The Psycadelic Mass Drug-Induced Hallucination of 2008

Drug “trips” were common in the ‘60s. People talked about “good trips” and “bad trips” as easily as they talked about the weather. LSD was everywhere. Today, in 2007, I’m suspicious that someone may have dumped some into our national water supply. We are all on the same drug-induced “trip” orchestrated by the Pharmaceutical Companies.

In what way is it ethical to advertise a drug to a mass of consumers who don’t have the stylized education to understand the physiology, the chemistry, or the contraindications of the drug?

In their rush to the “advertising market,” are new drugs tested as thoroughly – and as long – as they should be?

Advertising is a good thing. It keeps businesses alive, provides information, and has the overall effect of keeping prices down by competition of companies. Drink Coca Cola. Use Pantene shampoo. Maxipads have wings.

Not so with pharmaceuticals. Every time a drug is advertised on television, the cost of that drug, to a society as badly medically underserved as ours, goes up. Most of the time, the product is not even available in another brand; of course, there MUST BE a generic so that Medicare and other industries serving the poor has something cost-effective to draw from, but usually there are no competing “brands.” Somebody is getting rich by preying on the medical ignorance of our mass society.

Profits earned from advertising should not be the financial support of pharmaceutical companies. Need of the medication by the patient, and the prescribing of the medication by a competent doctor, should be the financial support of the pharmaceutical companies.

SOMEONE NEEDS TO TAKE CONTROL AWAY FROM THE PHARMACEUTICAL COMPANIES AND THE HMOs. NOW.

My Visit to an “Alternative Physician” (Oh, I'm mind-surfing again!)

The drizzling rain seems to pick up its pace to threaten downpour as I turn my car onto the darkened street. Peering into the eerie, after-hours storefronts, I almost change my mind. “There’s no other way,” I tell myself. “I must do this.”

There is a neon-lit bar on the corner, and a young man and woman stagger out laughing, with raucous music trailing behind them from the open door. I turn right at the light by the bar, and head down a street of ramshackle houses and vacant lots. There is only one streetlight, exactly a block away. I pull my car to the curb, and sit for a moment watching the rain sheet the windshield, trying to calm my nerves. My cell phone in my back jeans pocket, along with a long, sharp nail file, provides some measure of security.

Clutching my raincoat closer about myself, I head into the rain, trying not to fall on the sidewalk cracks lying invisible in the dark.

I stumble into the false warmth given off by the circle of street-light and peer through the darkness in all directions. I hear him before I see him. Slow deliberate footsteps sound on the pavement, splashing a little in the puddles, coming closer and closer until a dark figure emerges just beyond the light. The flame from a lighter flickers, and then the lit cigarette glows from the shadows. “Do you know what time it is in Miami?” The voice is deep, casual and resonant.

“No, but it is now ten p.m. in San Diego.” My voice is shaky, and squeaks a bit in nervousness.

“Follow me,” the voice instructs. “I’ll flip my cigarette toward the door. Make sure you get the right door. And stay about twenty feet back.”

I follow the footsteps and the dark figure down the dismal street and around another corner. I pat my pocket and reaffirm my cell phone and nail file.

We are walking slightly uphill now, and in the faraway street light further up the hill, I see the tall dark figure stride purposely, yet casually, never looking right nor left. Without a pause in the stride, the lit cigarette arcs through the darkness like a shooting star.

My eyes follow the arc to the door. The right door, I hope, but seemingly like every other door on this side of the street. I stand at the door for a moment; in the dim light I see the peeling, light green paint.

I take a deep breath, turn the knob, and push the door. It opens onto rickety-looking steps going down, down, into more darkness. At the top of the steps dangles a low wattage bulb on a bare cord, but there is no light at the bottom. I close the door behind me. The silence inside is deafening until I start down the stairs, then every step gives up a loud creak as though I have stepped on a living thing.

There is no handrail. I put both hands flat against the damp wall and press my body against it for more balance.

Soon, I have descended into total darkness, and peer longingly over my right shoulder at the dim light at the top of the stairs. Still pressed against the wall, I step carefully and very slowly, counting nine more steps. One step more and I am flat against another door, this one a finished heavy wood. I knock, and a male voice with a slight accent comes from behind the door. “Who is there?”

