Nov. 1, 2003 marks the six-year anniversary of the death of Chicago writer and man-about-gay-town Jon-Henri Damski. The following column, 'Angels into Dust,' first ran in 1980 in Gay Chicago magazine. It also appears in the Angels into Dust anthology. It is printed here with the permission of his long-time friend Lori Cannon. The words are just as relevant today, as the community faces these very same issues. The drug names may change, but the facts remain the same.
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Sometimes I feel like a war correspondent in a war zone.
In the last couple of weeks, two friends attempted suicide, Steve Jones was murdered in Kansas City, and Omega Michael, my friend and companion, along with a couple of other friends, unknown to them, had angel dust put into their drinks or coffee.
I see a continual parade of fresh faces come into the gay community, bright like the flowers of Jean Genet; then, a few months, or a few years later, I see the same faces disintegrate like angels into dust.
Sex, and drugs, and rock 'n roll, if you take them in the wrong mix, overdo, can be bad stuff, bad company and bad news.
They are not evil, and you don't have to avoid them. But respect them. On the streets they are called 'bad' because they are bad.
Too much too quick and you'll be a rabbit running down a dark road into a black hole of the cosmos.
Okay, if the life weren't dangerous it wouldn't be worth it.
But beware of one-way streets: You don't want to be led into temptation, you want to be led through it.
Wanda was good that way. She taught a lot of us how to make it through the night. She was ahead of most of us in drugs, and sex, and music. Sometimes, I know, she got so bored with us, that she tried to THC herself away from us, or went in exile to Kansas City.
But she showed a lot of us the way: how you can do drag and not lose your masculinity, how you can openly enjoy getting fucked, and never lose a wiggle of your manhood.
And now, she is an angel in the dust.
Wanda and Omega Michael's paths often crossed. They worked and played together at Man's Country, and they were friends.
Wanda introduced Michael to electronic music.
They often saw each other at functions like Grant Ford's opening of his campaign headquarters, or at the Navy Pier White Party.
On February 19, both coincidentally faced death, but only Michael returned. Early that Tuesday morning someone slipped angel dust into Michael's coffee. Why? The guy probably thought he was doing a 'favor.' Or, he thought he could sexually get Michael when Michael got off.
Two hours later, Michael was in intensive care at Columbus Hospital. His reaction to the drug was so severe, it was such a shock to his system, that he clinically died. But by will, or prayer, or fate they did revive him. After working on him for over six hours, they were able to bring him down to a room.
Negatively, the hospital knew that they had a homosexual on drugs; but they didn't know the circumstances; so he was sometimes treated like a borderline criminal. No cigarettes for you, kid!
At other times, they treated him accordingly to his national origin, Italian; and thought he was someone they could save.
At first, when he came down from ICU, not sensitive to what might be going on in his head, they put him in a room with an 80-year-old Spanish-speaking person who peed on the floor while watching Beach Ball Blanket on the TV.
When I arrived at the hospital, I found Michael in this room. He was panicked, crying, wet with sweat, and rolling on his bed, asking for a cigarette. What scared me most at first was seeing the two clips in his shoulders which had been used as plugs for the heart machine.
He said he thought he had died. He said that he felt real small like the size of a shoe box, and he thought his feet and legs were square. I held him in my arms, and he felt so weak, as weightless as a bird. I went into a form of shock myself. I felt so helpless.
Who would give or take this kind of drug?
Michael kept mumbling, 'the name is wrong, there are not angels here.' Later that night they put him in a private room, and he started coming back to himself.
The next day, a Doctor asked; did you see flying colors on your trip? No. Michael told me he did not see flying colors: he saw the indescribable edge of things, walls, and deep spiraling holes. He saw total fright on the face of the world.
He is out now, ambulatory, and back living with his roommate.
So, Michael has recovered, but the question remains: what kind of person would put angel dust into a guy's drink, or a kid's coffee?
You'd like to say some psycho-sickie zombie did it. Some pusher man from the South Side did it.
But usually it is some 'friend' or someone whom you are dumb enough to think is your best friend.
Why? They think they are doing you a favor. They want to make you extra happy on your birthday.
Or they are sadistic and mean, and want to see how you act when you are violent and madly angry.
Or they think they can get you when you get off.
Or they like to fuck corpses. I don't know!
So if you aren't into drugs, watch out for your so-called friends, bad company. And watch your drinks when you get up to dance.
And don't get trapped in the arrogance of chemicals.
So many say, 'Well, I know my drugs, I know what I'm doing. I've never had a bad experience.'
Do you know? Be Honest. When you take drugs you are experimenting with yourself. The whole point of tripping is to experience the curious and the unknown.
You don't know what you are doing, before hand, when you do drugs. The point is you do drugs to find out. And if you are too arrogant, you might find out real quick and real scary, that you don't know what you thought you knew.
We don't need bigger VD buses and another drug center. We need to stop lying to ourselves, and start taking care of ourselves a little better.
Drugs are 'bad,' don't fool yourself about that. And so is coffee, martinis, horse betting, and hot fudge sundaes.
All of us do some bad thing or another. Fine.
But watch the mix, take care of yourself, before you too fall like an angel into the dust.
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