By Jeff Gibson
Oh shit. I’m in the middle of the road. Wait, am I? Fuck the cars Jeff, just keep pedaling. That’s it — wait. Shit. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Hey, never mind, this isn’t so bad; didn’t I want to feel the pain? That’s why I was crossing the street on a red light, wasn’t it? Fuck, I can’t remember. The idea seemed like the right thing to do a couple seconds ago.
Looking back now, all I seem to remember is that I knew it was my turn to actually feel something in this world. I could have cared less whether it was my bones snapping against the hood of some alcoholic soccer mom’s car or, less fulfilling, the air billowing past my flailing body as I’d ricochet off my bike. Crap, if anything was certain, I knew it would be one hell of an accident. Wouldn’t that be worth it? I always wanted to go out with a bang — too bad I couldn’t use a freeze frame; my gruesome exit would give the Sundance Kid and that salad dressing guy some serious goose bumps.
I wasn’t worried though; the pain wouldn’t linger for long. I still had 11 pills of Vicodin stashed somewhere in the depths of my backpack, and these frenzied motherfuckers flying down El Colegio weren’t going to take a single precious one from me — not without some serious damage being done to their piece of crap Honda, or whatever the fuck they happened to be driving. I earned those pills; my name was on the damn bottle, or at least it was the last time I checked. Without them, I wouldn’t exist and, without me, they’d be stuck for all eternity in that ridiculously hard-to-fucking-open orange container.
About half way through the intersection, though, my bike stopped. Now, in such a situation I’d usually blame my two-wheeled mechanical demon — what was once a proponent for centrifugal force, now a heap of rust and rubber waiting to fail me at the most opportune moment — but since those 11 majestic capsules had just lost five of their buddies a few minutes earlier, I was a little skeptical when it came to blaming my loathsome bike.
So there I was, staring directly at my fate — a quickly approaching low rider pickup truck driven by some asshole who thought endlessly honking his horn would actually persuade me to move — when I decided I wanted out. I didn’t want to go anywhere; I just wasn’t interested in my masochistic urges any longer. For some reason, all I wanted was a fucking popsicle — cherry; no, better yet, grape. Wait, forget the flavor; I just wanted to sit there in the middle of the road and prevent this punk from continuing in such a damn hurry. I wanted to bask in the sun and let that dickhead behind the wheel see how wonderful it can be to relax once in a while — hell, I’d even share that joke they print on the stick with him after I finished my icy cold delicacy; maybe he would appreciate it, but for some reason, I doubted it.
I stared at the driver for a few seconds. He returned some pathetic glare that looked more like he was desperately clinging to a shit about to escape from his pants than the get-the-fuck-out-of-my-way look I figured he was going for.
He gave me the finger. I smiled and waved. He yelled a few profanities. I asked him how his day was going. He slammed his foot on the gas. I slowly moved to the side of the road. The only question I have to ask is where the fuck was he going to in such a hurry?
It seems like everybody nowadays just rushes around, trying to cram every little thing into their tight-as-a-virgin schedules. I try to get out of the elevator in Francisco Torres and there is always some selfish prick who shoves his way in before I have a chance to get off. Some creep behind me in line at the dining commons is always breathing down my neck. Most days on the bike path there is usually some nearsighted dimwit who thinks he can make it four wide to pass and ends up making everyone desperately swerve to avoid him. And there is always that one jerk-off in every class who makes a habit of leaving early, yet for some reason planted his big, smelly ass in the middle of the row so he ends up climbing all over you.
I have some advice for all you hooligans: Chill the fuck out. And if you can’t, there’s usually a popsicle not too far away. You don’t even have to read the joke — although for you, it probably wouldn’t hurt.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Learning Life Lessons at Freebirds
By Jeff Gibson
Staring red-eyed and perplexed into the gigantic black board, I realized of all the places in the world right now, this was where I wanted to be. It didn’t matter that it was 2 a.m. or that I had just waited for what seemed like an eternity in a line dwarfed only by those at Disneyland. Screw the fact that the dude behind me was coughing up his lungs all over the back of my neck. I had to ignore it; otherwise my hunger would be left for my stomach to handle on its own, and that sorry excuse for tissue would never let me hear the end of it.
It was my turn at last.
Quesadilla, rice, black beans, chicken, cheese, a little guacamole, medium salsa, pico de gallo, onions, lettuce, and wrap it like a burrito. I spouted out my order like a veteran actor, yet the saliva from my mouth made me look more like one of Ivan Pavlov’s famous drooling dogs.
The lady wrapping my burrito was a pro - hands flashed before my eyes, expertly maneuvering the flour tortilla and its delicious contents into the epitome of perfection. I grabbed for my wallet. Three bucks. Fuck.
Buying that eighth earlier had devastated my cash supply, but not my spirits. I had almost forgotten Freebirds accepted debit cards now. I couldn’t help but do a little dance right there by the cash register. The future cancer victim behind me paused during his order to stare at my pathetic attempts, but I stopped and pulled out the only piece of plastic currently in my wallet and handed it over.
Seconds went by. I hoped the recent tangle with buying overpriced text books had not fucked me over again. I stared intently at the cash register, waiting for it to pass as my pathetic excuse for payment.
No dice. The cashier handed me back my card. I didn’t know what to do. My delicious quesadilla-wrapped burrito lay on the counter, and it was laughing. That couldn’t be the weed’s work, I thought. Never had I experienced the munchies to the point where my food actually produced intelligible actions. Maybe on shrooms, most likely on acid, but not because of what I had been toking.
Everyone in the room looked at me - they all could hear it, too. The burrito was actually fucking laughing at me. Low self-esteem is one thing, but when a burrito thinks you are the punch line then you know you’re doing something wrong.
Just then though, I heard the most glorious words uttered from the most unlikely of sources.
“Hey, bro. Don’t worry about it, I gotcha covered.”
My jaw dropped open. No fucking way, I thought. As much I wanted that sadistic burrito, I couldn’t let this guy pay for me. Could I? Ah, fuck it.
The dude behind me shoved the cashier a wad of bills, covering both of our meals, then handed me my burrito. I was speechless. The guy whose now-dried saliva coated the back of my neck had more than pulled through in the clutch. I barely even managed to mumble out a thank you, but I wanted to yell out to all the drunken, stoned and sleep-deprived Freebirds junkies that this man was a hero.
He didn’t need superpowers and he sure as hell beat the shit out of Batman. This man gave freedom and salvation to a fellow stoner during his time of ultimate need. He should have been carried down the streets of Isla Vista on a thousand shoulders. No, he should be given the Nobel Prize for his contribution. Yes, the smoker, the mistakenly evil and wretched nemesis of all those pure, and the bro you thought would be the dirtball in this story, performed an act that not many of you healthy-lunged Gauchos would have even thought about.
No one helps a stranger in need anymore. All right, you might give that incredibly banging girl lined up at the bar a shot or snap a bowl with that hottie next door, but what about when there aren’t any altruistic intentions involved? Next time you find yourself blazed out of your mind, don’t forget to help out your fellow man or woman, and secondly, don’t forget to hit up that ATM before you decide to wet your whistle.
Staring red-eyed and perplexed into the gigantic black board, I realized of all the places in the world right now, this was where I wanted to be. It didn’t matter that it was 2 a.m. or that I had just waited for what seemed like an eternity in a line dwarfed only by those at Disneyland. Screw the fact that the dude behind me was coughing up his lungs all over the back of my neck. I had to ignore it; otherwise my hunger would be left for my stomach to handle on its own, and that sorry excuse for tissue would never let me hear the end of it.
It was my turn at last.
Quesadilla, rice, black beans, chicken, cheese, a little guacamole, medium salsa, pico de gallo, onions, lettuce, and wrap it like a burrito. I spouted out my order like a veteran actor, yet the saliva from my mouth made me look more like one of Ivan Pavlov’s famous drooling dogs.
The lady wrapping my burrito was a pro - hands flashed before my eyes, expertly maneuvering the flour tortilla and its delicious contents into the epitome of perfection. I grabbed for my wallet. Three bucks. Fuck.
Buying that eighth earlier had devastated my cash supply, but not my spirits. I had almost forgotten Freebirds accepted debit cards now. I couldn’t help but do a little dance right there by the cash register. The future cancer victim behind me paused during his order to stare at my pathetic attempts, but I stopped and pulled out the only piece of plastic currently in my wallet and handed it over.
Seconds went by. I hoped the recent tangle with buying overpriced text books had not fucked me over again. I stared intently at the cash register, waiting for it to pass as my pathetic excuse for payment.
No dice. The cashier handed me back my card. I didn’t know what to do. My delicious quesadilla-wrapped burrito lay on the counter, and it was laughing. That couldn’t be the weed’s work, I thought. Never had I experienced the munchies to the point where my food actually produced intelligible actions. Maybe on shrooms, most likely on acid, but not because of what I had been toking.
