Paranoid Stoned Bummer

 Paranoid Stoned Bummer




     This story takes place on McNerney circa 1972 where I was keeping Greg company as he oversaw the old homestead while John and Grace took a short trip to a Tank Destroyer reunion of sorts. It was a rather lethal combination of drugs, a bodacious wind storm and a viewing of Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo that drove us to a state of self-induced anxiety. There was a rare freebee showing of this classic film on the old Philco in the front room that was the central draw to the event. I was in a bum period after being a salesman and failed West LA hippy so when Greg offered some tubing entertainment I was glad to join the fun. We started by smoking as much pot as we could inhale and still stand upright. This was part of the haul once called "superpot" by Greg and it was perfect to cause intense fascination with the Hitchcock art of film-making. For some very poor reason I bumped up the focus and heartbeat by taking a dexadrine found in my Mom's bathroom. We had prepped for the show by watching a terrific documentary on PBS about the East Hampton New York clan of fishermen in a place called Bonac which put us in a mood for strong stuff and hearty television action. The documentary also gave us the phrase "Bonaker Breakfast" which meant a huge meal first thing in the morning. For them it was fuel for a grueling battle with the sea to survive, for us it was youthful gluttony.  It was a blustery, Autumn night and the wind increased as we anticipated Vertigo, feeling like we would be seeing it for the first time. The wind grew stronger and with some quotations from Edgar Allen Poe and the Fall of the House of Usher we dug in for Hitch's masterpiece. The movie proved to be a fever dream of masterful angles and shots with dramatic scenes that kept us on the edge of our couch cushions. Meanhwhile the wind blew harder and the old house creaked in many mysterious places. The movie ended and only left us with nerves inflamed and drowsiness far off. Greg had not taken any dexadrine so he was able to wind down when the clock crept past midnight. Still, the storm blew tree limbs creating frightening shadows and shrubbery scratched at window screens  bringing on high anxiety that was not assuaged by beer or wine. We sat bug-eyed for an hour without moving from the old parlor.  After all, the time frame was in the "golden age" of serial killers. So in our condition of high anxiety we dubbed the evening "The Paranoid Stoned Bummer" since we foolishly smoked more pot to calm ourselves while adding to the anxious reactions to the howling wind. As usual Greg was able to take to his bed and gain refuge in nightmares as the wind roared outside. I gave up and cowered in the side bedroom wide awake and read "A Clockwork Orange" by Anthony Burgess that was boffo at the box office around that time. 


                                                 Bonacker men having had



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