My uncle is the COO of the Utah Symphony and they were in town last night. He comped us tickets: Orchestra B 25-26. That’s front and center for the ignorami among us. The program included Shchedrin’s Concerto for Orchestra No. 1, aka Nauthy Limericks. Nice. Also Shostakovich’s Concerto for Violin in A minor, opus 77 (previously op. 99). That was my favorite. The second half was Tchaikovsky’s “Pathetique.” My mother’s favorite, which I thought was overwrought. The best part of all, though, was that my uncle came over for pie and ice cream afterwards and I got to finally ask him all the symphony questions I’ve been harboring since at least Miwako had me in Carnegie Hall. The main one was Where do conductors come from? (Write me for the answer. It’s pretty satisfying.)

But what does all this have to do with recovery from crack and cocaine addiction? I was both self-conscious and a little smug about being the crackhead at the symphony. After three months of what they oddly call sobriety, perhaps calling myself a crackhead was a bit presumptuous, but to many it’s a life-long disease: once a crackhead, always a crackhead, even if/when abstinent. I didn’t look quite the part, but I never did look quite the part. I was casual, though. Quite. And I had a feeling much like the one I used to get when I smoked crack in the office bathrooms of that large bank on Wall Street bank that shall remain unnamed for the time being. Kind of like being undercover. Kind of like you don’t belong. Kind of like these poor people have no idea. Kind of like you’ve been clever enough to pull the wool over the eyes of these educated, monied, cultured people, which reminds you that education, money, and social veneers aren’t what they’re…uh, cracked up to be.