|
|
|
"The Absinthe Diet & Insanity Program" |
|
|
Written by Victor Lasato
|
|
Friday, 23 December 2005 |
|
Page 2 of 4
“Listen, Myke,” I advise, “milk thistle and lecithin are great stuff, but they're not Kevlar for your liver. If you’re gonna drink that cat-piss, get off the orals and the test.” But there was no reasoning with him. I remember how it was to be twenty-two: you’re superman; invincible. Death is but a alien ideal, far from personal comprehension or contemplation. So it went on like that for the rest of February: he’d come to the gym with his aqua-marine colored concoction of Ice, creatine, various amino acids, and Absinthe, blazing through his workouts with a seemingly hell-spawned intensity.
Then one day in March, Mykel came into the gym not looking so hot. I inquired as to the problem, and he enlightened me: “I’m out, man. The Absinthe, it’s all gone. My French connection sent me another three liters but they’ve been stopped at customs. I got this letter.” He showed me the seizure notice and asked if I thought it would be o.k. to go and claim his goods. It was then I knew the hallucinogenic properties of the drug were starting to take hold. Absinthe, while not completely legal, is on Custom’s “don’t give a shit about” list. They hadn’t even figured out that it was Absinthe, and listed it only as “Liquor.” They stopped the shipment, according to the letter, because Mykel had been ordering three liters a month from the same source. They thought he was using it for resale purposes and wanted their cut of tax money. However in the interest of Mykel’s health and sanity, I never told him this tidbit. “I don’t know man,” I replied shaking my head in disdain, “I wouldn’t risk it.”
Yet the following night, Mykel showed up at my house, once again radiating a state of psychosis and rambling incoherently. “You fucking lied to me!” he barked. “They gave it right over, they just wanted to make sure it was for me. ME, and no one else!” At this point he asked, “Why’d you lie?” and his tone changed drastically. “You hurt me so deep you have no… fucking… idea…” Tears welled up in his eyes. He was already loosing it and the contest was still a month away. “Calm down kid. You really think I lied to you?” I asked while trying to keep a straight face, “I didn’t know, I thought that cat-piss was illegal, I was just looking out for you.” At this point he was sobbing hopelessly and I invited him inside to sit and relax for a minute. He reeked of alcohol and was clearly in no condition to drive.
My wife fixed him some tea, and after snapping out his psychosis, he was clearly embarrassed for the outburst. Mykel was exhausted. He hadn’t slept in days, was consuming 1800 calories a day and probably burning 4000 plus. Even through his tan, he looked pale; his skin haven taken on a yellowish tint, a clear sign of liver damage setting in. My wife wanted to take him to the hospital, but he soon fell asleep on the couch and there was no way he’d go willingly. He was gone in the morning, but the cup he drank tea from the night before revealed the distinct odor of his green crutch. Mykel had some sort of rebound effect. After running out of Absinthe for a week then suddenly bingeing on his “re-up,” he just lost it. The alcohol and restrictive dieting was probably more responsible for this effect than anything else.
The dreary showers of April aren’t so dreary on the Jersey shore. The crisp, salt air and winds off the ocean add a tranquility to the practically daily rains that make the days bearable. One evening during my daily jog down the Seaside Heights boardwalk, sporting the adequate rain gear, I saw Mykel sprinting HIIT style in the opposite direction. On this rainy, 48 degree day, he was wearing only a wife-beater and shorts, yet he was flush with thermogenic body-heat and lit up with euphoria. “Vic, man, lovely fucking day, isn’t it?” he enquired. “Hey man, sorry I’ve been avoiding you lately, I’m kinda embarrassed about the other week. Man your wife must think I’m some kind of pussy, crying like that. Hey you wanna finish our cardio inside Lucky’s?” The two of us jogged towards the arcade, where we finished our cardio by playing an interactive boxing game which is more of a workout than any elliptical machine. Mykel started spouting off about how he’s going to use his prize money to buy three of these games and place them in the cardio area of our gym, then make a killing off of ‘em. It was a good idea in theory, but the psychosis was more evident now than ever, although physically he looked healthier than he did a month ago.
|
|
