Unsafe at any speed: I wanted to express my appreciation for David Holthouse's and Alan Prendergast's pieces on the two sides of the meth world in the September 4 Westword.
I'd only take exception with the subhead of Holthouse's "72-Hour Party People" "Meth: It's not just for the white-trash crowd." We shouldn't be distracted by the designer labels and tony addresses of those depicted in his piece; by their actions, they really are "white trash."
One only needs to read Prendergast's "Toxic Shock," chronicling the horrific outcomes of this "leisure pastime" on our law-enforcement community and society, to arrive at that conclusion.
Keep up the good work.
People who needle people: I suppose I just want to express my thanks and admiration. I just finished reading "72-Hour Party People" and -- damn! -- it was great! Beautiful fucking work.
It's very rare that I'll actually read an entire article in any magazine, not to mention a weekly rag like, say, Westword, but "72-Hour Party People" was truly -- and I mean this -- truly first-rate. A great piece of writing.
via the Internet
The party's over: Hello, my name is ___, and I'm a speed freak.
I just finished reading "72-Hour Party People" while downing a quick sushi lunch with my husband, and boy, do I feel sick. Not sure if it was David Holthouse's article or the fish.
As a former full-fledged tweaker, I was left feeling a tad bit wired as I read this romp down memory lane, minus all the high-dollar entertainment. We weren't white-trash tweakers -- at least we didn't think we were -- but we didn't have the means to fly off to Vegas at the drop of a hat.
I lived full-blast on meth for nearly five years straight back in the early '90s. I'm lucky I made it out with my life and a clean record.
Staying up for days is not glamorous, as David Holthouse has portrayed it. It leaves your body in a constant state of decay, your mind in flux and your bank account empty. Holthouse writes: "he seven eager speed smokers who converge on Nick's pad during the two hours before sunset defy the myth that crystal meth is a white-trash drug. They have cool hair and stylish attire. They have college degrees. They have all their teeth."
Yeah, I did, too, when I started snorting this wonder drug, but after a while, my hair got stringy and began to fall out. I could not have cared less how I dressed. The visits to the dentist increased. Fortunately, all the damage is in the back. My skin went from porcelain to resembling a porcupine, and the college degree, well, someone or something was watching over me on that one, 'cause I did it with honors -- but many of my, ummm, associates did not.
I'd be interested to see a follow-up story on this party gang in one or two years. Let's see if they still defy the stereotype of the meth freak.
Name withheld on request
Trash landing: I think that all the people involved in this 72-hour party are nothing but white trash. White trash throw their lives away as does any living trash, whatever its color, that's involved with meth, whatever its form.
Both David Holthouse and Alan Prendergast are to be congratulated on fine reporting.
Party on! David Holthouse's "72-Hour Party People" was incredible. I am in awe over this story and can only compare it to those of Hunter S. Thompson. It sent me back to a time when I was wild and crazy, and it stirred up memories that I haven't had in years. While I was wild, these people are party demons! Holthouse's writing is absolutely incredible, and this was by far the best article I have ever read in Westword. I look forward to any story with his name on it.
Better than sex: David Holthouse's article on the crackheads and their zany adventures was enrapturing. I read it straight to finish instead of skipping to the phone sex ads, as I usually do. A few of my friends, most of whom rarely read, even called me up to ask me if I had read the article. The journal of this madness literally started its own buzz with effects similar to speed. However, after being drawn into an alternate reality by the story, the end left me clamoring for another hit. After a trip like that, how do they come down? If they are all professionals, how can they possibly stay awake for 72 hours eating Otter Pops and then go to work the next day? And if they do, what sort of fugue might they be in? A description of the harrowing aftermath would have completed a brilliant story.