April 20, 2011 § Leave a comment
The first time I smoked pot I was a sophomore in college, which is actually pretty late to the game as things go these days. I was visiting my friend C.’s dorm in an NYU residency hall in Chinatown. C. was a gay, nebbishy, Jewish kid with a Jewfro from Brooklyn Heights. He had a Woody Allen sort of affect and kept a bottle of 151 on his computer desk, where he wrote screenplays about the apocalypse and battling space invaders with fast food. He had a younger brother Zeb who was a real lady-killer and a drug dealer in Manhattan Light, so C. always had a good freezer bag full of pot. C., our friend Mo, and I all sat on a couch and C. packed the bowl. Now, he said, you may not feel it your first time, just sayin’. Ok, ok, I said. I had to have C. hold the bowl to my face and light it for me because I couldn’t do the upside down lighter thing without burning my hand plus it was all I could do to work the carb properly. We passed the bowl back and forth and there was all the normal coughing and whatnot. A few minutes passed and I determined that I was definitely not high. Hey guys, I said, I’m totally not high. If I were high, I wouldn’t be able to do this – and I proceeded to violently shake my head back and forth. Dude, C. said, you wouldn’t do that unless you were high. And then I proceeded to eat all of the cereal in the apartment, something like three boxes of Honey Nut Cheerios.
I’ve smoked quite a bit of weed in my life and in some great places with great people doing some great things: on the rooftop of a 90 floor apartment building next to Carnegie Hall, in the canyons of Southern Utah, on the beaches of Miami and Northern California and Oregon, in the Rockies, driving across Ohio and Indiana and Illinois, in a rockstar’s apartment, at concerts, on the steps of libraries, walking down Burnside Street in Portland and Broadway in New York, on a bus full of strippers hurling down the highway.
I’ve smoked out of joints, blunts, pipes, bongs, gravity bongs made in bathtubs and garbage buckets, apples, from the mouths of others, vaporizers, steamrollers, rocks, tiny one-hitters disguised as cigarettes. I’ve smoked hash off of hot knives and stuck on safety pins under mason jars. I’ve eaten pot brownies and hummus and pesto and coleslaw and banana bread and chutney. I’ve been stoned in school and at work and on airplanes.
My favorite things to do when I smoke weed are read, write, cook, play music, listen to music, clean, hike, do yoga, talk or have sex.
I buy weed from my friends who grow it themselves. Most of them call their plants their ‘babies.’ I keep my weed in a Mason jar, which I take each time to their house to get a refill. I don’t like to throw away plastic bags.
I never smoke weed around children. Sometimes I’ll go out to my back porch to smoke a spliff, but if there’s kids jumping on the trampoline next door, I go back inside and smoke a bowl.
I’ve always been pretty audacious about smoking pot. Sometimes in college if we thought we might get in trouble we’d deliberately burn a bag of popcorn in the microwave first, which is highly effective. Or we’d exhale through a hair blow dryer out the window. Or hide under a fort made of blankets. The fort is a dear thing to the pot smoker.
A lot of certified stoners will tell you there’s a wall with pot smoking, and there’s some truth to it. Pot smoking, just like anything, takes some practice. You have to smoke enough and try enough things while stoned to become comfortable and functional while you’re high. After my first time toking, I smoked a lot because I fell in love with the stuff, but being stoned then consisted of me sitting on the living room couch rubbing my thighs in a circular fashion and begging my roommate to go get me some ice cream from the bodega downstairs.
I’ve never made a stupid decision because I was high. I’ve made a million stupid decisions because I was drunk, however.
I planted some pot seeds in the ground once, just some seeds I pulled out of my swag, in the backyard. And pot plants grew. Because they’re weeds. They just grow. Sometimes hiking around Utah you’d just find one growing, like in nature.
I love the way marijuana smells. Sweet, almost like petrichor and just as fleeting.