I like to smoke marijuana

(I started writing this a while ago. Finally got around to finishing it. I know--big whoop)

Crazy week. Mostly still recovering from Coachella. I definitely caught something running around like a madman in the desert. On top of that I also wrenched my knee pretty good at some point. It was all totally worth it.

Last Saturday afternoon I actually got my shit together and went down to the THC Expose at the L.A. Convention Center.

Shit was trippy. It was similar to any other youth-oriented trade show type deal (think MAGIC in Vegas or ASR in San Diego). Tons of booths sprawled across the convention floor, ranging from mundane to massive. There was a wide array of freaks walking around and taking it all in (like the dude I saw with the fully tattooed face). Scads of mostly-naked “convention girls” worked the floor, handing out everything from lighters to stickers to posing for pictures with horny twentysomething dudes who will lie and tell their friends they totally fucked her. There was one who was so skinny it was kind of scary.

As expected, there was a lot of…everything. Bob Marley t-shirts, bongs, pipes, vaporizers, yet another “system-cleansing” detox drink — you know the story.

There were a few standouts. I was impressed by “Tow & Grow,” a company that specialized in “Advanced mobile hydroponics,” which are basically mobile grow rooms.

I kinda wish I’d gone with someone, though. I was super-stoned and there by myself, so after a while I was just wandering around in a haze. Someone should have suggested that I buy a new bong. This one table had mad glass for totally decent prices.

There was a chance I was gonna meet up with this one girl. But it never happened. But she did call me the next day. And that’s when things got REALLY fan-fucking-tastic...

Eternal repetition

I pick a couple of buds from the plastic bag. I break them apart, pulling out any stems.

I mash the buds into my silver grinder, which is shaped like a stack of silver dollars. The buds are sticky, and often get caught in the metal teeth of the contraption.

I pre-fold a Zig Zag white rolling paper, and then place the fragrant mulch inside the waiting sheath. I still roll the exact same way (REDACTED) taught me all those years ago in our shared upstairs apartment.

It was on the job training; She was a classic old-school burn-out, as were all of her friends. Long-haired dudes, denim jackets, Motley Crue t-shirts, the works. But they were cool people. It wasn’t long before I fell into their routine.

It was simple; every night around 9PM, (REDACTED) would start making calls to her battery of weed dealers around the college town. She’d call until one of them would say, they did have an eighth of grass they could sell her. I don’t think she ever even bought a quarter. It was always an eighth. Every night.

So she’d procure the pot, and whoever was around would gather in a circle on the living room floor. (REDACTED) would pull out her special Motley Crue rolling tray (where she found the thing I’ll never knew. But she had pretty much everything ever produced with MC emblazoned somewhere on its’ surface. That and Camel cigarettes. She was queen of the shit found in the Camel cigarette catalog). She would start talking shit and rolling joints. And so it would go, every night, for what seemed like forever.

I knew I’d been fully accepted into the circle the night she tossed the bag and the rolling papers in my lap.

“Tonight, you learn how to roll.”

And she sat there with me, patiently going over each step of rolling a joint. But then came the real test.

“OK, no one smokes until he rolls a joint.”

Oh, shit. The pressure. A room full of well-done burn outs, all waiting on my rookie hands to craft something for them to smoke.

It definitely took me longer than it should have, but when I was done, there was a crooked but smoke-ready joint of the finest schwag weed money could buy. 

There was no applause, just the appreciative nods from around the circle as each person took a long, heavy pull on my handiwork.

I miss college.

Sexy B like Bonnie

Just call me Clyde.

High

I’m remembering why I was such a stoner in college.

I was an uptight, naïve kid that needed to loosen up. Marijuana absolutely did the trick.

There are the fondest of memories inside a tiny bedroom in an attic apartment in a particular Midwestern college town. Sitting in front of a cheap department store stereo, baked out of my mind on the sorriest excuse for weed my stoner roommates could help me score.

I’d sit there and listen to the Smashing Pumpkins and My Bloody Valentine and just bug the fuck out. Drink some cheap beer (usually some Busch Light Draft in cans, God help us all), maybe nom out on some Little Debbie snack cakes from the store on the corner. Life was good.

Riding my girlfriend’s purple bike across campus late at night, imagining all of the brilliant and amazing things we were going to do together. Our babies would be so beautiful she would laugh in that tinkly laugh that would never fail to make my insides flutter. I was young, brash, so very ready to rule my corner of the world with this gorgeous woman next to me, making me better just by her presence.

