In Search of Lost Time: A Steve Hoffman Story
Feb 28, 2018 20:36:24 GMT
Post by Aural Relations on Feb 28, 2018 20:36:24 GMT
In support of President Trump's Opioid Crisis Taskforce, I would like to present this cautionary tale of opioid abuse.
If Steve’s fictitious misadventures can stop even one Stereo Central user from travelling the lonely Vicodin Road, then this will not have been for nought:
In Search of Lost Time: A Steve Hoffman Story
Steve sat constipated in his Re-Master Bathroom one morning, pondering the professional recognition which had eluded him.
He took some solace in the stardom he'd achieved amongst his cyber-flock, and of course the warm embrace of his fictitious celebrity friends. But as he strained to listen to his defective Pretenders remaster playing in the adjacent room, he was reminded that the telephone doesn't ring for him anymore -- and perhaps never really did.
Glum, Steve took 3x his normal helping of Vicodin to see him through breakfast.
~
Steve didn’t know how long he’d been sitting in the kitchen, but it was already dark outside and a pool of drool had collected on the table. Disoriented and loosely conscious, he decided to cruise Los Angeles in his wife's car whilst listening to the score from Taxi Driver.
Being unemployed for several years, this activity was a favourite time-killer for Steve. As the music played, he would imagine himself as a wayward '70s street-tough who got all the dames and all the remastering jobs. Such flights of fancy were recurring features in many of Steve’s daydreams -- particularly those provoked by a combination of Diazepam and Promethazine.
~
As the car clipped a third lamp-post, Bernard Herrmann’s score was interrupted by a persistent ringing noise. Cynics charge that this was tinnitus heard through a hydrocodone haze, but Steve removed his Nokia Cityman from its faux-leather holster. "Hoffman speaking” he shouted into the handset with no battery. “What? The special project's been cancelled?! Wait, what do you mean there was no special project? Hello?"
“Fucking Kevin Gray… with his acoustic baffles and groupies” bellowed Hoffman into the rear mirror. “Who the fuck does he think he is? Fuck him and his goatee; everyone knows that Steve Hoffman is the real badboy of mail-order music”.
Reeling from another professional body blow, Steve sat brooding at the traffic lights. As the Taxi Driver theme crescendo-ed, a questionable idea emerged through the vicodin vapours: At once, Steve popped the collar on his Member's Own jacket and donned his photochromic glasses -- if he couldn’t play the part of a respected mastering engineer, then he would play the part of a cool-cat vigilante. He would become Taxi Driver.
Pleased with his new idea, Steve’s left eye drooped as the Percocet kicked in.
~
The Chevy Pacifica Hybrid slowed to a crawl as it reached West Hollywood. With his operative eye, Steve surveyed the seedy street peddlers who belonged to the night. He felt the noir running through his veins – the sheer edginess of it all – and imagined neon lights reflecting off the Hybrid's chrome upgrades. Kevin Gray and De Niro were just acting; “Steve is clearly the real deal”, Steve muttered in the third-person.
Lucidity returned for several seconds as the last of the Ambien wore off, but it wasn’t long before Benzos picked up the relay baton.
~
With the car by now stalled, Steve supported his heavy head on the steering wheel and pondered his new hardboiled persona. He was soon caught off-guard by a strikingly obese black woman tapping on the window. Steve tried to explain that he doesn't normally listen to jazz on weekdays, but as he roused from another micro-blackout, he found the woman was already in the car and adjusting herself in the passenger seat. Was this his Betsy in a white dress?
~
No. Steve's uninvited date introduced herself as Deja Vu, and informed him that she’d run out of condoms five tricks ago. The reality of the situation hit Steve all at once. Adrenalin briefly broke the opioid fog and panic set in; a thousand questions began swirling through his head -- was he really cut out for gritty L.A. noir? Was he truly a badboy? Can you catch syphilis from head?
As Deja Vu demanded they get down to business, Steve began to feel woozy again. Not even his germane David Crosby anecdote took her eye off the clock, or her firm hand from his knee. Legs like jelly and unable to escape, he searched for any way out. "Think champ, think!” he garbled into the steering wheel -- what would De Niro do in this situation? What would Kevin do? Can you even catch syphilis twice?
Mistaking his slurred protestations as fevered anticipation, Deja Vu's head inched closer and closer to his peckeroo. As beads of sweat built on his brow and palsy seized his face, Steve caught sight of his wife's Altoids box sitting on the dashboard. With his remaining strength concentrated on vocal coordination, he stammered out his last words to the harlot:
“Here, bucko – suck on one of those!”
Pleased with his quick thinking, Steve was certain that disaster was averted: Even without a protective outer sleeve, his member would surely remain minty.
Tune in next week for the conclusion, when Steve suffers a premature ejaculation inside Deja Vu and learns the facts about sexual health the hard way.
