It's quite possible that my first awareness of substance abuse came from "Curious George Goes To The Hospital," a book I received -- I think -- as compensation for the fact that my brother was born. I remember perusing it at a relative's house, not my own, perhaps while Mom & Dad parked me there so they could plus-one the family. It's all fuzzy evidence, but it adds up to some good context, right? (No, wait: I was only 2½ then. My exposure to the book might've happened much later, when my bro went in for some outpatient surgery.) Anyway, George's drug use amounts to this: Discovers ether. Huffs it. Trips balls. Passes out. (The scene has spawned a cottage industry of T-shirts targeted at stoner dudes.) As I grew into the section of boyhood that afforded me opportunities to consume illicit shit, I was a teetotaler. Miller Lites in the woods? Blah. Marijuana behind that unfinished house? No way. Some Skoal down by the creek? Barf. A nip of yer pop's whiskey? You're totally desperate, man. Most of those decisions can be traced back to Catholic guilt, which can be traced back to my youthful receptivity to the suggestions of allegedly upstanding adults. But I will say this: That image of George, passing out in a dark room? It's kinda bleak. I'll skip the ether, thank you very much.
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