfriend for most of the time we were inside - he's no concern of mine - except E's Lady is possibly the closest friend I've had this past year, and I won't let him fuck their relationship up for a drunken tart in a shit-hole local bar - at least have it be something meaningful, for fuck's sake. So, when I'm near enough for them to hear me, I say ''am I interrupting anything?''
- No, E answers, you got here just in time.
- Good, I reply, now let's move out back.
They both get out from in front of the door and start walking ahead of me when I notice she's got the worst Plumber's Crack in the history of mankind - pretty much her whole ass is showing. All I could think was to use my best Denis Leary impression and say ''Pull up your fucking pants!'' while pulling them up; I didn't expect her to be so light, so I lifted her two feet in the air in the process. I can still make 'em fly, I guess.
When we got to the alley, sitting relatively comfortably, the girl doing her best to stick to E like glue, everybody there kept telling him to throw her away. We were all drinking, having a good time, when weed started making the rounds; that killed E and pretty much got him to fall asleep right then and there. I had to convince two girls to escort him home - one who had fake teeth, and her friend. I'll get back to the fake-toothed girl in a later post, she's so worth her own chapter, but we got E the hell out of there while his magnetized date-for-the-evening went to throw up. We got her in a cab before she realized what was happening.
Eventually, as more people left, the more obscure - or at least less public - habits and consumptions came to arrive. A girl we've come to nickname Duncan, coming off giving birth to her first child, and her boyfriend, Scary Bald Punk Dude, started doing lines of coke; that's not my scene at all, though, so I politely refused and kept drinking my Jack.
It wasn't long before more weed made the rounds, and for Duncan to offer me a ''special blend'' she'd just bought, in a pipe (I hate fucking pipes). I didn't take much, because it didn't seem right: no smell, no taste, no real buzz. It didn't feel like anything at all, yet I recognized the feeling - I just couldn't put my finger on it.
Suddenly I felt warm inside, like a fever taking over, but putting my hand to my forehead, I didn't feel a change in temperature; I just went back to my bottle, and to the conversation. By then the sun was coming up, and we all went our separate ways. I got home and was relaxed - but I couldn't sleep. And as my brain was trying to figure out why, my heart was pumping because I couldn't come up with an answer; I can usually control my main body functions to an extent that scares people, and when I lose that control, everything fucks up and a feeling of unease, of extreme nausea takes over. It took me a half-hour to get back to normal, and enough energy to do so that I was extenuated and went to sleep. Finally.
The next day was even more bizarre. I wasn't really hung over - that, in itself, wasn't entirely out of the ordinary, because I can take alcohol, but I had ingested copious amounts and was at least expecting a migraine - but I couldn't find the energy to move, either. Lying on my couch, watching TV, when a position had become uncomfortable, I had trouble mustering the strength to just shift over a little. And - another rare occurrence in my case - there were blanks in my recollections.
I remembered E wanting to keep our whereabouts secret, but I recalled having even better arguments in demonstrating that it'd just be easier to ready to disclose most of the night and, perhaps, just leave certain elements out of the retrospection - say, a certain lady whose forehead was glued to his and whose ass was taking in the Montréal air when I got there.
It took me hours to remember I'd smoked up, and a while longer to remember the ''special blend''. I was pissed off at myself for having forgotten, and at having agreed to it in the first place. Then I started wondering just what the hell it was; it couldn't have been pot, that's a given. Pot and coke - or pot and crack? It seemed unlikely, there was no ''uplifting'' effect to it, no heightened senses, no added strength, if anything, it was the opposite. And knowing how I have an ''addictive'' personality (weak self-control when it comes to consuming, whether it be simple stuff like goods or food, or others), I do my best to steer clear of hard drugs because I know I'm the type who wouldn't keep it recreational.
It took a few months during which I'd have occasional flashbacks of second-long moments from that night (yet another unusual occurrence) before I'd remember what that familiar feeling had been; it came to me in the most awkward way, too, reading Slash's autobiography... I'll have a complete post about it later, but when I was a teen, I was prescribed Oxycontin to re-balance my system after having been sick all Winter (something like 6 or 7 tonsillitis's in a row combined with a lack of sleep when Spring came)... and Oxycontin is nothing other than a semi-synthetic form of heroin.