Shaking in my boots, I blurt out nervously, “Barbara Walters!”

“What?”

“Uh…I’m sorry…I mean, Rosie O’Donnell!”

The voice behind the door is loud and irritated. “’Ju gotta get the password straight, Lady. Which one is it?”

“Rosie, “ I stammer. “Yes, Rosie O’Donnell. I’m sure!”

Slowly the massive door swings open into a foyer belying the poverty of the outer building. My feet sink into thick, lilac-colored carpet, and a massive crystal chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling of the entry.

A small, thin man with a small, thin moustache leads me though a heavy arched door remniscent of an old church or monastery, and we enter the main room.

Indirect lighting displays an opulently furnished underground room that must lie beneath
an entire city block. The lilac carpet runs the entire floor area, and conversation centers consisting of a sofa, two matching chairs, lamp and coffee table are tastefully spaced about the room. At each conversation center is an ornately carved lit easel displaying a painting. “Oh!” I exclaim, as I am seated by the thin man. “This looks like a genuine Picasso!”

“It is. The boss collects fine art.” He scurries away with an admonishment, “Wait right here. Don’ go lookin’ aroun’ or nuthin.’ “

He disappears into a door in a far wall. Interesting…I would never have seen a door in that wall, so cleverly has it been disguised. I am musing on that fact when he reappears and motions me toward him.

Through the door, the carpet is thick and white, and the small room smells like sandalwood. A long, brocade white and mahogany chaise lounge is along one wall, positioned to watch closed-circuit television sets which line the other wall. With some amazement, I see the outside entrance and stair with the low-wattage bulb glowing brightly on the screen.

In the middle of the room is a massive mahogany desk. At each end of the desk stands a large man with arms folded on his chest. One is dressed in a pinstriped suit, the other in workout clothes and a bandana headband. Seated at the desk is…no, it can’t be…yes, it is him! It’s Al Pacino as Tony Montana in “Scarface.” He stands up and motions me to sit in the leather chair across from the desk.

“So,” he sits and folds his hands, prayer-like in front of his chin, “how can I help you.”

“I need some drugs,” I stammer.

“Okay.” Al/Tony smiles, and spreads his hands on the desk. “We got cocaine – 100% pure, I don’ deal in no junk. We got weed – sensimillian, ganja, the bes’ stuff. An’ we got heroin. We just got a good shipment of blond Lebanese hashish and black tar heroin…”

“No, no,” I say quickly. “I mean medicine…that type of drugs.”

He looks bewildered. “Like what ‘ju mean Lady? Medicine for what?”

Embarrassed, I drop my eyes. “I have a UTI – urinary tract infection – and I need some Bactrim.”

I hear him suck in his breath, look up and find that he has turned pale beneath the indirect lighting. “You want what?”

“Bactrim.”

“Lady, you want a regulated drug. Only way to get Bactrim is to go to the doctor and give him a lot of money. Then he will want a urine analysis. You pay the lab a lot of money. Then, the lab hold the urine three days and does a culture and sensitivity test on the urine. Then you give the lab some more money. The doctor will write you a prescription, and you will give him more money. Then you take the prescription to the pharmacy and give them a lot of money and ju’ll have ‘jur…medication.” Al spits the word medication like it is poison. “That’s the only way ‘ju get Bactrim.”

“Well,” I begin apologetically. “That’s the problem. You see, I don’t have insurance. And a doctor wants one hundred eighty dollars for a first-visit physical exam…”

“No disrespect, Lady,” He stares at me, lifting his left eyebrow. “But ain’ chu eligible for Medicare?”

“No,” I reply, looking him right in the eye. “I work.”

Al/Tony stands up, his palms flat against the top of the desk. “Sorry Lady. ‘Ju go now.” He nods to the man in the workout clothes who makes a slight movement toward me.

I am desperate. I drop to my knees on the snow white carpet. “Please! Don’t send me away without medicine! I need it so badly!” I feel tears running down my cheeks. “Have pity on me! It is getting so bad that I can’t pee!”

Al/Tony is clearly shaken by my display of desperation. “Sit down, Lady,” he says, softer now. “’Ju say you can’ hardly pee? It’s that bad?”

“Yes!” I sob. “I’ve had it for months! I drink gallons of cranberry juice and water every day, but nothing helps!”

