Drugs Booze, etc

My friend gave me some pot for my 40th birthday and I’m terrified of it. I haven’t really smoked The Sweet Mary Jane since a quarter ounce cost $25.  In my day  you could go through a whole joint by yourself and question whether you were actually stoned. You didn’t have to worry about smelling like weed unless you smoked it while wearing a thick flannel shirt in a car with the windows rolled up.

This new reefer is some serious shit. I haven’t smoked any, and I’m not sure I plan to, because, frankly, I’m not sure what it is. Continue…

For the third night in a row the stench forced my pregnant wife to sleep in the guest bedroom. The pizza I’d eaten at 3am to soak up the smell was now a vodka-logged mound of starch festering in my gut. They should invent a Febreeze for your insides, I remember thinking.  It’s one of the booze industry’s greatest marketing spins that vodka is odorless. Unless you’re a good enough liar to convince people you’ve been funneling Purel, the acrid stink wafting from your mouth and pores is unmistakable.

I couldn’t continue to pour poison down my gullet. I was 5 months away from being a Dad, and my 4am bedtime was about to merge with 5am wakings. Continue…

I passed out during a Jimmy Cliff concert at Wyandot Lake when I was 17. My friend and I had discovered “dub,” which is a sub genre of reggae that’s even more geared toward ganja. We only had one album, “Black Ash” and every song was named for a different drug; “Marijuana,” “Heroin,” “Lambsbread,” and so on. Actually I don’t know what the hell “lambsbread” is, but it sounds slangy for drug stuff.  It was all irresistibly subversive and we felt so bad-ass underground. When you’re 17, the world is new enough to you that you can still discover cool things. Continue…

Dear LSD,

I know we haven’t visited in nearly 15 years, but in all that time, I held the belief that I would see you again. I know we didn’t date for long. How many times did we even go out? 15? 20? I can’t even remember. Geez, maybe you don’t even remember me. Now I’m just being insecure. I guess, I’ll just come out and say it.

IT’S OVER.

You’re probably laughing and thinking, “Umm, it’s been over for a long time, dude.” That’s ok. I just need to say all this.

So …. (deep breath), I want to apologize to you about a few things. Continue…

If you want the very best illicit drugs, buy them from a man with an exotic pet. I’ve had both kinds of dealers and the ones with snakes, iguanas, parrots and weasels always seem to have the best shit. On occasion, exotic pets can be replaced by black light. I had one dealer on medical disability for schizophrenia whose apartment had only black lights installed – his stuff was also excellent.

I’ve known Pet Smart to be a pretty reputable place in the past. That’s why I was so shocked to see them so blatantly catering to meth/weed dealer pet owners:

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When you order this magazine on Amazon it says “People who bought Ferrets USA, also bought grow lights, tie dye bandanas, EZ Cheese, Sudafed, and sour cream and onion potato chips.”

This particular issue of Ferrets USA (apparently there’s a European version) has a special called “How to train your Ferret in 30 days.” Now when a young college student visits his shady high school dropout dealer, his ferret will be cleaning out his own cage between bong hits and answering the phone. Continue…

I’m embarassed to admit it but my most vivid memory of spending a year in Florence Italy (1991) is the hash we used to get in Piazza Della Vittorio. I lived in an apartment nearby with 5 other semester abroad students from around the country. They’ve all grown to become professors, lady lawyers and a dude who married a female tugboat captain. Clearly, I don’t want to tarnish their reputations by mentioning them here.

It was the same story every night; lean out the window of my bedroom and inspect the piazza to see if he was there. “He” was the hashman and though I never knew his name,  I’m gonna go with Fabrizio as a solid guess. Continue…

Pot is legal in California and the potheads are gonna blow it because they can’t be cool for even a second. We were at Venice Beach today which is like an outdoor head shop at this point. It’s difficult to explain a bong to a 3 year old. Every block there was a shirtless bro holding a sign advertising “$40 Kush Dr. Consultation.”

Ok, first of all, if you want all the squares to accept that you can now legally smoke pot, call it marijuana, ESPECIALLY when referring to the “doctors” who are permitted to prescribe it. You have to be responsible and respectable if you want this whole legal pot thing to stick. Continue…

There are situational prerequisites for every drug. Different ones require different moods, have unique effects and all result in beautifully different hangovers like little snowflakes of pain and regret. I’m sober now, but here’s my take on the more popular ones as I experienced them.

Alcohol
Before: Uh oh, there are people here.
During: Look who just joined a dart league!
After: Yes, chili sounds good in an omelette. I hope that was a fart.

Marijuana
Before: This is like the Footloose town, totally beat. Let’s combine our allowances and get a bag.
During: I’m vaguely panicked but these sour cream and onion quakers are making it all better.

Continue…

If you’re a a level 4 dead head who knows me personally and was with me that day, you’d know this post is about selling fake shrooms at a dead show to subsidize an LSD fueled nitrous oxide binge.

It was 1990, and I was 18 yrs old. I was familiar with the Grateful Dead and enjoyed a few songs; Ripple, Franklin’s Tower, Estimated Prophet – basically the popular songs that any true dead head would never admit to liking. I had seen them live a couple of times and thought they were boring. A 40 minute drum solo in the middle of every show? Continue…

The summer after my sophomore year of college, I joined my friend Jeremy (the same Jeremy from the post The White Rabbit) on a pilgrimage to Minneapolis, Minnesota to drive ice cream trucks. Actually, they were vans, but the term “ice cream van” makes everyone shudder. Jeremy had rented a studio apartment only slightly bigger than a room at a Red Roof Inn. We dumped two single mattresses on opposite sides of the room and separated them with a 3 foot wide moat of dirty clothes. It was awesome, and I say that without a trickle of sarcasm.

We had to interview to get these jobs. Continue…