Suddenly, it all made sense: the ''lack'' of effect, of smell, of taste... they weren't what I expected, so I didn't see it coming. The feeling from the next day was explained too: I couldn't get myself to do anything, but my brain was feeling fine, it's just my body that couldn't follow.
I still get flashbacks at times that help make the general picture of that evening clearer, pieces of the puzzle that help piece it back together. And, each time, I'm reminded to not take just anything from people I barely know, and, considering the way I am, to stay the fuck away from that substance because the next time could be the last time I enter a situation with my mind intact.
There was a particular night this summer, I must have played a show and then we'd gone to party at the bar near my house afterwards, it's pretty much the only way I can account for my friend, The Big E, to have been there.
The details of what went on before things started fucking up are still hazy today; it could have been a night where the Lady Of The House and My Dad had been there where an old woman came on to me a bit hard, grinding against my leg while I was just sitting calmly and talking with the folks at my table, then proceeding to give me a full-on ''I Touch Myself''-style show on a chair she'd pulled next to me and acting like a stripper (but keeping her clothes on, at least). Eventually, though, she was tossed out of the place, and chances are she ended up fucking some panhandler in an alleyway somewhere.
Then again, it may have been a totally different night. Oddly enough, I mostly remember the details of what happened after we'd all had, perhaps, a little too much to drink. There was this drunk nerdy girl, the type you see in movies - kind of cute but that you're pretty sure that is she took her glasses off she'd perhaps be hot, or maybe she'd be the type to get gang-banged by a boatload of sailors, you never know - anyhow, she was playing pool, for all we knew, but at some point when that ended, she came to sit at our table. By then, The Big E and I were the only ones left.
Beers followed glasses of Jack Daniel's, then beer made a comeback. The girl was visibly way too fucking drunk - and so was E. E doesn't require much - usually a single shot of vodka will help derail his whole night - and, even though he stayed on beer all evening (he dislikes JD), he was way past his point of tolerance. Myself, I was in my comfort zone. Closing time - 3 AM - was rearing its ugly head, and I was just getting started.
Last call came and I ordered us a massive round - two beers each, and a quad-JD (four ounces) more for me. They let us finish our drinks before closing the place down, but apparently my partying mood was contagious. Many of the other customers decided it'd be wise to continue ingesting booze in the alley behind the bar; I went home (not even a block away) to grab a 40-ouncer of JD, that I planned to share with Big E.
When I got back, E and the girl were standing outside the bar's locked door, in full view of any and every passer-by, facing each other, forehead-against-forehead. I wouldn't have a problem with it, despite the girl saying she had a boyfriend for most of the time we were inside - he's no concern of mine - except E's Lady is possibly the closest friend I've had this past year, and I won't let him fuck their relationship up for a drunken tart in a shit-hole local bar - at least have it be something meaningful, for fuck's sake. So, when I'm near enough for them to hear me, I say ''am I interrupting anything?''
- No, E answers, you got here just in time.
- Good, I reply, now let's move out back.
They both get out from in front of the door and start walking ahead of me when I notice she's got the worst Plumber's Crack in the history of mankind - pretty much her whole ass is showing. All I could think was to use my best Denis Leary impression and say ''Pull up your fucking pants!'' while pulling them up; I didn't expect her to be so light, so I lifted her two feet in the air in the process. I can still make 'em fly, I guess.
When we got to the alley, sitting relatively comfortably, the girl doing her best to stick to E like glue, everybody there kept telling him to throw her away. We were all drinking, having a good time, when weed started making the rounds; that killed E and pretty much got him to fall asleep right then and there. I had to convince two girls to escort him home - one who had fake teeth, and her friend. I'll get back to the fake-toothed girl in a later post, she's so worth her own chapter, but we got E the hell out of there while his magnetized date-for-the-evening went to throw up. We got her in a cab before she realized what was happening.
Eventually, as more people left, the more obscure - or at least less public - habits and consumptions came to arrive. A girl we've come to nickname Duncan, coming off giving birth to her first child, and her boyfriend, Scary Bald Punk Dude, started doing lines of coke; that's not my scene at all, though, so I politely refused and kept drinking my Jack.