Everyone in the room looked at me - they all could hear it, too. The burrito was actually fucking laughing at me. Low self-esteem is one thing, but when a burrito thinks you are the punch line then you know you’re doing something wrong.
Just then though, I heard the most glorious words uttered from the most unlikely of sources.
“Hey, bro. Don’t worry about it, I gotcha covered.”
My jaw dropped open. No fucking way, I thought. As much I wanted that sadistic burrito, I couldn’t let this guy pay for me. Could I? Ah, fuck it.
The dude behind me shoved the cashier a wad of bills, covering both of our meals, then handed me my burrito. I was speechless. The guy whose now-dried saliva coated the back of my neck had more than pulled through in the clutch. I barely even managed to mumble out a thank you, but I wanted to yell out to all the drunken, stoned and sleep-deprived Freebirds junkies that this man was a hero.
He didn’t need superpowers and he sure as hell beat the shit out of Batman. This man gave freedom and salvation to a fellow stoner during his time of ultimate need. He should have been carried down the streets of Isla Vista on a thousand shoulders. No, he should be given the Nobel Prize for his contribution. Yes, the smoker, the mistakenly evil and wretched nemesis of all those pure, and the bro you thought would be the dirtball in this story, performed an act that not many of you healthy-lunged Gauchos would have even thought about.
No one helps a stranger in need anymore. All right, you might give that incredibly banging girl lined up at the bar a shot or snap a bowl with that hottie next door, but what about when there aren’t any altruistic intentions involved? Next time you find yourself blazed out of your mind, don’t forget to help out your fellow man or woman, and secondly, don’t forget to hit up that ATM before you decide to wet your whistle.
Something Even the Mighty Bong Can't Beat
By Jeff Gibson
Fuck leaf blowers.
It was Sunday morning, about 9:30 - the time when I’m usually hitting the halfway point of the best sleep I’ve managed to grab over the past week. The time when I should be dreaming of endless fields covered with magical chocolate brownies or entire swimming pools filled with ice cream and assorted toppings.
The spot I found on my bed - a position it took me all night to finally squirm into - was more than perfect. My head remained buried beneath billowing pillows, yet my heavenly soft sheets betrayed me for the floor. I lay on my bed in a haphazard heap of limbs, unconscious, helpless, worthless. The last thing I wanted to hear in those wee hours of the morning was some asshole neighbor operating an obnoxious device that literally blows.
I couldn’t possibly be the only dehydrated bedhead still clinging desperately to slumber, could I? Was I that lazy? No way, I thought. Couldn’t be.
Details from the evening before began to isolate themselves in my memory.Apparently, the Lorax - a sturdy brut of glassware constructed in the heart of Berkeley’s Telegraph Avenue - showed his dastardly face, allowing my friends and I to partake in a sesh that will remain hidden, deep within our clouded minds for years to come.
More memories gushed out of my skull. Following yet another session with the Lorax - hash-accompanied this time thanks to the tenacious speed of my local dealer - came the packs of cigarettes, the scrumptious Black and Milds, the keg stands, the Kings games and the tremendously relieving piss off the Del Playa cliffs.
There were gaping holes around every corner of my mind though. Not a single piece of the night’s adventure fit together nicely and, to tell you the truth, I fucking suck at jigsaw puzzles.
So I gave up. It didn’t matter what had happened. I was tired and the same shrill noise continued to reverberate in and out of my eardrums like a horny prison inmate come group shower time.
I couldn’t stand it. Something needed to be done, and fast, but all I could think about besides dynamiting that leaf blower was the Lorax; it lay within arm’s reach.
I tried moving my right arm. Fuck, no use. I had myself in an armlock that even Hulk Hogan would admire. So, like I always do when my right arm fails me, I just switched to the left. Success. I grabbed hold of my Seussian accomplice, loaded him up and snapped away. Take that leaf blowers. I plopped back down in ultimate comfort and gathered my thoughts.
But still, what is the world coming to? Why can’t an exhausted man find peace in his own bed, or his own dazed and confused mind for that matter? Why must I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, contemplating the hideous acts I would employ on that devil of a blower if I ever get off my lanky ass? All the damn thing does is move leaves from one spot to the next. It doesn’t even pick them up.
If humans can invent keg taps, portable lighters and keychain bottle openers, then there is no reason we can’t outdo the lowly leaf blower. With all the imaginative genius bumbling through Isla Vista, you’d think this problem would have been solved by now.
Shit, I’ve got it. Mankind needs a leaf sucker.
But alas, I’ve been beaten to the patent board. Apparently, the company Yard-Man has already experimented with such powerful sucking apparatuses. Fuckers. The damn things cost more than their blowers. How can we rid the world of such menaces to society when the problem remains more expensive? Should I attempt to solve this disastrous problem and give all you lethargies out there some auditory reprieve?
Meh, forget it. I’m going back to bed.
Fuck leaf blowers.
It was Sunday morning, about 9:30 - the time when I’m usually hitting the halfway point of the best sleep I’ve managed to grab over the past week. The time when I should be dreaming of endless fields covered with magical chocolate brownies or entire swimming pools filled with ice cream and assorted toppings.
The spot I found on my bed - a position it took me all night to finally squirm into - was more than perfect. My head remained buried beneath billowing pillows, yet my heavenly soft sheets betrayed me for the floor. I lay on my bed in a haphazard heap of limbs, unconscious, helpless, worthless. The last thing I wanted to hear in those wee hours of the morning was some asshole neighbor operating an obnoxious device that literally blows.
I couldn’t possibly be the only dehydrated bedhead still clinging desperately to slumber, could I? Was I that lazy? No way, I thought. Couldn’t be.
Details from the evening before began to isolate themselves in my memory.Apparently, the Lorax - a sturdy brut of glassware constructed in the heart of Berkeley’s Telegraph Avenue - showed his dastardly face, allowing my friends and I to partake in a sesh that will remain hidden, deep within our clouded minds for years to come.
More memories gushed out of my skull. Following yet another session with the Lorax - hash-accompanied this time thanks to the tenacious speed of my local dealer - came the packs of cigarettes, the scrumptious Black and Milds, the keg stands, the Kings games and the tremendously relieving piss off the Del Playa cliffs.
There were gaping holes around every corner of my mind though. Not a single piece of the night’s adventure fit together nicely and, to tell you the truth, I fucking suck at jigsaw puzzles.
So I gave up. It didn’t matter what had happened. I was tired and the same shrill noise continued to reverberate in and out of my eardrums like a horny prison inmate come group shower time.
I couldn’t stand it. Something needed to be done, and fast, but all I could think about besides dynamiting that leaf blower was the Lorax; it lay within arm’s reach.
I tried moving my right arm. Fuck, no use. I had myself in an armlock that even Hulk Hogan would admire. So, like I always do when my right arm fails me, I just switched to the left. Success. I grabbed hold of my Seussian accomplice, loaded him up and snapped away. Take that leaf blowers. I plopped back down in ultimate comfort and gathered my thoughts.
But still, what is the world coming to? Why can’t an exhausted man find peace in his own bed, or his own dazed and confused mind for that matter? Why must I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, contemplating the hideous acts I would employ on that devil of a blower if I ever get off my lanky ass? All the damn thing does is move leaves from one spot to the next. It doesn’t even pick them up.
If humans can invent keg taps, portable lighters and keychain bottle openers, then there is no reason we can’t outdo the lowly leaf blower. With all the imaginative genius bumbling through Isla Vista, you’d think this problem would have been solved by now.
Shit, I’ve got it. Mankind needs a leaf sucker.
But alas, I’ve been beaten to the patent board. Apparently, the company Yard-Man has already experimented with such powerful sucking apparatuses. Fuckers. The damn things cost more than their blowers. How can we rid the world of such menaces to society when the problem remains more expensive? Should I attempt to solve this disastrous problem and give all you lethargies out there some auditory reprieve?
Meh, forget it. I’m going back to bed.
Corruption Lifts the Lorax
By Jeff Gibson
This goes out to the one I love.
Growing up in a small town minutes east of Berkeley had its advantages. A quick hop aboard BART and my friends and I could find everything our sheltered little hearts desired.
What started as adventures inside Rasputin Records eventually led to blazed day trips straight through the heart of one of the most diverse social scenes in the west. Our personal Hotel Delmonico had it all: drugs, rock and roll, activism and outlandish displays of the ideals our country was founded on. I learned what freedom meant, first hand, strolling down the crowded streets, gazing red-eyed at the grunge rockers who would brush by me, fingers usually pinching the joint that had left their lips seconds before.
Between this cracked-out hippie donning a pink leotard, riding a unicycle in the middle of afternoon traffic and incense-burning sidewalk shaman professing their knowledge of your own palm, we developed a catalog of superfluous stories to tell our friends back home.
I never tired from the optical stimulation, and neither did my buddies, but when I almost took a nightstick to my dome one fine December day, I figured I had better watch what the hell I was doing.
The shirt said, “Fuck the Police.” I discovered it wedged between two tie-dye Bob Marley shirts on the rack belonging to some bohemian street vendor. I laughed uncontrollably the instant I saw it – wrong move, Jeff.
