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December 10, 2015 at 12:10 pm (Cosmic Encounters)

Skulls StashToday is the 40th anniversary of the first time I smoked weed. Since it’s now legal, we can move on to more important topics, like the weather.

Normally I would take this day off, to smoke what I want when I want. Since I already do that, I decided to party like a rock star on my weekend, and party a little less on the work day. No wonder my windpipe feels like a chimney today.

Oh, but we were going to discuss the weather. It’s been raining.

December 10 has always been rainy, to the best of my foggy recollection. It was raining steadily 40 years ago today in Sandy, Oregon. The trip to the woods that began the path to enlightenment was baptized from above, and a well-timed toss of clothes into the washer upon returning home to a nosy mom saved any questions about “that funny smell.” (Incense, mom.) MY “incense burner” and “strobe light” (hat tip to little sis for making that one up on the spot, pretty hip for a ten-year-old) were next to my bed until I turned seventeen and got caught for real. Say what you will about teens smoking dope; it got me to trade my guns for a VW bug. The alternative would be one more Ted Nugent in this world. I could not let that happen, so I puffed, and puffed some more.

Forty years later, I’m wearing the Gore-Tex version of an army field jacket, still have shoulder-length hair, and still like guns, although I can’t recall the last time I read a gun magazine. (The last time I shot a firearm was last millennium, so my Nugent-cred has long ago expired.) I was packing a BB gun that looked like a .45 on that first trip to the woods, and it occurred to me as we stood in the Big Apple Market line that a cop walking in would see that and make my buzz all kinds of uncomfortable. It was my first weed epiphany, and a good one. One hand can count the number of times I’ve packed a firearm since. That would be a stupid way to get arrested. Or die.

I don’t get the weed epiphanies like I used to, but then life isn’t as fresh and new as it was forty years ago. Revelations these days involve my own aging and mortality, as in “Wow, I’m an old-assed man” or “I look pretty good for only eight teeth.” (Prosthetic smile FTW!) Actually, I *do* look pretty good for 54. (And a half!) I was 18 the last time I weighed this little, and had hair this long. Back then I was sweating return of the draft, and a future in either Iran or Canada. These days I sweat the mortgage and credit card payments, and not much else.

So I celebrated like most days. I filled a bag off goodies and took the crosstowns to Rain’s place. Record level rains had flooded the Pearl and many roads on the path to Slabtown. I found a streetcar that got me close. She got up long enough to let me in, and crawled back into bed. It seemed like any old day at my place. I meandered around, rolled and smoked a joint in silence, listening to her even breathing. I rolled another joint, and left it sitting in front of her TV with five seasons of The Wire and a few dozen horror films. She had asked me to bring her something to watch. That oughta keep her amused for an evening.

The rest of my night involved running errands and doing favors. The indica in my blood kept me at near-nap levels on the bus and train, bobbleheading along. Drive-bys on Festus for caffeine infusions and shots of medicated cough syrup for counter-balance kept me flying sideways.

And now I will celebrate my 40th weed anniversary my taking a big old bong hit before I shower up and face the day. Three days work at the Nightclub Store await, and since I haven’t been there for a while, the shoplifters will be out in force. It isn’t in my best interest to be too mellow or happy. Too much coffee and a short temper work well on a mucking funday.

Fuck it, it’s a two-bong-hit morning. As Tom Peterson would say, “WAKE UP, IT’S A HAPPY DAY!”

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