People who think cocaine is too mainstream and heroin is only for ‘druggos’ spend their weekends taking ketamine in rooms with plush pillows and floral water jugs. For those straight shooters out there – the ones who send us hate mail each time we write about drugs – ketamine is a dissociative anesthetic that peppers the user with minor hallucinations. Known to produce ‘out of body’ experiences, it’s a pharmaceutically born and bred concoction of self-indulgence. It’s the kind of stuff you’d write home and tell your friends about. I’m not sure who rammed their veins with horse tranquilizer first, but since then people have been vegging out all over the globe, traversing the infamous k-hole and tempting the overdose overlords in semi-sedated slumbers. While it’s not publicly acknowledged like its amphetamine counterpart, ketamine use is far from a niche world. Gone are the days when users were made up solely of middle aged, out-of-work veterinarians who spend Saturday nights in their grandmas basement injecting it into their ass cheeks and listening to Frank Sinatra.
Doing my best to avoid glorifying its effects, ketamine straddles a similar stereotype to DMT in that it’s not something that’s easily replicated, nor is it something to be doused over a closed mind. As glorious as most drug-pirates find that generalisation, I hate the idea of it in my nine to five drag. It’s my irresponsible weekend persona that loves the thought of curling up inside my own subconscious and wandering around my thought train, aimlessly plucking ideas out of the air and making them into tangible fun. Having said all that, I’d like to preface the following with the fact I don’t do it very often and each time I do its been very different. It’s not an ‘every weekend’ kind of thing for me. If you can still hear me over the hoards of anti-drug lobbyists screaming ‘that’s how all addicts kick things off’, we can get started on how ketamine made me sit motionless and drool for 4 hours.
When a few friends suggested artificially enhancing the experience of the London 2012 Olympics opening ceremony – which without substance abuse I probably wouldn’t have even watched – I jumped at the chance. By ‘jumped’ I mean nodded calmly, doing my best to contain excitement and avoid looking like I was flat tracking a recreational career toward an intervention. Acknowledging acid’s sometimes temperamental nature, we decided K would be an option. After visiting a dealer who shared a striking resemblance to Richard Simmons, we excitedly filtered back to a friends condo and drew the blinds. A small joint between four of us signaled the beginning of what we hoped to be one of the better viewing experiences of our time.
We began watching the ceremony toward the end of the flag bearers procession, about 35 minutes after taking our little friend. All of us had quickly shifted from our active selves to mellow, down tempo beings; people who’d fit right in at the quiet section of the local library. We’d occasionally talk with one and other, but each time I felt like I was only chatting to satisfy the social norms surrounding hanging out with friends and watching sporting events. I didn’t want to talk; the Olympic fucking ceremony was on. We all suddenly gave a shit about this profit hoarding super-comp. We were so into it after about an hour that we’d all made an agreement that we would watch as much of the competition as we possibly could. Yep. From needing ketamine to view the Olympic ceremony, to deciding that equestrian, synchronised swimming and trampolining were the perfect way to spend our spare time; things had really turned around.
By the time the parachuting queen scenario came around, we were all profoundly captivated by the proceedings. The fact it was a stunt dummy and that the 86 year old Queen of England didn’t just parachute out of a helicopter was blatantly obvious, but we all felt brilliant for realising this. “That’s not the queen” we concluded, smiling and nodding at one and other like a pack of victorious intellectuals who’d overcome the fools trying to trick us. “They’ve done a switch – that wasn’t the queen.” We kept going, adamant that our brilliant insight should be repeated. Jeremy even took to Facebook, proclaiming the knowledge to the masses via status, one that was promptly deleted post comedown. The only thing that didn’t sit well with us was Dizzee Rascal singing ‘Bonkers‘, or any one of his other tracks that sounds exactly the same. I can’t even remember what it was. We all slumped in our seats, mentally protesting the fact we had to see and hear an overplayed track in a state that prevented us from caring enough to move. I remember thinking it was self indulgent of him to play the whole song, which in retrospect is baffling given it’s only four odd minutes long. I couldn’t complain though.
Aside from brief stints of disappointment, my opening ceremony experience was littered with exaggerated colour, disbelief and an artificially inflated appreciation for all things Olympic. At the end of it all, we reiterated our pact to watch as much of the games as we possibly could. At the conclusion of that agreement – which clearly stemmed from the depth of our souls – we turned the Olympics off. We haven’t turned it back on again since.
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