Apparently, the cop standing behind me didn’t share my sense of humor. He asked me what I thought was so funny. I replied that I was a huge Exodus fan. He put his hands on his hips, called me a damn hooligan, and, after imploring why I wasn’t in school, he walked away without giving me time to mutter my excuse. In a town known for its freedom, why was this egocentric punk trying to give me crap for enjoying myself? I shrugged it off and continued laughing my ass off at his expense.
Now fast-forward five years. It was Saturday night — a funky reggae party — and I was sitting alone on the balcony of a 6500 block Del Playa residence, cloaked in my hooded black sweatshirt and contemplating the night’s catastrophes. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Not only had my buddies been outright jacked by the cream of the corrupt crop, but those fucking swine had to pilfer my most precious of paraphernalia.
Shotgun and Little Foot had gotten the worst of it though — I wasn’t looking at possession charges or a possible felony like they were — so why the fuck was I so pissed? I was the fortunate one, right? I wish I had seen the bad moon rising before it was too late, but I knew my habit wasn’t the problem; it was the fucking system.
Hell, even George Washington grew weed. Freedom — you’ve got to be kidding me. America nowadays is as free as a seagull stuck in an oil spill, and we college students are ironically trying to have the time of our lives amidst all the bullshit. We’ve got ignorant Darksiders attempting to wrestle away the party scene, cops searching in all the wrong places to boost their paychecks and a government that sees nothing wrong with spending 50 billion of our tax dollars a year to eradicate a plant that millions of us find extremely appealing. What’s next, the NBA instituting a dress code?
Alone, out on the balcony though, none of this shit mattered. My bong, the Lorax, was my sidekick, my companion, my best friend. Whenever I picked the little rascal up off the floor, it shimmered, just waiting for me to light him up and let the real journey begin. Everyone who sacrificed their lungs in its honor never forgot the name.
I thought a funeral service was the right thing to do — you know, a nice little beach number with fellow mourners, play a few requiems, burn down a blunt — but I had to settle for that night’s display of true patriotism.
I unzipped my sweatshirt, threw it to the ground and re-entered the party. This one was for the Lorax.
“Hey man,” one of my friends exclaimed when I burst through the door. “Nice shirt. Where’d you get it?”
“Thanks man,” I said. “I picked it up in Berkeley a few years ago.”
This goes out to the one I love.
Growing up in a small town minutes east of Berkeley had its advantages. A quick hop aboard BART and my friends and I could find everything our sheltered little hearts desired.
What started as adventures inside Rasputin Records eventually led to blazed day trips straight through the heart of one of the most diverse social scenes in the west. Our personal Hotel Delmonico had it all: drugs, rock and roll, activism and outlandish displays of the ideals our country was founded on. I learned what freedom meant, first hand, strolling down the crowded streets, gazing red-eyed at the grunge rockers who would brush by me, fingers usually pinching the joint that had left their lips seconds before.
Between this cracked-out hippie donning a pink leotard, riding a unicycle in the middle of afternoon traffic and incense-burning sidewalk shaman professing their knowledge of your own palm, we developed a catalog of superfluous stories to tell our friends back home.
I never tired from the optical stimulation, and neither did my buddies, but when I almost took a nightstick to my dome one fine December day, I figured I had better watch what the hell I was doing.
The shirt said, “Fuck the Police.” I discovered it wedged between two tie-dye Bob Marley shirts on the rack belonging to some bohemian street vendor. I laughed uncontrollably the instant I saw it – wrong move, Jeff.
Apparently, the cop standing behind me didn’t share my sense of humor. He asked me what I thought was so funny. I replied that I was a huge Exodus fan. He put his hands on his hips, called me a damn hooligan, and, after imploring why I wasn’t in school, he walked away without giving me time to mutter my excuse. In a town known for its freedom, why was this egocentric punk trying to give me crap for enjoying myself? I shrugged it off and continued laughing my ass off at his expense.
Now fast-forward five years. It was Saturday night — a funky reggae party — and I was sitting alone on the balcony of a 6500 block Del Playa residence, cloaked in my hooded black sweatshirt and contemplating the night’s catastrophes. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Not only had my buddies been outright jacked by the cream of the corrupt crop, but those fucking swine had to pilfer my most precious of paraphernalia.
Shotgun and Little Foot had gotten the worst of it though — I wasn’t looking at possession charges or a possible felony like they were — so why the fuck was I so pissed? I was the fortunate one, right? I wish I had seen the bad moon rising before it was too late, but I knew my habit wasn’t the problem; it was the fucking system.
Hell, even George Washington grew weed. Freedom — you’ve got to be kidding me. America nowadays is as free as a seagull stuck in an oil spill, and we college students are ironically trying to have the time of our lives amidst all the bullshit. We’ve got ignorant Darksiders attempting to wrestle away the party scene, cops searching in all the wrong places to boost their paychecks and a government that sees nothing wrong with spending 50 billion of our tax dollars a year to eradicate a plant that millions of us find extremely appealing. What’s next, the NBA instituting a dress code?
Alone, out on the balcony though, none of this shit mattered. My bong, the Lorax, was my sidekick, my companion, my best friend. Whenever I picked the little rascal up off the floor, it shimmered, just waiting for me to light him up and let the real journey begin. Everyone who sacrificed their lungs in its honor never forgot the name.
I thought a funeral service was the right thing to do — you know, a nice little beach number with fellow mourners, play a few requiems, burn down a blunt — but I had to settle for that night’s display of true patriotism.
I unzipped my sweatshirt, threw it to the ground and re-entered the party. This one was for the Lorax.
“Hey man,” one of my friends exclaimed when I burst through the door. “Nice shirt. Where’d you get it?”
“Thanks man,” I said. “I picked it up in Berkeley a few years ago.”
Clouds Stifle Memories
By Jeff Gibson
Where the fuck am I? Um, why is there Parmesan cheese all over my face? Why am I wearing a pink - wait, that’s purple - thong, and why does it feel so comfortable? Is that the White Album playing?
Waking up in Isla Vista is always an adventure. Whether you roll over and grab for your newest bubbler or you open your eyes when a girl you don’t recognize whispers “Good morning” in your ear amidst the soft rhythm of ocean waves, it seems that there is no better place in the world to start the day off right.
It doesn’t matter that the corners of your eyes resemble the glaze on the after-nine donuts at Nicoletti’s or that your head feels like you took a dive off Storke Tower, you have work to do. Your mission: to figure out what you got your ass into the night before.
While many of us reminisce over a scrumptious Bagel CafŽ treat and a cup of Jones, there are far more creative ways to begin the morning’s hangover detective duties. Some prefer a trip to the beach, others, attending a sobering lab in the wee hours around noon. While I don’t mind the Bloody Mary in the morning courtesy of columnist-in-crime Sean Swaby, when I fall out of bed I’m reaching for my bud.
Dude, Jeff, pass the fucking hookah already.
Oh shit, sorry Evan.
It was 11 a.m. on a Saturday and Evan was getting impatient, rightfully so - I had been toking on that little green guy for what seemed like an entire “All Along the Watchtower.” My intentions were good, it was just that the insane amount of kush we sprinkled on top of the white grape tobacco was providing me with a key into my forgotten past.
I saw several shots of Southern Comfort being downed within a few seconds. The countless bowls burned to ashes were a faint recollection. I recalled asking a cop what his favorite band was while my pants were around my ankles. A bus ride seated next to a hilarious European, hammered beyond argument’s sake, seemed too Hollywood to be real. My beanie - if this wasn’t a dream - saved my ass in a frigid, puke and piss stained room, all thanks to the building’s generous architect and their decision on neglecting to put a roof on the place. Then my memory recovery crashed into oblivion.
I couldn’t piece together the night based solely on that crappy trip into my subconscious. Why didn’t someone just throw me in a pool filled with ice cream and give me chopsticks.
But then the hookah was back to me. My, what a wonderful rotation - the roommates had been swift and I had been tripping. Life was perfect - until more of my memory started creeping back in.
I was shaking and hunched over, my arms inside my T-shirt. Inside my head, Robert Plant was singing “Dazed and Confused.” It was my first of two trips through the iTunes collection stashed in memory, and I was jamming. It was all I could do. They took my cell phone, keys and wallet - all for safekeeping. But why the shoelaces? Now I couldn’t even make a lasso to throw at the dudes passed out on the floor.
I still had my socks though, and puppets just seemed way too appropriate. My creations - Paris and Natalie - kept me busy for a about an hour, until their Hanes logos stamped an imprint in my retinas. That and the fact my feet needed to thaw, I had been wondering why they looked purple.
I stopped inhaling. A ring of smoke and fire left my mouth. Could I have been that stupid, that fucked up? What was I doing that night to get me into such shit?
After another rip, I didn’t care. Last night had been an adventure, one I would have avoided with fortitude if I had a personal tricked-out DeLorean, but an adventure nonetheless.
