Yesterday was 4/20. You know, Weed Day.
It got me reminiscing.
I’ve had a long and complicated relationship with cannabis (“weed,” “grass,” “za”) since about the age of 13.
I remember the first time I tried it. Some kid from the neighborhood turned me on.
That good ol’ 80’s street weed.
Pretty awesome. Just the right amount of high. No knee-hugging paranoia. No flying saucers.
More like stepping into a “life movie” with killer dialogue and gorgeous cinematography.
Colors were sharper, jokes far more hilarious, food extra delicious, and every song coming out of the boombox sounded like hearing it for the first time.
“I can see what all the buzz is about now,” I remember thinking (and then analyzing internally whether puns are an acceptable form of self-entertainment).
I didn’t get “hooked” right away. Never really sought it out. Didn’t have a “dealer.” But yeah, if it was being passed around, I was in.
I was enamored with the culture of weed as much as I was the effects.
Getting high with someone is a bonding experience. You enter the same “movie” together.
Whether you’re writing the script with long, spiraling conversations, or experiencing an event through the same heightened lens… it’s your little secret.
Plus, “stoners,” for the most part, like cool stuff.
They dig music, appreciate literature, seek experiences.
What’s not to enjoy?
Especially when you’re young, free, and feeling your way around life.
Well…
I discovered the “dark side” when, a year or so later, the nightmare joint showed up.
I was fifteen and living my full potential as the night shift manager of a TCBY frozen yogurt shop.
At the end of a shift one night, my older sister and her boyfriend, Pete, stopped by for a cone.
On the way out, I followed them to his bitchin’ Firebird in the parking lot..
“Cover the store for a few,” I instructed my co-worker, “I’m gonna walk them out.”
Pete had some “really good shit,” so why not make the closing duties a little more enjoyable?
Everything seemed fine, until…
I was cleaning the valves of the yogurt machine in the kitchen sink and the song “I Don’t Care Anymore” by Phil Collins came on the radio.
That intense drum beat…
Bad-bad-bad-da-da-a–a-bad-bad-bam!
Then that haunting keyboard… Whuhhh, uhhhhh.
And, all of a sudden, I’m like, “Whattt tha fuhhhh?”
My mind swirled with the song, then Phil started speaking to me…
“Well you can tell everyone
I’m a down disgrace
Drag my name
All over the place
I don’t care anymore.”
Oh, man. Now I’m in it.
This is good.
“You can tell everybody
‘Bout the state I’m in
You won’t catch me cryin’
‘Cause I just can’t win
I don’t care anymore.
I don’t play the same games
You play…”
At this point the whole kitchen is spinning and the hot dishwater feels like scorching lava on my hands.
That weed was STRONG.
“Okay. I’m okay,” I tell myself. “You just need some fresh air.”
I walked to the open back door and stepped out near the dumpster.
The music now trolling me through the open door…
I don’t care now
What you say
We never played
By the same rules
Anyway
“What does Phil know about me!?”
I talked myself down enough to finish the “closing duties” and lock up.
Back then I rode a bicycle to-and-from work. With actual pedals. (Oh, the humanity!)
I got on my bike to head home…
But I could only go in circles.
Literally.
I was riding in a big circle past the dumpster. Over and over again, like a circus elephant. But less graceful.
I finally gave in and did the thing I was dreading most…
Called my dad to pick me up!
He reacted just as anticipated when I got into his car.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he said, rhetorically.
His voice echoing in my head like that trippy bridge vocal in Whole Lotta Love.
“I don’t know. I just feel sick,” I muttered back in a soft tone.
“You’re just too lazy to ride your bike home, so you woke me–”
I was in no state of mind to defend myself.
“Please don’t yell at me right now, Dad,” I squeaked out.
We drove in blaring silence the rest of the way home.
And that was my first introduction to “evil weed.”
Suddenly, the good time buzz had a nemesis.
One to be feared.
And avoided.
I have friends, life-long weed smokers, who have no concept of getting “too high.”
They’re just wired differently.
But, if you’re asking me for a definition of “too high”… not being able to ride a bicycle in a straight line seems like a good one.
That night was a blessing
From there I was much more cautious.
If someone offered me weed, I would ask, “How is it?”
If they said, “Eh. It’s brown, but it works.” That was music to my ears.
If they said, “Oh BRO! This is the primo shit rappers smoke…” I was a pass.
I eventually decided the risk wasn’t worth the reward and quit altogether.
I still have friends who goad me into smoking with them.
They SWEAR this is the perfect blend for people like me and start explaining all the science behind the strain.
“But, I feel great right now…” I tell them. “Why take the chance of ending up in your neighbor’s pool yelling ‘Shark!’?”
“Suit yourself,” they shrug.
Suited.
P.S. We’ve come a long way recognizing the potential health benefits of cannabis. I’m all for progress. As I often joked in my stand up, I’d much rather encounter someone who is too high rather than too drunk.
On the flip side, street drugs, including weed, are more dangerous than ever. Fentanyl deaths are a major epidemic. If you’re close to any teens or young adults, please talk to them about the dangers of sharing drugs of any kind.
