Sometimes I can be dense...

You're always hearing about celebrities who have to go into rehab because of their addiction to pain killers. I used to think that was so weird. How could anybody be addicted to pain killers, at least anyone who hadn't been ill for a long time, during which time they'd been consuming large quantities of the things? In my naivete I believe I was thinking of products like Tylenol, or Excedrin. Or even if they were prescription drugs, I was assuming they were just more powerful versions of Tylenol or Excedrin.

But of course powerful pain medication, available by prescription only, often produces a feeling of euphoria, along with wiping out the pain. And duh, that's right, it didn't occur to me that the celebrity of the day was hooked on taking those little pills not because they alleviated his/her pain, but because of the high they provided. Which I suppose could be seen as a way of alleviating other kinds of pain. But the truth of the matter was revealed to me recently when I tried taking Tramadol, a pain killer prescribed by my doctor for the mysterious neck/shoulder/ right arm/wrist problems I've been having for the past few months. (And after my bout of snow shoveling this afternoon, on the heels of yet another snow storm, I have strong suspicions as to the source of those problems.)

Although I was forced to stop taking the Tramadol, because of an unacceptable side effect, the few times I did take it I experienced a not-unpleasant buzz, and a sudden ability to whisk around doing a bunch of things, when normally much of my productivity is a matter of mind over matter. I was reminded of the only other time I've experienced such sensations, back in the bad old days when I suffered so from painful menstrual periods, and was taking, for a while, a potent pain-killer whose name now escapes me. It provided such a pleasant high that I would actually look forward to the onset of the pain, because I knew that then I could take a pill, and everything would seem lovely (and the pain would disappear for a while). Eventually, I stopped taking that particular drug, because it ceased to be effective. But I do have fond memories...

Alas, fortunately or unfortunately, most drugs seem to produce such unacceptable side effects in me, that I must eschew the momentary high -- and the possibility of a fun time in rehab -- in exchange for a return to a normally functioning body, and good, old-fashioned pain.

Down in the 'hood

Just as I'm always a few years behind in my reading, I'm behind the rest of the country on television viewing. Some time ago my friend Mary out in California mentioned that she and her husband enjoyed watching The Wire. I had to admit that I'd never even heard of the show. This isn't quite so outrageous as it might seem, since there was only a brief period, after I moved to Maine, when I had cable T.V. (The Wire appeared on HBO, 2002-2008.) Except for that brief period my television viewing has been limited to what the rabbit ears on my T.V. can pick up, i.e., the local area PBS station, and (as I discovered only recently) the FOX station.

Someone donated to the library the first season of The Wire on DVD, so I decided to check it out. Despite the fact that I almost ODed on the F word during the first episode (no doubt there to emphasize how realistic the show was...I did notice that in later episodes while the word hardly disappeared, it was used a little more discriminately); and despite the fact that occasionally I could not understand either what the drug dealers or the police were saying, thanks to their respective jargons, there was no denying that the show was inter-esting. And gradually I had to admit it was damn good. Great characterizations, totally believable acting (were those real kids from the projects that they'd hired for the show?), intriguing, complex story line, sly, ironic humor.

But hey. Such a distressing, depressing world it illuminates. The world of the drug culture in inner city America. It is, indeed, a hideous picture of America; and you know, as you watch, that it is only too true. What especially breaks my heart is seeing all the kids, I mean little kids, caught up in this. It's bad enough, the 16 and 17-year olds, sitting on the couch out in the middle of the courtyard of the "low-rises" (which are right next door to the "towers", or high-rises), overseeing the nonstop trafficking of heroine, every direction you look. I think to myself, what a waste of human potential. But in one scene "D," the top overseer, breaks all the eggs a little girl who couldn't be more than ten just bought at the store, because he's figured out she's been "thievin,'" i.e. keeping some of the money that should have been turned over to him. That little girl, like too many real-life little girls, and boys, is involved in the drug trade. Damn.

In another scene, Wallace, one of the more appealing dealers, gets waked up by his...sister? cousin? he's taking care of about six little kids in a three-room apartment with electricity filched from a neighboring building...gets waked up because the girl needs help with her math problem, which involves the number of people getting on and off a bus. When she is unable to do the problem in her head, as he reads it to her, he gives her another example using a drug transaction, and she is able to do the calculating immediately. He demands to know how come she can do that, but can't keep track of the people getting on and off a bus, and she says, "You mess up on the stuff, they fuck you up."

Actually, this scene represents one of the strengths of the program: it shows the human side of all the characters. Wallace getting up when the clock radio goes on, walking around brushing his teeth while rousting the kids from their beds (mattresses on the floor), "Come on, get up, you're gonna be late for school -- what, you wanna go into foster care? You wanna go into foster care, you leave your black asses right where they are." One of the drug king's major shooters, a basically hang-loose guy who just does what he's told, having a roomful of gorgeous tropical fish that he dotes on. One of the girls who works in the "titty bar" run by the drug king, not being able to see much at all without her big glasses that she (naturally) rarely wears. Among the police, the complete jerk of a Deputy Commis-sioner for Operations at one point telling the major "hero," after a fellow police officer has been shot, that he is not responsible. Telling him in a rough, tough way, but telling him. And on and on. Life. For real.

So now I have to get hold of season 2.