Great Scott! This must be an omen. Had my journey given me insight into my dark future or did it mean this stoner would need to stop drinking?
I pondered the question for about a week. Then I found the crumpled-up ticket stashed in the bottom of my jean pocket.
“I’m going to have to pay for this aren’t I?” I whispered to myself, “Shit, there goes my alcohol money.”
Problem solved.
“Dude, Evan. Pass the fucking hookah.”
Where the fuck am I? Um, why is there Parmesan cheese all over my face? Why am I wearing a pink - wait, that’s purple - thong, and why does it feel so comfortable? Is that the White Album playing?
Waking up in Isla Vista is always an adventure. Whether you roll over and grab for your newest bubbler or you open your eyes when a girl you don’t recognize whispers “Good morning” in your ear amidst the soft rhythm of ocean waves, it seems that there is no better place in the world to start the day off right.
It doesn’t matter that the corners of your eyes resemble the glaze on the after-nine donuts at Nicoletti’s or that your head feels like you took a dive off Storke Tower, you have work to do. Your mission: to figure out what you got your ass into the night before.
While many of us reminisce over a scrumptious Bagel CafŽ treat and a cup of Jones, there are far more creative ways to begin the morning’s hangover detective duties. Some prefer a trip to the beach, others, attending a sobering lab in the wee hours around noon. While I don’t mind the Bloody Mary in the morning courtesy of columnist-in-crime Sean Swaby, when I fall out of bed I’m reaching for my bud.
Dude, Jeff, pass the fucking hookah already.
Oh shit, sorry Evan.
It was 11 a.m. on a Saturday and Evan was getting impatient, rightfully so - I had been toking on that little green guy for what seemed like an entire “All Along the Watchtower.” My intentions were good, it was just that the insane amount of kush we sprinkled on top of the white grape tobacco was providing me with a key into my forgotten past.
I saw several shots of Southern Comfort being downed within a few seconds. The countless bowls burned to ashes were a faint recollection. I recalled asking a cop what his favorite band was while my pants were around my ankles. A bus ride seated next to a hilarious European, hammered beyond argument’s sake, seemed too Hollywood to be real. My beanie - if this wasn’t a dream - saved my ass in a frigid, puke and piss stained room, all thanks to the building’s generous architect and their decision on neglecting to put a roof on the place. Then my memory recovery crashed into oblivion.
I couldn’t piece together the night based solely on that crappy trip into my subconscious. Why didn’t someone just throw me in a pool filled with ice cream and give me chopsticks.
But then the hookah was back to me. My, what a wonderful rotation - the roommates had been swift and I had been tripping. Life was perfect - until more of my memory started creeping back in.
I was shaking and hunched over, my arms inside my T-shirt. Inside my head, Robert Plant was singing “Dazed and Confused.” It was my first of two trips through the iTunes collection stashed in memory, and I was jamming. It was all I could do. They took my cell phone, keys and wallet - all for safekeeping. But why the shoelaces? Now I couldn’t even make a lasso to throw at the dudes passed out on the floor.
I still had my socks though, and puppets just seemed way too appropriate. My creations - Paris and Natalie - kept me busy for a about an hour, until their Hanes logos stamped an imprint in my retinas. That and the fact my feet needed to thaw, I had been wondering why they looked purple.
I stopped inhaling. A ring of smoke and fire left my mouth. Could I have been that stupid, that fucked up? What was I doing that night to get me into such shit?
After another rip, I didn’t care. Last night had been an adventure, one I would have avoided with fortitude if I had a personal tricked-out DeLorean, but an adventure nonetheless.
Great Scott! This must be an omen. Had my journey given me insight into my dark future or did it mean this stoner would need to stop drinking?
I pondered the question for about a week. Then I found the crumpled-up ticket stashed in the bottom of my jean pocket.
“I’m going to have to pay for this aren’t I?” I whispered to myself, “Shit, there goes my alcohol money.”
Problem solved.
“Dude, Evan. Pass the fucking hookah.”
Arrested Malevolent
By Jeff Gibson
All of us have committed the act at some point or another in our short and crooked lives. Whether you take a drag off of the blunt facts or you decide to pass the torch to the left, everyone reading this has to admit they have stolen at least one object, ignoring significance, for reasons that simply aren’t justifiable no matter what you’re smoking.
I’m sure a few of you Winona Riders have dabbled with some sort of petty shoplifting in your prime - maybe you sneak a little something into your pocket on the way out of SOS every Thursday after class? Even you self-proclaimed straight-shooters out there can’t deny that you’ve spent hours downloading free movies or made your friends burn you that Matisyahu CD you didn’t really want to spend nine bucks on, but of course, it is not you who poses the real threat. It’s you more ballsy types - those of you who enjoy walking into parties or seemingly empty houses and swipe lap tops, digital cameras and anything else portable and pawnable - that I have a problem with. And here is why.
“Hey! Don’t fucking move!” I screamed.
Frankly, I didn’t know what else to yell in such a predicament; I was too scared to come up with a more menacing command and I figured the dark shadow I just spotted in the cold Davis night wouldn’t be following any of the polite instructions I had to offer.
The bat I held in my fist came in handy now, but I quit baseball back in high school because I couldn’t hit my way out of a 3-0 count - good thing the chicken-shit robber that my best friend and I currently had trapped outside of his apartment didn’t know that. For all the punk knew, the Louisville Slugger I was wielding would strike a death-blow to his skull, or maybe land a solid crunch on any knee caps that happened to flail within my reach.
Personally, if it were my precious apartment that I found the Grinch sneaking out of, I would have hit the bastard in the face the second I came within reach of him. But Galen didn’t have time to lay a finger on the fucker before eight Davis police cars burst onto the scene. Hey, it was Davis, and it was the day before Christmas Eve, it’s not like the cops had anything else to do - well, besides jingle cowbells in unison back at the station.
All of you should have seen the burglar’s face when the cavalry arrived though. He looked like a longhaired, flagellant Uncle Fester who accidentally squeezed out a lot more than he was hoping for. He tried telling the cops he thought he lived in the apartment, but the cops knew he was already knee-deep in his own excrement. They cuffed him and let him drown in it all.
Galen and I later learned that the robber had managed to steal thousands of dollars worth of snowboards, computers and other items he thought worth lugging out of the place. He even lived in the same apartment complex, went to the UC and apparently was the recipient of massive cash flow from his well-off parents.
I just had to wonder, as Galen and I celebrated our victory over a blunt later, why you’d fuck over others like yourself to make a little cash when you really don’t have to. My thoughts trailed off though, as the smoke rose to the ceiling. If one good thing could come of this, at least the Grinch didn’t nab our weed.
All of us have committed the act at some point or another in our short and crooked lives. Whether you take a drag off of the blunt facts or you decide to pass the torch to the left, everyone reading this has to admit they have stolen at least one object, ignoring significance, for reasons that simply aren’t justifiable no matter what you’re smoking.
I’m sure a few of you Winona Riders have dabbled with some sort of petty shoplifting in your prime - maybe you sneak a little something into your pocket on the way out of SOS every Thursday after class? Even you self-proclaimed straight-shooters out there can’t deny that you’ve spent hours downloading free movies or made your friends burn you that Matisyahu CD you didn’t really want to spend nine bucks on, but of course, it is not you who poses the real threat. It’s you more ballsy types - those of you who enjoy walking into parties or seemingly empty houses and swipe lap tops, digital cameras and anything else portable and pawnable - that I have a problem with. And here is why.
“Hey! Don’t fucking move!” I screamed.
Frankly, I didn’t know what else to yell in such a predicament; I was too scared to come up with a more menacing command and I figured the dark shadow I just spotted in the cold Davis night wouldn’t be following any of the polite instructions I had to offer.
The bat I held in my fist came in handy now, but I quit baseball back in high school because I couldn’t hit my way out of a 3-0 count - good thing the chicken-shit robber that my best friend and I currently had trapped outside of his apartment didn’t know that. For all the punk knew, the Louisville Slugger I was wielding would strike a death-blow to his skull, or maybe land a solid crunch on any knee caps that happened to flail within my reach.
Personally, if it were my precious apartment that I found the Grinch sneaking out of, I would have hit the bastard in the face the second I came within reach of him. But Galen didn’t have time to lay a finger on the fucker before eight Davis police cars burst onto the scene. Hey, it was Davis, and it was the day before Christmas Eve, it’s not like the cops had anything else to do - well, besides jingle cowbells in unison back at the station.
All of you should have seen the burglar’s face when the cavalry arrived though. He looked like a longhaired, flagellant Uncle Fester who accidentally squeezed out a lot more than he was hoping for. He tried telling the cops he thought he lived in the apartment, but the cops knew he was already knee-deep in his own excrement. They cuffed him and let him drown in it all.
Galen and I later learned that the robber had managed to steal thousands of dollars worth of snowboards, computers and other items he thought worth lugging out of the place. He even lived in the same apartment complex, went to the UC and apparently was the recipient of massive cash flow from his well-off parents.