If you have been affected by any of the issues raised in this story, please contact the Stereo Central Helpline for a list of organisations which can offer help and advice.
If Steve’s fictitious misadventures can stop even one Stereo Central user from travelling the lonely Vicodin Road, then this will not have been for nought:
In Search of Lost Time: A Steve Hoffman Story
Steve sat constipated in his Re-Master Bathroom one morning, pondering the professional recognition which had eluded him.
He took some solace in the stardom he'd achieved amongst his cyber-flock, and of course the warm embrace of his fictitious celebrity friends. But as he strained to listen to his defective Pretenders remaster playing in the adjacent room, he was reminded that the telephone doesn't ring for him anymore -- and perhaps never really did.
Glum, Steve took 3x his normal helping of Vicodin to see him through breakfast.
~
Steve didn’t know how long he’d been sitting in the kitchen, but it was already dark outside and a pool of drool had collected on the table. Disoriented and loosely conscious, he decided to cruise Los Angeles in his wife's car whilst listening to the score from Taxi Driver.
Being unemployed for several years, this activity was a favourite time-killer for Steve. As the music played, he would imagine himself as a wayward '70s street-tough who got all the dames and all the remastering jobs. Such flights of fancy were recurring features in many of Steve’s daydreams -- particularly those provoked by a combination of Diazepam and Promethazine.
~
As the car clipped a third lamp-post, Bernard Herrmann’s score was interrupted by a persistent ringing noise. Cynics charge that this was tinnitus heard through a hydrocodone haze, but Steve removed his Nokia Cityman from its faux-leather holster. "Hoffman speaking” he shouted into the handset with no battery. “What? The special project's been cancelled?! Wait, what do you mean there was no special project? Hello?"
“Fucking Kevin Gray… with his acoustic baffles and groupies” bellowed Hoffman into the rear mirror. “Who the fuck does he think he is? Fuck him and his goatee; everyone knows that Steve Hoffman is the real badboy of mail-order music”.
Reeling from another professional body blow, Steve sat brooding at the traffic lights. As the Taxi Driver theme crescendo-ed, a questionable idea emerged through the vicodin vapours: At once, Steve popped the collar on his Member's Own jacket and donned his photochromic glasses -- if he couldn’t play the part of a respected mastering engineer, then he would play the part of a cool-cat vigilante. He would become Taxi Driver.
Pleased with his new idea, Steve’s left eye drooped as the Percocet kicked in.
~
The Chevy Pacifica Hybrid slowed to a crawl as it reached West Hollywood. With his operative eye, Steve surveyed the seedy street peddlers who belonged to the night. He felt the noir running through his veins – the sheer edginess of it all – and imagined neon lights reflecting off the Hybrid's chrome upgrades. Kevin Gray and De Niro were just acting; “Steve is clearly the real deal”, Steve muttered in the third-person.
Lucidity returned for several seconds as the last of the Ambien wore off, but it wasn’t long before Benzos picked up the relay baton.
~
With the car by now stalled, Steve supported his heavy head on the steering wheel and pondered his new hardboiled persona. He was soon caught off-guard by a strikingly obese black woman tapping on the window. Steve tried to explain that he doesn't normally listen to jazz on weekdays, but as he roused from another micro-blackout, he found the woman was already in the car and adjusting herself in the passenger seat. Was this his Betsy in a white dress?
~
No. Steve's uninvited date introduced herself as Deja Vu, and informed him that she’d run out of condoms five tricks ago. The reality of the situation hit Steve all at once. Adrenalin briefly broke the opioid fog and panic set in; a thousand questions began swirling through his head -- was he really cut out for gritty L.A. noir? Was he truly a badboy? Can you catch syphilis from head?
As Deja Vu demanded they get down to business, Steve began to feel woozy again. Not even his germane David Crosby anecdote took her eye off the clock, or her firm hand from his knee. Legs like jelly and unable to escape, he searched for any way out. "Think champ, think!” he garbled into the steering wheel -- what would De Niro do in this situation? What would Kevin do? Can you even catch syphilis twice?
Mistaking his slurred protestations as fevered anticipation, Deja Vu's head inched closer and closer to his peckeroo. As beads of sweat built on his brow and palsy seized his face, Steve caught sight of his wife's Altoids box sitting on the dashboard. With his remaining strength concentrated on vocal coordination, he stammered out his last words to the harlot:
“Here, bucko – suck on one of those!”
Pleased with his quick thinking, Steve was certain that disaster was averted: Even without a protective outer sleeve, his member would surely remain minty.
Tune in next week for the conclusion, when Steve suffers a premature ejaculation inside Deja Vu and learns the facts about sexual health the hard way.
If you have been affected by any of the issues raised in this story, please contact the Stereo Central Helpline for a list of organisations which can offer help and advice.
. Very funny,
