Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
ticipating, rejuvenating to the heady downbeat where he would light up with giddy fulfill-
ment. Lou Reed's lyric deconstructed a single word down to three syllables
heh roh win
and
the meaning of life and death, because death only triggers new life, check it out, let it go, get
it on, if you can. A lyric of life beginning with the smack flowing would not be popular these
days, possibly not even allowed. But who said the 60s was all sweetness and light?
Rhythm and rhyme flowed forth so unbelievably, profoundly true, and it was an album
anyone could go out and buy and do the same thing with, whether they wanted to hit smack
or speed or anything. Who cared which rocket fuel got you into orbit? What difference did it
make with no rules anyway? It didn't, and it couldn't get any neater than that.
It did seem strangely practical in Jimmy and Heavy Greg's hard-drug, rock 'n' roll anarchy
to save the Velvet Underground's ultimate cut for special occasions so they wouldn't get tired
of the music—or too strung out on junk. Speed seemed easier to manage, and though the boys
would have wilted in their boots at the first suggestion that their approach to partying down
like no tomorrow was in the least
moderate
, they could still survive with honor. So they agreed
that hitting speed instead of heroin most of the time for the synchronous beginning of
Heroin
would keep the Reaper amused but for the time being keep him at bay too. He could be such
a rascal, insisting on the constant tease, though everyone knew that's where he would leap out
of his apparent lethargy and take you quicker than snacks on the run.
Heavy Greg could not handle the idea of shooting LSD anymore than he could see the fun
in stepping of the curb in front of a bus. But wait a minute. Greg was no pussy, no way—you
think it was for nothing everyone called him Heavy Greg? But that didn't mean he was crazy.
Shooting LSD? Well, of course you could. Nobody said you couldn't, and everybody knew you
could shoot anything. We heard of one guy who shot peanut butter. Peanut butter, man! What
a goof. But LSD? That was like, you know, using a Mack truck for a golf cart or a nuclear war-
head instead of a cherry bomb or some shit. You know? Man, golf. What a goof.
Mainlining LSD was Jimmy's idea, Jimmy's modest proposal: “Hey. Would it be a fuckin'
goof, man, or what, if we, like, spiked some Owsley or some microdots? Or some fuckin', some
fuckin' sunshine, man? Uh huh! It'd be like the fuckin' astronauts, except faster!” Jimmy saw
LSD injection as the next frontier—as the ultimate defense against a world gone crazy.
Ev
ery-
one was eating LSD, and that was cool, but that was all it was, all these . . . college kids getting
off to get their shit together. Jimmy needed more, something way out front, something to let
him hang ten over the cutting edge, something daring, something to wake the Reaper from a
sound sleep and slap snot out of that silly fucker.
Besides all that good fun—on a serious note—Jimmy had responsibilities, like, you know,
to think up this shit and then check it out, you know, for the kids. He conjured it one day,
looking around for something new to shoot up, till it hit him like a bolt of lightning—the idea
of cooking up some LSD, drawing it into a syringe and spiking it. Realization spread across
his face in a grin, perhaps in emulation of the grim one himself.