I just had to wonder, as Galen and I celebrated our victory over a blunt later, why you’d fuck over others like yourself to make a little cash when you really don’t have to. My thoughts trailed off though, as the smoke rose to the ceiling. If one good thing could come of this, at least the Grinch didn’t nab our weed.
Transcend the Herbal Gap
By Jeff Gibson
I have a nug to pick with misconceptions.
While I appreciate the ineptitude of those trying to detect my bloodshot eyes, hidden from view in critical times during class following the afternoon’s smoke sesh, I can’t stand the complete hilarity that ensues after witnessing their blatantly bullshit attempts at stereotyping the habitual life I’ve come to love.
For those of you who don’t get it, like those of you who only read newspaper headlines and neglect to continue reading further, I recommend skimming this a little longer than your average jaunt through Gossip Land. Hey, at least you’ll be able to concentrate on something other than the sweat stains on your professor’s shirt during this Friday’s class. Maybe you’ll even have time to learn a trick or two from me about the trade.
Now, my buddies and I have no problem with being classified as stoners by any conscious member of society, but it is a different story when we’re labeled as malicious gatekeepers to the chasms of Hell or disturbers of the peace in this Shire of Isla Vista.
Recently, I haven’t been able to get over the countless times I’ve heard that some freshman was stoned last week in the dorms and struck a cop when they tried to arrest him for assaulting other residents. Wait, hold the bong - are you serious? I’m usually sitting on a corn flake with John Lennon and contemplating my existence when the heirs to the Lorax begin to fill my lungs - I’m not barricading doorways or swinging a left on the 50. So why are you comparing my amigos and me to an unfortunate student who was obviously being affected by other causes?
We stoners are resourceful, imaginative, creative, artistic and adventurous people. We don’t hit cops - yeah, I’m serious, read the police report if you want - and we definitely don’t go out of our way to assault other people. We use our grinders for masterful works of herbal creation. We use our lighters for igniting ourselves into other realms with Granddaddy purps. We use our silverware for vaporizing knife hits and our stems for a drop in our cheapest bottle of vodka.
I’ve treated bongs better than pets - spent more energy cleaning Cain and Abel than I can weigh out. I’ve dedicated more of my paycheck to this cause that keeps me tripping than I can account for. I’ve devoted more effort to blowing smoke rings than Gandalf ever imagined any man could. I’ll be spending more time tomorrow studying technique at NORML’s Joint Rolling Competition or next November at Cannabis Cup in Amsterdam than I will be studying my lecture notes throughout the rest of my college life. Up in smoke maybe, but at least I’m not setting anyone else on fire.
Some of you like coffee - you’re probably drinking it right now. Others of you like chocolate; don’t be shy, pull that Snickers out of your backpack and take a bite. Personally, I enjoy other methods of attaining my fix, but I still reach for it every once in a while just like you. You’d be pissed if someone came up to you while you were taking a sip of that Java Jones and knocked it from your lips. You’d also be fuming if they attributed every discarded coffee cup lying in the streets of Isla Vista to you coffee bingers.
So, is it fair that we are to be held accountable for the actions that occurred in unrelated incidents thanks to the stupid souls who can’t mentally transcend the diversities of opposing cultures? As much as you love your freedom, don’t deny that some of you attributed the student’s actions to weed.
But ganja doesn’t do that, plain and simple, so if you see some tall creepy guy walking down the street with a shirt that says “Guns Don’t Kill People, People Do,” think about it. But think not whether you might have stepped into a taping of “Happy Gilmore;” instead question whether it is the weed or the mind that controls an individual and their actions in life.
I have a nug to pick with misconceptions.
While I appreciate the ineptitude of those trying to detect my bloodshot eyes, hidden from view in critical times during class following the afternoon’s smoke sesh, I can’t stand the complete hilarity that ensues after witnessing their blatantly bullshit attempts at stereotyping the habitual life I’ve come to love.
For those of you who don’t get it, like those of you who only read newspaper headlines and neglect to continue reading further, I recommend skimming this a little longer than your average jaunt through Gossip Land. Hey, at least you’ll be able to concentrate on something other than the sweat stains on your professor’s shirt during this Friday’s class. Maybe you’ll even have time to learn a trick or two from me about the trade.
Now, my buddies and I have no problem with being classified as stoners by any conscious member of society, but it is a different story when we’re labeled as malicious gatekeepers to the chasms of Hell or disturbers of the peace in this Shire of Isla Vista.
Recently, I haven’t been able to get over the countless times I’ve heard that some freshman was stoned last week in the dorms and struck a cop when they tried to arrest him for assaulting other residents. Wait, hold the bong - are you serious? I’m usually sitting on a corn flake with John Lennon and contemplating my existence when the heirs to the Lorax begin to fill my lungs - I’m not barricading doorways or swinging a left on the 50. So why are you comparing my amigos and me to an unfortunate student who was obviously being affected by other causes?
We stoners are resourceful, imaginative, creative, artistic and adventurous people. We don’t hit cops - yeah, I’m serious, read the police report if you want - and we definitely don’t go out of our way to assault other people. We use our grinders for masterful works of herbal creation. We use our lighters for igniting ourselves into other realms with Granddaddy purps. We use our silverware for vaporizing knife hits and our stems for a drop in our cheapest bottle of vodka.
I’ve treated bongs better than pets - spent more energy cleaning Cain and Abel than I can weigh out. I’ve dedicated more of my paycheck to this cause that keeps me tripping than I can account for. I’ve devoted more effort to blowing smoke rings than Gandalf ever imagined any man could. I’ll be spending more time tomorrow studying technique at NORML’s Joint Rolling Competition or next November at Cannabis Cup in Amsterdam than I will be studying my lecture notes throughout the rest of my college life. Up in smoke maybe, but at least I’m not setting anyone else on fire.
Some of you like coffee - you’re probably drinking it right now. Others of you like chocolate; don’t be shy, pull that Snickers out of your backpack and take a bite. Personally, I enjoy other methods of attaining my fix, but I still reach for it every once in a while just like you. You’d be pissed if someone came up to you while you were taking a sip of that Java Jones and knocked it from your lips. You’d also be fuming if they attributed every discarded coffee cup lying in the streets of Isla Vista to you coffee bingers.
So, is it fair that we are to be held accountable for the actions that occurred in unrelated incidents thanks to the stupid souls who can’t mentally transcend the diversities of opposing cultures? As much as you love your freedom, don’t deny that some of you attributed the student’s actions to weed.
But ganja doesn’t do that, plain and simple, so if you see some tall creepy guy walking down the street with a shirt that says “Guns Don’t Kill People, People Do,” think about it. But think not whether you might have stepped into a taping of “Happy Gilmore;” instead question whether it is the weed or the mind that controls an individual and their actions in life.
Gazing at the Stars
By Jeff Gibson
My footprints disappeared seconds after I left them, eternally swept away from the sandy canvas that they once littered. My trailing thoughts were swallowed by the immensity of such a place so close to home, yet so far from anything I could understand. All the comforts of knowledge gave way to awe-inspiring ignorance, but I couldn’t eat the fruit - I had to settle for simply twisting it around.
The toe of my shoe carved through the cold wet sand, but any crack at language soon swirled into meaningless expression on the edge of infinity. Behind me, the sound of a midnight’s tide came crashing against the shore as an array of stars I could only attempt to comprehend glistened in radiant abundance amidst a sea of darkness.
It was the sky that had lured me out here.
Luckily, the weekend’s rain clouds had cleared up before the night’s mycological encounter; otherwise their shroud of complete darkness would have spoiled my introspective adventure.
I couldn’t move. Nothing made sense to me - and I loved it.
I remembered how amazing the night sky was to me as a child, how long I would lie down and gaze up at the stars. Falling away to bed back then seemed light years behind my stargazing hobby. And while my dreams never bored me - I never tired of being chased underwater by giant sea turtles, surviving my way through cannibalistic penguins or falling down the crust of a giant Woodstock’s pizza - it was the sky that seemed to strike the flint stashed in the recesses of my imagination.
Then I found myself again, standing alone on the rim of the endless Pacific. I watched as the stars melted from their bluish hue into that of a fiery red. While my foundation continued to sink into the blank slate that supported me, I wished for a stopwatch.
“One click,” I thought. “Then I could stand here forever, not having to worry about the problems and hassles of the world that always distracted me from this provocative paradise.”
I didn’t want to move. Forget progress. Forget school. Forget work. I didn’t want anyone to tell me what I should do or how I should do it. Society could go fuck itself for all I cared. I needed this paradise; it was part of me.
While my trance soon spiraled out to sea, I couldn’t help but wish that others could share in such a paradise. It was mine obviously, but if someone else could have felt this incredible ignorance spilling through their own veins, then I’d know I wasn’t the only one tripping without a cause.
Have you ever been entranced by the California sun as it dips below the orange and pink Isla Vista skyline? Ever stopped and stared at the sheer Santa Maria mountainside? How about ignore the putrid smell of our campus lagoon and ponder the incredible idiosyncrasies of pelicans interacting?