Of course none of it came to pass. I just saw pictures of her first baby on Facebook. Another man’s child, so innocent and sweet, unknowing of the twist inside my gut at the sight of him.

When it was all said and done, the only thing left was me, a duffel bag and an eighth of marijuana in an SRO hotel in Chicago.

I haven’t thought of the Chicago years in forever. Not really. That was such a severe time. There was a period where I was living in the Ambassador East hotel on somebody else’s dime, for fuck’s sake. What? How did any of that ever happen is so beyond me now.

To have made it through all of that to get here now is why I’m doing what I’m about to do. I didn’t survive all of THAT only to just kind of drift away. The plan was set a long time ago. I’ve just been taking my time about putting it into effect now that we’re here.

When I burn through yet another bowl of this designer marijuana that I now have delivered to my door, it somehow connects me to that dork in college trying so desperately to fit in, and get laid, and build something that would last forever. Two out of three ain’t bad.

The Stealthy Stoner strikes again

When I get really, really high (like tonight), my inner Stealthy Stoner comes out.

He's the one that takes care of the snack attack food runs (like tonight), which lead me to my friendly neighborhood 7-11.

I saw two young-ish Asian dudes that were very clearly having a severe case of the munchies as well. The one just stood there staring into the ice cream case. Yeah, I know the feeling, dude.

I grabbed a couple of beers (Newcastle Ale, obvs), a big bag of mixed nuts and a box of Nag Champa incense. Gotta keep the place smelling fresh, OK?

And I was able to make it there and back without losing my parking spot. Yesssssss.

The beers are flowing and the weed is strong. Monday night live, bitches. You know how we do.

Rollin'

I love rolling joints.

Yeah, I smoke most of my weed in a very nice glass pipe these days. I'm thinking about buying a new bong, too.

But sometimes I just like to twist up a jay, roll a joint, whatever the kids are calling it these days.

If I'm living large, I love to roll up a fat blunt. But with the pricey pot I'm smoking these days, blunts are for special occasions. But I do love that tasty cigarillo flavor.

I just rolled a very nice joint of Bubba Kush. A few tokes later and I'm nice and stoned.

The perfect state to be while checking out Phaedra Fallen, a blog that has been turning me on/getting me off for a while now.

She's got a perfectly dirty mind, and lately has been giving us tasty peeks at her fine-ass body (see the hot bod in the picture? That's what I'm talking about, baby!).

I've been watching that show "Royal Pains." I love the scenery, but it's all about the sexy Indian babe. She's hot to death.

Orgy World 6: The aftermath

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Stoned like dem white boys

I had the best fucking idea tonight.

I swear it’s like Will Farrell in that scene in “Old School” during the debate.

The one where he like blacks out and suddenly just knows all of this shit. Then he snaps out of it and he’s back to his regular doltish self.

That’s just what it’s like.

I went to my 7-11 and in honor off xTx, procured a man-size bottle of Newcastle Nut Brown Ale. I’m drinking that sexy bitch right now.

I love the movie “Forgetting Sarah Marshall.” Watching it right now.

“This ain’t the breakfast buffet!”

Made a low-key run to the border. Crunchy taco ‘al fresco.’

“Give me dirty crime scene girl.”

Watching this movie, I realize that one of the things I like about Sex Bomb is that she reminds of a grown-up, hyper-sexual drunk and drugged out version of Mila Kunis. Damn, that’s one hell of a description. But hey, if I’m lying…

I live on a street in Los Angeles where so many of my life decisions are determined by parking. And that shit ain’t right. There are only so many places to park on the street around my house. There are a shitload of cars trying to park in them.

Just going to 7-11 and Toxic Hell (which took all of 20 minutes) I still ended up having to battle an SUV for me spot.

How fucked up is it that PARKING determines my moves at night. The college me would be calling me WEAK right now.

Fuck that shit. I’m slamming a big-ass Newcastle and knocking back a couple of tacos. I’m in college shape, bitches. I did a vodka shot earlier. I’ve got these youngsters. They can’t get down like this. I learned from the masters.

"You need to penetrate deeply and stimulate the clitoris."

It’s 1:11—make a wish.

"You've got Christ between your thighs--only with a shorter beard."

Mellow Friday night

Just chillin'.

Got some coke from my man. Doing some lines, watching a couple of episodes of "Fuck Team 5" that I downloaded from the net and jerking off. Smoking some weed, too. Sometimes, that's all a person needs on a Friday night.