In what I feel is probably uncharacteristic sympathy, Al/Tony walks around the desk and pats my shoulder. “Okay, okay, Lady. I’m gon’ help you out.”

“You unnerstan’, this is a one-time thing. An ‘ju don’ tell nobody. The Roche Cartel wouldn’ leave one of us standing.” He sweeps his arm around the room “’Ju gotta be discreet.” Al/Tony looks me right in the eyes. “Lady, you gotta unnerstan’…I got a family. ‘Ju can’ tell nobody, nobody…’Ju hear?”

Al/Tony sits back down at the polished desk and lights a cigar. “Since this is a one-time thing…and since it’s my good deed for the year….”

The pin-striped, slicked-back hair man to Al/Tony’s right laughs. “Good deed for the year?” he snorted. “You mean the first good deed of your life!”

Al/Tony flashes him a dirty look. “As I was sayin’, since this is my good deed, Lady, ‘ju need anything else?”

I am not quite so scared now, and braver still because I know the Bactrim is mine; I believe Al/Tony to be a man of his word. “Well,” I say a bit more courageously (it couldn’t hurt to ask, I figure), “I do have restless leg syndrome and I could really use some of that Requip. And my allergies are horrible this year…some Zyrtec would be good…if that’s not too much to ask…”
“How ‘ju know about Requip an’ Zyrtec?’ Al/Tony’s eyes narrow slightly.

“I saw a commercial for them on prime time TV,” I stammer.

“Den ‘ju got some idea of the millions of U.S. dollars the cartels have invested,” Al/Tony’s eyes narrow a bit more, and he nods his head somberly. “’Ju do know that the Requip will bring in the GlaxoSmithKlein Cartel.” His head drops a bit. “Man, them dudes are merciless…an’ the Zyrtec…Lady, only a fool would mess with the Pfizer Cartel…”

“Oh, I won’t tell!” I promise. “No one will know that I got them from you!” Braver now, I continue, “And my dry eyes. I really need some of that Restastis. Could I have some of that? Please?” I take a deep breath. “Please?”

Al/Tony puts his face in his hands. “Okay, Lady. So now we gon’ have the Roche Cartel, the GlaxoSmithKlein Cartel, the Pfizer Cartel and the Allergen Cartel. ‘Ju have any idea what they do to me an’ my operation – not to mention little Carlita and little Juanny – if you talk? Believe me, ‘ju don’ want that on your conscience!”

Al/Tony leans back in his chair and takes a long drag off a huge cigar. He blows a few smoke rings, then snaps his fingers; another invisible door-the-wall opens. A tiny man wearing jeans, an undershirt and a heavy gold chain around his neck scurries in carrying a large brown paper grocery bag. Sticking out of the top of the bag I see a loaf of Italian bread and bunch of celery.

Al/Tony takes the grocery bag and hands it to me. “Here ‘ju groceries, Lady. Put them in ‘jur car and don’ unpack them till you’re home.” He taps my right cheek with his fingers and smiles crookedly. “’Ju a good lady. Kinda remin' me of my momma. Go on, now. Follow Jimmy.”

I follow the tiny man back through the door he had just come in, and we enter a carpeted maze, finally emerging in an underground parking garage. In the dim light, I can see a vintage Mercedes sportster, a Lincoln Town Car, a Hummer and a Harley Davidson motorcycle.

Jimmy leads me to a heavy, metal side door, and unlocks five deadbolts. “Go up the stairs, turn left. Your car is one block down on the right.”

“I can never thank you enough!” I am so grateful! I want to expound on what a good thing they have done for me, but Jimmy helps me through the door and I am cut off in mid-sentence, standing in the drizzling rain and climbing another flight of steps.

Warming up my car and turning on the wipers and defrosters, I have a mental picture of the Pfizer, GlaxoSmithKlein, Allergan and Roche Cartels invading Al/Tony’s operation – all of them dressed in black with machine guns blazing. My mind’s eye sees little Carlita and little Juanny snatched from Al/Tony’s arms before Al/Tony is gunned down and falls across his mahogany desk, bleeding into the thick, white carpet.

Those dirty rats. They’ll never get information from me.

Someone pull the plug on the HMOs and the Pharmaceutical companies. Quickly.