It seems that all of us are so consumed by what we want to get out of life that we have ignored our imaginations completely. As kids, we would be fascinated by the simplest objects that grabbed our attention; We’d stare up at the sky and imagine ourselves probing the far reaches of the galaxy. However, the older we get, our heads sink further and further into the sand. We neglect our universe for trivial and superficial manifestations, staring down at the flat ground instead of up at the colossal sky.
My mouth was wired open. Then, as the tide of my imagination crept back to shore, the toe of my shoe continued to slice through the sand. My carving ended with a final stroke: It was the only word that came to mind and the only one that even came close to describing what I felt.
I stared up at the stars. Then as I looked back to the ground, I saw the tide sweep my scribbling from the sand and cast it out into the perplexing sea.
My footprints disappeared seconds after I left them, eternally swept away from the sandy canvas that they once littered. My trailing thoughts were swallowed by the immensity of such a place so close to home, yet so far from anything I could understand. All the comforts of knowledge gave way to awe-inspiring ignorance, but I couldn’t eat the fruit - I had to settle for simply twisting it around.
The toe of my shoe carved through the cold wet sand, but any crack at language soon swirled into meaningless expression on the edge of infinity. Behind me, the sound of a midnight’s tide came crashing against the shore as an array of stars I could only attempt to comprehend glistened in radiant abundance amidst a sea of darkness.
It was the sky that had lured me out here.
Luckily, the weekend’s rain clouds had cleared up before the night’s mycological encounter; otherwise their shroud of complete darkness would have spoiled my introspective adventure.
I couldn’t move. Nothing made sense to me - and I loved it.
I remembered how amazing the night sky was to me as a child, how long I would lie down and gaze up at the stars. Falling away to bed back then seemed light years behind my stargazing hobby. And while my dreams never bored me - I never tired of being chased underwater by giant sea turtles, surviving my way through cannibalistic penguins or falling down the crust of a giant Woodstock’s pizza - it was the sky that seemed to strike the flint stashed in the recesses of my imagination.
Then I found myself again, standing alone on the rim of the endless Pacific. I watched as the stars melted from their bluish hue into that of a fiery red. While my foundation continued to sink into the blank slate that supported me, I wished for a stopwatch.
“One click,” I thought. “Then I could stand here forever, not having to worry about the problems and hassles of the world that always distracted me from this provocative paradise.”
I didn’t want to move. Forget progress. Forget school. Forget work. I didn’t want anyone to tell me what I should do or how I should do it. Society could go fuck itself for all I cared. I needed this paradise; it was part of me.
While my trance soon spiraled out to sea, I couldn’t help but wish that others could share in such a paradise. It was mine obviously, but if someone else could have felt this incredible ignorance spilling through their own veins, then I’d know I wasn’t the only one tripping without a cause.
Have you ever been entranced by the California sun as it dips below the orange and pink Isla Vista skyline? Ever stopped and stared at the sheer Santa Maria mountainside? How about ignore the putrid smell of our campus lagoon and ponder the incredible idiosyncrasies of pelicans interacting?
It seems that all of us are so consumed by what we want to get out of life that we have ignored our imaginations completely. As kids, we would be fascinated by the simplest objects that grabbed our attention; We’d stare up at the sky and imagine ourselves probing the far reaches of the galaxy. However, the older we get, our heads sink further and further into the sand. We neglect our universe for trivial and superficial manifestations, staring down at the flat ground instead of up at the colossal sky.
My mouth was wired open. Then, as the tide of my imagination crept back to shore, the toe of my shoe continued to slice through the sand. My carving ended with a final stroke: It was the only word that came to mind and the only one that even came close to describing what I felt.
I stared up at the stars. Then as I looked back to the ground, I saw the tide sweep my scribbling from the sand and cast it out into the perplexing sea.
Evolutionary Ladder Tumbles
By Jeff Gibson
Raindrops kept falling on my head. Hiding beneath my warm beanie, my eyes were more than just a little red as I tried desperately to see my way past the lagoon and onto campus. A sweatshirt that had once been designed to keep me warm was now dripping bucketfuls of rain thanks to the week’s winter storm and all I could think about that moment was how much I loved this damn stuff.
Maybe it was the fact that everyone I saw that day looked like the rain had dampened their frail hearts and muddied their spirits, driving them into their dry, cozy I.V. homes for the afternoon and leaving me the outdoors all to myself. Maybe it was how the lagoon seemed so peaceful; no humans meant no distractions from the only reason I decided to jaunt out to this end of campus in the first place. All I knew for sure was that I had better move quickly - the bag of Humboldt I had stashed back at the pad wasn’t going to smoke itself.
I could barely make out Storke Tower through the downpour when I happened to glance at a flock of cranes scavenging on the grass nearby. Looking closer, I realized those smart balls of feathers were taking part in a feeding frenzy on a field of edible ecstasy any stoner could appreciate. Now, worms aren’t usually my thing, but I gave all due respect to those water fowl and their plight to capitalize on this rainy occasion that brought out the most slippery and slimy of night crawlers.
These birds didn’t fuck around. Each took a systematic approach to the feast, making sure every square inch of campus lawn they covered had not one single worm left to be gobbled down their avian esophagi. I had to marvel at such a dedicated approach to eating; I feel proud when I muster the energy to throw Easy Mac in the microwave or bust out the frozen pizza and plop it in the oven I never clean. For being a civilized human being, it sure seemed like these cranes had one up on me. Then the night before flashed into my brain.
Super Cucas at three in the morning is always an adventure. I must admit, the smell that they waft into the I.V. air in the wee hours after midnight grabs my nostrils like a fishhook and rips at the inner lining of my olfactory perception. Many a paycheck I have lost to this “grandest of cucas,” but I just can’t seem to stumble home some nights without one. This night, just like all the others that blend together in this town, would have been no different - except some pompous asshole had to ruin it.
Sitting down at a table with Evan and Hunter after we spouted out our intricate orders, my mind wandered into the far reaches of the panoramic skyline painted boldly on the far wall. I was soon thrown off my imaginary horse ride into the sunset however, as a mess of discarded food and napkins was thrown onto the floor from the table next to us.
“Clean this fucking shit up,” shouted a young man who obviously couldn’t decide between dressing up like Eminem or a Backstreet Boy when he got ready for the evening’s roller coaster ride. The place went dead silent.
“This shit is disgusting. Why doesn’t someone clean this shit up. This shit is bad business, dog.”
I couldn’t believe I was hearing this fuck-tard correctly. As every underpaid and sleep-deprived Super Cucas worker glared at him, and later cleaned up the mess he created, I couldn’t help but marvel at the application of this human mind.
First of all, not only was every worker in Super Cucas going to add a sample of their saliva to his delicious order back in the kitchen, but secondly, the dude’s karma just took a nosedive into an emptied swimming pool. Asking employees to clean up a mess is one thing, throwing a fit like a four-year-old and tossing food onto the floor is completely different and completely uncalled for.
For how civilized we humans think we are, it’s amusing how much a flock of cranes can accomplish peacefully as opposed to a spoiled college undergraduate when their stomachs are rumbling. If we’re so exceptional, why are we the ones acting like “animals” thanks to such barbaric urges? Why does it seem that we are the ones using our minds less than our bird-brained brothers?
Raindrops kept falling on my head. Hiding beneath my warm beanie, my eyes were more than just a little red as I tried desperately to see my way past the lagoon and onto campus. A sweatshirt that had once been designed to keep me warm was now dripping bucketfuls of rain thanks to the week’s winter storm and all I could think about that moment was how much I loved this damn stuff.
Maybe it was the fact that everyone I saw that day looked like the rain had dampened their frail hearts and muddied their spirits, driving them into their dry, cozy I.V. homes for the afternoon and leaving me the outdoors all to myself. Maybe it was how the lagoon seemed so peaceful; no humans meant no distractions from the only reason I decided to jaunt out to this end of campus in the first place. All I knew for sure was that I had better move quickly - the bag of Humboldt I had stashed back at the pad wasn’t going to smoke itself.
I could barely make out Storke Tower through the downpour when I happened to glance at a flock of cranes scavenging on the grass nearby. Looking closer, I realized those smart balls of feathers were taking part in a feeding frenzy on a field of edible ecstasy any stoner could appreciate. Now, worms aren’t usually my thing, but I gave all due respect to those water fowl and their plight to capitalize on this rainy occasion that brought out the most slippery and slimy of night crawlers.
These birds didn’t fuck around. Each took a systematic approach to the feast, making sure every square inch of campus lawn they covered had not one single worm left to be gobbled down their avian esophagi. I had to marvel at such a dedicated approach to eating; I feel proud when I muster the energy to throw Easy Mac in the microwave or bust out the frozen pizza and plop it in the oven I never clean. For being a civilized human being, it sure seemed like these cranes had one up on me. Then the night before flashed into my brain.
