breakfast of buchones

For some time now I have made it my goal not to write about drugs anymore. Don’t think about them anymore. Do not eat them again. And sometimes I get it. Then two, four or six months go by and I repeat.

I have a feeling that one day I will finally break up with them. As happens when you end up with a partner and never look for her again. Or to call. Not even to see his Facebook profile. But maybe I never can. Perhaps the only way to remedy my addiction is death. But I do have something quite clear, that if at some point in my life I cut off my relationship with drugs completely, I will not dedicate myself to demonizing them.

I read in an interview that Nacho Vegas asserts that “being anesthetized in front of the world is disastrous for a song”. Every once in a while an ex-drug addict, or someone new to detoxification, renounces the drug. It is one of the addict’s occupations. The consumer is a hypocrite by nature. He lies to his wife, to his children, to drugs. But the drug never lies to the addict. I have seen cases of regenerates who rant about their vicious self and then reoffend again. In certain rehabilitation programs you are prohibited from having contact with old friends who could push you back into the abyss. But campaigning against drugs is campaigning against yourself.

Canceling a past that you now find shameful due to drugs is disrespecting yourself

Pretending to cancel a past that you now find shameful due to drugs is disrespecting yourself. I have never heard Robe Iniesta go out and make these kinds of statements. Or the Solari Indian. I am a fan of Patricio Rey and his Ricotta Rounds. And whenever someone to disqualify them throws it in my face that all his songs talk about drugs, I wonder if that person has heard “Sister Morphine” by the Stones or Jimi Hendrix, or rock in general. Being clean does not make you write or compose better. Lecture better, yes.

When you are a public figure you find it irresistible to declare that you have defeated the demon of drugs.

The case of Eric Clapton is exemplary. He became Alcoholic Anonymous and yes, it saved his life, but it destroyed his career.

All the music he has created in sobriety is lousy. From being a God who made ñáñaras to the devil he went on to become a nondescript popero.

We demand that the addict give up the drug hell, but we do not demand consistency. Not to self-destruct to death. Congruence to preserve dignity. The twelve-step program prohibits you from feeling anger or pain. Because these emotions can push you to alcohol. And alcohol to drugs. But no one who does not feel sadness can experience joy.

And this is bad for the songs. And for the books.

I still haven’t earned my little star on my forehead. I have not come out to say that drugs are the worst thing that has happened to me. Before I do, I have to ask myself a question.

And answer me honestly. Could I have done what I did without the drug? Write what I have written? Be what I am? No, definitely not. If tomorrow I finally manage to put an end to my chapter with coke, I will not make any statements of any kind for having saved myself. I don’t want that kind of applause.

Whenever some regenerate speaks out against drugs, I think of Henry Hill, the Goodfellas mobster who entered the police’s protected witness program. I could not do that. I couldn’t have consumed the amount of perico that I’ve gotten into and then live like an asshole. I can stop, like other times, and hopefully permanently. But I’m not going to hate coke. Many retired soccer players have an addiction to their sport that they continue on the pitch as commentators. They are not dedicated to denigrating what gave them glory. It’s the same thing I’m doing here: being a coca commentator. narrate a game The one that I had to play.

I know that on occasions I have stated that if you never try it, you do not miss anything. It’s false. I love and always will love cocaine. It doesn’t matter that I won’t see myself in ten years on the same corner of the Condesa neighborhood waiting for the dealer. A line in the morning is not my naked lunch, nor is it the breakfast of champions: it is a breakfast of buchones. If I could have gotten this far without getting high, I would have. But I could not. And if one day I move on without the drugs, I’ll find out. I know if that happens I’ll shut the hell up. I know that without coke a part of me will die. But I’m not going to curse her. I can’t kid myself, I will miss her.