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The420Guy
Guest
NIGHTMARE ON WEED STREET
The Pitfalls Of Getting High
Enjoy your stoned self while swaying to the reggae beat at Hempfest '01.
But you should keep track of your most dependable pal, the first aid tent,
and the nearest Honey Bucket. Not everyone enjoys turning on and tuning out:
BJORN: While visiting my friend at U.C.L.A., I went to an apartment party
where I smoked way too much pot. I remember lying on the floor while
everything started spinning around me. I could barely muster the energy to
get up, when who do I run into but an old, barely-an-acquaintance junior
high classmate.
Being of "green mind," I found the situation so overwhelmingly random that
I had to laugh out loud, then escape A.S.A.P. I knew he was stone-cold
sober, and I felt like a complete jackass.
My evacuation led me to a bench in front of the apartment.
The next thing I remember is the campus police force arriving to break up
the party.
Just as people began filing out I threw up all over the ground.
Even worse, when I got back to my friend's dorm, I puked on his
anti-drinking and -drugs roommate's pillow (the poor guy was out of town so
I slept on his bed). As if that wasn't enough, apparently I got up at 3
a.m. and took a leak in the wastebasket.
CHRIS: The setting: inside a cozy pot cafe in Maastricht, Holland. The
characters: me, an American who'd been studying abroad in England; my two
best European friends; and their pals, including a 6-foot-4-inch German lad
named--no joke--Hulgar. Longtime dope smokers frustrated with having to
scrape up hash on campus, we were thrilled to be able to order joints from
a menu. But after the third time we'd passed around the "Super Jamaica,"
Hulgar's face turned a pale green.
When we asked if he was OK, he replied weakly, "I'm going to the rest
room." Our eyes slits, we watched the giant German take a few steps toward
the bar, and then--like a redwood after a lumberman calls "Timber!"--fall
to the wooden floor with a violent CRACK! A lady at the bar guffawed; the
manager, concerned his patron might be diabetic, slipped sugar cubes into
Hulgar's mouth.
When Hulgar awakened, we dragged his 200-pound-plus body onto the street,
where we propped him against a wall, pushing him back up every time he
flopped over.
SYLVIA: I got my cat, Coco, from my pot dealer.
Most people think their cats are smart and intuitive.
Not me. Little Coco may be the cutest cat in the world, but she's not very
bright.
Who can blame her? During her all-important infant stage, Coco was subject
to the terrors of a dealer's den. Each day, a fog of marijuana smoke
descended on the innocent kitten as she foraged for food in the house of
sin--corn chips, leftover pizza dough, cigarette stubs.
As a result, little Coco acts a little brain-dead. Most often, you'll find
her vegging in front of the TV. If you ask her what she's watching, she'll
meow and then run to her food bowl. It's as if she's forgotten what the
question was, much like the guy in Memento with no short-term memory.
Poor pot-headed creature, she'll spend the remainder of her undoubtedly
shortened life in the margins of feline society, excluded from other, more
honorable cats. Take it from Coco; smart cats just say no!
B.J.: The "bad experience" that put me off pot for good happened over 20
years ago. I had just divorced my first husband and had a young son, so I
moved back to my parents' house until I earned enough money to get my own
place again.
One day a childhood friend came by offering weed. I hadn't smoked pot for
over two years, so I figured, "Sure, why not?" I held off on ingesting the
stuff until an afternoon when my parents--rather conservative folks who
insisted that "pot leads to heroin addiction"--left the house.
Unfortunately for me, this weed had been sprayed with Paraquat, which the
government had been using in Mexico. I found out this bit of information
from the lovely medics who resuscitated me. I had an allergic reaction and
couldn't breathe.
About that time my mother came home, heard me fall to the floor, and called
911. Needless to say, I haven't been too interested in the stuff since.
Newshawk: Beth
Pubdate: Mon, 20 Aug 2001
Source: Seattle Weekly (WA)
Issue: Aug 16-22, 2001
Copyright: 2001 Seattle Weekly
Contact: letters@seattleweekly.com
Website: Home | Seattle Weekly
Details: MapInc
Author: David Massengill
Note: Multi-part series
The Pitfalls Of Getting High
Enjoy your stoned self while swaying to the reggae beat at Hempfest '01.