Super Cucas at three in the morning is always an adventure. I must admit, the smell that they waft into the I.V. air in the wee hours after midnight grabs my nostrils like a fishhook and rips at the inner lining of my olfactory perception. Many a paycheck I have lost to this “grandest of cucas,” but I just can’t seem to stumble home some nights without one. This night, just like all the others that blend together in this town, would have been no different - except some pompous asshole had to ruin it.
Sitting down at a table with Evan and Hunter after we spouted out our intricate orders, my mind wandered into the far reaches of the panoramic skyline painted boldly on the far wall. I was soon thrown off my imaginary horse ride into the sunset however, as a mess of discarded food and napkins was thrown onto the floor from the table next to us.
“Clean this fucking shit up,” shouted a young man who obviously couldn’t decide between dressing up like Eminem or a Backstreet Boy when he got ready for the evening’s roller coaster ride. The place went dead silent.
“This shit is disgusting. Why doesn’t someone clean this shit up. This shit is bad business, dog.”
I couldn’t believe I was hearing this fuck-tard correctly. As every underpaid and sleep-deprived Super Cucas worker glared at him, and later cleaned up the mess he created, I couldn’t help but marvel at the application of this human mind.
First of all, not only was every worker in Super Cucas going to add a sample of their saliva to his delicious order back in the kitchen, but secondly, the dude’s karma just took a nosedive into an emptied swimming pool. Asking employees to clean up a mess is one thing, throwing a fit like a four-year-old and tossing food onto the floor is completely different and completely uncalled for.
For how civilized we humans think we are, it’s amusing how much a flock of cranes can accomplish peacefully as opposed to a spoiled college undergraduate when their stomachs are rumbling. If we’re so exceptional, why are we the ones acting like “animals” thanks to such barbaric urges? Why does it seem that we are the ones using our minds less than our bird-brained brothers?
Creativity Sparks the Student Mind
By Jeff Gibson
I slammed my head down on the desk.
“Are you fucking serious?” I thought.
I was four minutes early.
My hands were sweating - I wiped them on my pants. My jeans needed to be washed. Why the hell were my hands sweating? I scratched my foot through my shoe. My socks weren’t matching. Fuck, get a grip, Jeff.
My head was spinning on an axis I had never discovered before, thinking of the blueberry blunt Evan had been expertly rolling when I left a few minutes ago. Even though I figured the majority of the class had labeled me a stoner a while back, I still strived for a hint of incognito - an impossible task, or so I figured. I arrived every day as the bells of Storke Tower clanged away, a thick cloud of smoke always following me past Girvetz’s pearly gates and into my uncomfortably numb chair.
But back to the problem - I fucked up.
I had left too soon. Erring for the punctual side had cost me my mindset. Hindsight was snickering at me. Five minutes ago, a few grams of Train Wreck were being assembled into a cylindrical masterpiece, and I thought my participation in the ethereal effort was relegated to spiritual support. Little did I know that the little I did toke could have been expounded upon exponentially, but it was only when I witnessed the lucky bastard walk into class that I realized I wasn’t the biggest stoner in section.
His eyes were no redder than mine, maybe a strawberry hue, but the second I caught on to his signature smile, I couldn’t help but bust up laughing. Maybe he puffed down a quick one that day before class. Maybe I was just too high to notice before, or to even go to class for that matter. Nothing changed the fact that my section was about to be led by a graduate level pothead.
I wanted to thank him - to walk up in the middle of class and shake his hand while everyone would figure me for a lunatic tweeker on his last vengeful binge. He’d understand. Fuck them if they didn’t.
I knew why this man was high. I could understand every impulse in his brain, every stroke of chalk on the blackboard and every word he lectured. He wanted a release. Whether philosophical, spiritual or simply casual, my T.A. was using marijuana as a means of expounding his creativity. And I couldn’t get enough of it.
If I was the only one that noticed, then so be it. If I wasn’t, I guess he didn’t care. And why should he? Is smoking weed to benefit your ability to teach such a bad thing? What teachers and professors lack most these days is creativity. So, why inhibit it?
The best teachers, those who can actually provoke their students’ passion, are those who truly understand their students on a personal level. So, if you want to reach your students more deeply and not just blow equivocal bullshit down their lungs, then wake up to the fact that many of your students don’t have the balls to tell you to liven up your act.
Don’t tell us what you read in your graduate school handbook. Don’t preach to us what the professor or the department chair wants you to cover. Don’t give us lists of terms and materials. Give us motivation to listen to you, aside from our plummeting grades - if those really mattered we’d all have to burst from the binge inside our tiny Isla Vista bubble. Just give us something new, something no one has slapped a patent on yet.
I sit through the same snoozefests every morning on the winding path towards my diploma. All I’m asking for is a curveball once in a while. You know, get me off balance so I can swing and flat out miss in front of everyone for a change. There would at least be substance in that, something for me to discover.
To those that inspire their students, I’ll burn one down for you. Whatever method you chose, it doesn’t matter. If you can do it sober, all the better. Just understand your students and avoid the ignorance that has blinded so many teachers from inspiring their students. Maybe then I’ll be able to enjoy class when I’m not stoned out of my mind.
I slammed my head down on the desk.
“Are you fucking serious?” I thought.
I was four minutes early.
My hands were sweating - I wiped them on my pants. My jeans needed to be washed. Why the hell were my hands sweating? I scratched my foot through my shoe. My socks weren’t matching. Fuck, get a grip, Jeff.
My head was spinning on an axis I had never discovered before, thinking of the blueberry blunt Evan had been expertly rolling when I left a few minutes ago. Even though I figured the majority of the class had labeled me a stoner a while back, I still strived for a hint of incognito - an impossible task, or so I figured. I arrived every day as the bells of Storke Tower clanged away, a thick cloud of smoke always following me past Girvetz’s pearly gates and into my uncomfortably numb chair.
But back to the problem - I fucked up.
I had left too soon. Erring for the punctual side had cost me my mindset. Hindsight was snickering at me. Five minutes ago, a few grams of Train Wreck were being assembled into a cylindrical masterpiece, and I thought my participation in the ethereal effort was relegated to spiritual support. Little did I know that the little I did toke could have been expounded upon exponentially, but it was only when I witnessed the lucky bastard walk into class that I realized I wasn’t the biggest stoner in section.
His eyes were no redder than mine, maybe a strawberry hue, but the second I caught on to his signature smile, I couldn’t help but bust up laughing. Maybe he puffed down a quick one that day before class. Maybe I was just too high to notice before, or to even go to class for that matter. Nothing changed the fact that my section was about to be led by a graduate level pothead.
I wanted to thank him - to walk up in the middle of class and shake his hand while everyone would figure me for a lunatic tweeker on his last vengeful binge. He’d understand. Fuck them if they didn’t.
I knew why this man was high. I could understand every impulse in his brain, every stroke of chalk on the blackboard and every word he lectured. He wanted a release. Whether philosophical, spiritual or simply casual, my T.A. was using marijuana as a means of expounding his creativity. And I couldn’t get enough of it.
If I was the only one that noticed, then so be it. If I wasn’t, I guess he didn’t care. And why should he? Is smoking weed to benefit your ability to teach such a bad thing? What teachers and professors lack most these days is creativity. So, why inhibit it?
The best teachers, those who can actually provoke their students’ passion, are those who truly understand their students on a personal level. So, if you want to reach your students more deeply and not just blow equivocal bullshit down their lungs, then wake up to the fact that many of your students don’t have the balls to tell you to liven up your act.
Don’t tell us what you read in your graduate school handbook. Don’t preach to us what the professor or the department chair wants you to cover. Don’t give us lists of terms and materials. Give us motivation to listen to you, aside from our plummeting grades - if those really mattered we’d all have to burst from the binge inside our tiny Isla Vista bubble. Just give us something new, something no one has slapped a patent on yet.
I sit through the same snoozefests every morning on the winding path towards my diploma. All I’m asking for is a curveball once in a while. You know, get me off balance so I can swing and flat out miss in front of everyone for a change. There would at least be substance in that, something for me to discover.
To those that inspire their students, I’ll burn one down for you. Whatever method you chose, it doesn’t matter. If you can do it sober, all the better. Just understand your students and avoid the ignorance that has blinded so many teachers from inspiring their students. Maybe then I’ll be able to enjoy class when I’m not stoned out of my mind.
Death's Scythe Has Lost Its Potent Blade
By Jeff Gibson
I asked Karina if she feared death.
She shook her head and told me she didn’t.
I wiped my nose, then the whole world washed in around us.
I’ll never forget that evening - or early morning I guess you’d call it - my first encounter with exuberant energy, an actual confidence pulsating through my veins. My waking moment began with a snort, only to end in an existential retort. It wasn’t the dark Reaper I feared it would be. Instead, I was the king of my inebriated world. I didn’t have to succumb to my fateful tomb - unless I wanted to.