It wasn't long before more weed made the rounds, and for Duncan to offer me a ''special blend'' she'd just bought, in a pipe (I hate fucking pipes). I didn't take much, because it didn't seem right: no smell, no taste, no real buzz. It didn't feel like anything at all, yet I recognized the feeling - I just couldn't put my finger on it.
Suddenly I felt warm inside, like a fever taking over, but putting my hand to my forehead, I didn't feel a change in temperature; I just went back to my bottle, and to the conversation. By then the sun was coming up, and we all went our separate ways. I got home and was relaxed - but I couldn't sleep. And as my brain was trying to figure out why, my heart was pumping because I couldn't come up with an answer; I can usually control my main body functions to an extent that scares people, and when I lose that control, everything fucks up and a feeling of unease, of extreme nausea takes over. It took me a half-hour to get back to normal, and enough energy to do so that I was extenuated and went to sleep. Finally.
The next day was even more bizarre. I wasn't really hung over - that, in itself, wasn't entirely out of the ordinary, because I can take alcohol, but I had ingested copious amounts and was at least expecting a migraine - but I couldn't find the energy to move, either. Lying on my couch, watching TV, when a position had become uncomfortable, I had trouble mustering the strength to just shift over a little. And - another rare occurrence in my case - there were blanks in my recollections.
I remembered E wanting to keep our whereabouts secret, but I recalled having even better arguments in demonstrating that it'd just be easier to ready to disclose most of the night and, perhaps, just leave certain elements out of the retrospection - say, a certain lady whose forehead was glued to his and whose ass was taking in the Montréal air when I got there.
It took me hours to remember I'd smoked up, and a while longer to remember the ''special blend''. I was pissed off at myself for having forgotten, and at having agreed to it in the first place. Then I started wondering just what the hell it was; it couldn't have been pot, that's a given. Pot and coke - or pot and crack? It seemed unlikely, there was no ''uplifting'' effect to it, no heightened senses, no added strength, if anything, it was the opposite. And knowing how I have an ''addictive'' personality (weak self-control when it comes to consuming, whether it be simple stuff like goods or food, or others), I do my best to steer clear of hard drugs because I know I'm the type who wouldn't keep it recreational.
It took a few months during which I'd have occasional flashbacks of second-long moments from that night (yet another unusual occurrence) before I'd remember what that familiar feeling had been; it came to me in the most awkward way, too, reading Slash's autobiography... I'll have a complete post about it later, but when I was a teen, I was prescribed Oxycontin to re-balance my system after having been sick all Winter (something like 6 or 7 tonsillitis's in a row combined with a lack of sleep when Spring came)... and Oxycontin is nothing other than a semi-synthetic form of heroin.
Suddenly, it all made sense: the ''lack'' of effect, of smell, of taste... they weren't what I expected, so I didn't see it coming. The feeling from the next day was explained too: I couldn't get myself to do anything, but my brain was feeling fine, it's just my body that couldn't follow.
I still get flashbacks at times that help make the general picture of that evening clearer, pieces of the puzzle that help piece it back together. And, each time, I'm reminded to not take just anything from people I barely know, and, considering the way I am, to stay the fuck away from that substance because the next time could be the last time I enter a situation with my mind intact.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Mitch Hedberg - Do You Believe in Gosh
A friend of mine brought me this today. Mitch Hedberg - if you've never heard his comedy before, do yourself a favour and buy his three records, and watch videos of him on YouTube. He was so fucking funny. It's a shame he couldn't live without drugs; cocaine and heroin are what eventually took him away.
At first (10 years ago, maybe?) I was thrown off by his speech pattern, it was like a Southern accent mixed with an ''I'm reading out loud but never learned to read as a child'' factor, kinda like Bernie Mac, but actually funny. But the minute I got used to it, he was just that much funnier.
Fuck, you've got me: I'll listen to every Hedberg album today!
At first (10 years ago, maybe?) I was thrown off by his speech pattern, it was like a Southern accent mixed with an ''I'm reading out loud but never learned to read as a child'' factor, kinda like Bernie Mac, but actually funny. But the minute I got used to it, he was just that much funnier.
Fuck, you've got me: I'll listen to every Hedberg album today!
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