But you should keep track of your most dependable pal, the first aid tent,
and the nearest Honey Bucket. Not everyone enjoys turning on and tuning out:
BJORN: While visiting my friend at U.C.L.A., I went to an apartment party
where I smoked way too much pot. I remember lying on the floor while
everything started spinning around me. I could barely muster the energy to
get up, when who do I run into but an old, barely-an-acquaintance junior
high classmate.
Being of "green mind," I found the situation so overwhelmingly random that
I had to laugh out loud, then escape A.S.A.P. I knew he was stone-cold
sober, and I felt like a complete jackass.
My evacuation led me to a bench in front of the apartment.
The next thing I remember is the campus police force arriving to break up
the party.
Just as people began filing out I threw up all over the ground.
Even worse, when I got back to my friend's dorm, I puked on his
anti-drinking and -drugs roommate's pillow (the poor guy was out of town so
I slept on his bed). As if that wasn't enough, apparently I got up at 3
a.m. and took a leak in the wastebasket.
CHRIS: The setting: inside a cozy pot cafe in Maastricht, Holland. The
characters: me, an American who'd been studying abroad in England; my two
best European friends; and their pals, including a 6-foot-4-inch German lad
named--no joke--Hulgar. Longtime dope smokers frustrated with having to
scrape up hash on campus, we were thrilled to be able to order joints from
a menu. But after the third time we'd passed around the "Super Jamaica,"
Hulgar's face turned a pale green.
When we asked if he was OK, he replied weakly, "I'm going to the rest
room." Our eyes slits, we watched the giant German take a few steps toward
the bar, and then--like a redwood after a lumberman calls "Timber!"--fall
to the wooden floor with a violent CRACK! A lady at the bar guffawed; the
manager, concerned his patron might be diabetic, slipped sugar cubes into
Hulgar's mouth.
When Hulgar awakened, we dragged his 200-pound-plus body onto the street,
where we propped him against a wall, pushing him back up every time he
flopped over.
SYLVIA: I got my cat, Coco, from my pot dealer.
Most people think their cats are smart and intuitive.
Not me. Little Coco may be the cutest cat in the world, but she's not very
bright.
Who can blame her? During her all-important infant stage, Coco was subject
to the terrors of a dealer's den. Each day, a fog of marijuana smoke
descended on the innocent kitten as she foraged for food in the house of
sin--corn chips, leftover pizza dough, cigarette stubs.
As a result, little Coco acts a little brain-dead. Most often, you'll find
her vegging in front of the TV. If you ask her what she's watching, she'll
meow and then run to her food bowl. It's as if she's forgotten what the
question was, much like the guy in Memento with no short-term memory.
Poor pot-headed creature, she'll spend the remainder of her undoubtedly
shortened life in the margins of feline society, excluded from other, more
honorable cats. Take it from Coco; smart cats just say no!
B.J.: The "bad experience" that put me off pot for good happened over 20
years ago. I had just divorced my first husband and had a young son, so I
moved back to my parents' house until I earned enough money to get my own
place again.
One day a childhood friend came by offering weed. I hadn't smoked pot for
over two years, so I figured, "Sure, why not?" I held off on ingesting the
stuff until an afternoon when my parents--rather conservative folks who
insisted that "pot leads to heroin addiction"--left the house.
Unfortunately for me, this weed had been sprayed with Paraquat, which the
government had been using in Mexico. I found out this bit of information
from the lovely medics who resuscitated me. I had an allergic reaction and
couldn't breathe.
About that time my mother came home, heard me fall to the floor, and called
911. Needless to say, I haven't been too interested in the stuff since.
Newshawk: Beth
Pubdate: Mon, 20 Aug 2001
Source: Seattle Weekly (WA)
Issue: Aug 16-22, 2001
Copyright: 2001 Seattle Weekly
Contact: letters@seattleweekly.com
Website: Home | Seattle Weekly
Details: MapInc
Author: David Massengill
Note: Multi-part series