Now, while I wouldn’t mind going out in a ball of lustrous flame, smoldering to my eternal demise on the midnight streets of DP like my neighbor’s newest La-Z-Boy, it’s times like these in I.V. when my philosophical thoughts wander from the blooming, chirping spring towards my howling, plaguing dreams.
The wind rushed against my face, beneath a receding sun. I threw the football. As it wobbled out of control, crash landing into a heap of oil-ridden sand, I noticed her in the ]distance.
She rode an incoming wave onto the beach and then laid down in the moist sand.
Tim tossed the football back, but I didn’t see it until it came spiraling past my head.
“Shit, she’s in trouble,” I thought.
Ignoring the friendly toss of the pigskin as if it were a lowly bag of shake, I made my way along the beach to see what was up. Little did I know that once I got to her I’d find her beneath the sun’s piercing rays, clinging to the last few breaths of life.
Tim followed. I stopped. We stared.
I didn’t know what to do. I’d never been this close to one before - well, except when that one kissed me at Sea World. She started to crawl up the beach, further and further from the sea that spewed her from its protective womb.
I couldn’t understand. Maybe my stash was more potent than I had anticipated, or maybe the sun had switched from the usual barbecuing of my skin to the sautŽing of my brain instead. Whatever the case, my feet wouldn’t budge.
A seagull landed awkwardly beside me, obviously taking in the same somber spectacle I had been witnessing for some time now. It drew my gaze away.
The seagull ran its beak through a pile of seaweed a few feet to my left, coming up with a cigarette butt interlaced with other small samples of trash lodged in its beak. Then it stopped and stared at me.
My feet sank deeper into the sand.
“Crap. What’s wrong with her?” I questioned aloud, hoping for an answer from anything that cared enough to listen, anything that could understand.
“She’s dying,” quietly squawked the seagull, the trash still lodged inside its beak.
“Oh,” was the only word I could muster, my dry throat struggling to swallow the sharp truth of the situation. The seagull flew away. My feet still lay covered in the sand.
I stared at her. I watched as the rhythm of the rise and fall of her chest began to slow considerably. Her entire body rumbled with every heartbeat. My heart rumbled with every breath she exhaled. I crouched down on a knee and, while I listened to her unwinding struggle, I looked into her pitch-black eyes.
I asked her if she feared death.
She shook her flipper and told me she didn’t.
I wiped my nose, then the whole world washed in around us.
I asked Karina if she feared death.
She shook her head and told me she didn’t.
I wiped my nose, then the whole world washed in around us.
I’ll never forget that evening - or early morning I guess you’d call it - my first encounter with exuberant energy, an actual confidence pulsating through my veins. My waking moment began with a snort, only to end in an existential retort. It wasn’t the dark Reaper I feared it would be. Instead, I was the king of my inebriated world. I didn’t have to succumb to my fateful tomb - unless I wanted to.
Now, while I wouldn’t mind going out in a ball of lustrous flame, smoldering to my eternal demise on the midnight streets of DP like my neighbor’s newest La-Z-Boy, it’s times like these in I.V. when my philosophical thoughts wander from the blooming, chirping spring towards my howling, plaguing dreams.
The wind rushed against my face, beneath a receding sun. I threw the football. As it wobbled out of control, crash landing into a heap of oil-ridden sand, I noticed her in the ]distance.
She rode an incoming wave onto the beach and then laid down in the moist sand.
Tim tossed the football back, but I didn’t see it until it came spiraling past my head.
“Shit, she’s in trouble,” I thought.
Ignoring the friendly toss of the pigskin as if it were a lowly bag of shake, I made my way along the beach to see what was up. Little did I know that once I got to her I’d find her beneath the sun’s piercing rays, clinging to the last few breaths of life.
Tim followed. I stopped. We stared.
I didn’t know what to do. I’d never been this close to one before - well, except when that one kissed me at Sea World. She started to crawl up the beach, further and further from the sea that spewed her from its protective womb.
I couldn’t understand. Maybe my stash was more potent than I had anticipated, or maybe the sun had switched from the usual barbecuing of my skin to the sautŽing of my brain instead. Whatever the case, my feet wouldn’t budge.
A seagull landed awkwardly beside me, obviously taking in the same somber spectacle I had been witnessing for some time now. It drew my gaze away.
The seagull ran its beak through a pile of seaweed a few feet to my left, coming up with a cigarette butt interlaced with other small samples of trash lodged in its beak. Then it stopped and stared at me.
My feet sank deeper into the sand.
“Crap. What’s wrong with her?” I questioned aloud, hoping for an answer from anything that cared enough to listen, anything that could understand.
“She’s dying,” quietly squawked the seagull, the trash still lodged inside its beak.
“Oh,” was the only word I could muster, my dry throat struggling to swallow the sharp truth of the situation. The seagull flew away. My feet still lay covered in the sand.
I stared at her. I watched as the rhythm of the rise and fall of her chest began to slow considerably. Her entire body rumbled with every heartbeat. My heart rumbled with every breath she exhaled. I crouched down on a knee and, while I listened to her unwinding struggle, I looked into her pitch-black eyes.
I asked her if she feared death.
She shook her flipper and told me she didn’t.
I wiped my nose, then the whole world washed in around us.
Dude, What Are You On?
By Jeff Gibson
In all irony, I never knew my best friend until this summer.
“So, tell me what’s going on, man.”
“Is this seriously happening?” I questioned. I was supposed to be blazed out of my mind witnessing five of my favorite musicians bombard my ears with bliss before a gorgeous sunset on the Columbia River. Instead, I now found myself falling through clouds in a sky of irony, slouching on a molding couch in my buddy’s living room.
“You aren’t acting like yourself, man, and, as a friend, I just want to let you know I’m here for you.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I thought. “There’s no way. Seriously?”
Wow. If I ever thought this would happen, I never suspected an intervention would come at a time when I had absolutely no use for it - especially not when I had spent the past several days trying to help the friend who was conducting it.
“Dude, what did you put in that weed?”
Oregon’s crisp mountain air rushed through my lungs, but my eyes were still adjusting to the early morning glow of the tent’s interior. I turned over, yawning as my back rolled over onto a pesky volcanic remnant lodged beneath my sleeping bag - my body still feeling the affects from drowning in last night’s 30-pack and the ensuing midnight jam session in the shadows of the firelight. Yet, foggy reflections upon my return to the waking world were abruptly interrupted by an image of my buddy in desperate need.
Now, while Placebo once said that a friend with weed was better indeed, this moment seemed hardly appropriate for my usual morning wake and bake routine. I had to deal with the matter at hand. My best friend was shaking uncontrollably in his sleeping bag beside me.
“What are you talking about?” I shot back. “You were shaking when I woke up that morning at the base of Mt. Hood. I brought you home.”
He hadn’t slept in four days. Hadn’t had much water in that time either. I’d seen friends break in the past, but accusing me of lacing the trip’s stash was a tad different than professing self-divinity or the patronages of the devil like I’d heard before. Hindsight still seems fuzzy, but luckily, I was confused enough by his behavior at the time to cut our concert quest short and head for home.
“What’s in your lip ring? What did you put in there? I know you’re hiding something from me, man. I just want to know what you’re on. I’m your friend. I can tell you’re on something.”
Had his mind really run this far with it? Were these paranoid delusions of a spiraling drug addiction really possessing my amigo? There were no other reasons to deny it. Why else would he have staged this intervention, making his dad drive an hour to his son’s bachelor pad in Davis to supposedly put my life back on course?
I no longer recognized my high school wingman. The normally confident and trustworthy swindler was a nervous wreck with a stranglehold on misconceptions - betting on his hand before even looking at his cards. It was the biggest misread I’d ever seen him make, but there was no way to keep his chips out of the pot. He was far too committed to fold now.
I denied every accusation. Telling the truth had never been so simple, yet never had it been so easily shot down. I couldn’t come to grips with how powerless I felt, but my worries disappeared after my friend’s father took control of the situation. I’m sure his doctorate in psychology helped a little, but his paternal instinct clued him to who really needed a life jacket thrown their way.
My friend has apologized to me over the phone many times since. After finally being able to relax and get some sleep, he’s realized his faults - how his mind just grabbed a hold of anything it could find, how the anxiety just boiled over the brim. I know he understands I’ve always got his back, but it took me weeks to realize he was simply looking out for mine.
Forget the breakdown. Forget the unfounded accusations. Neither the concert nor the irony meant anything to me now. My pal was putting my life before his, an instinct that will always be buried in the mind of a true friend.
In all irony, I never knew my best friend until this summer.
“So, tell me what’s going on, man.”
“Is this seriously happening?” I questioned. I was supposed to be blazed out of my mind witnessing five of my favorite musicians bombard my ears with bliss before a gorgeous sunset on the Columbia River. Instead, I now found myself falling through clouds in a sky of irony, slouching on a molding couch in my buddy’s living room.
“You aren’t acting like yourself, man, and, as a friend, I just want to let you know I’m here for you.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I thought. “There’s no way. Seriously?”
Wow. If I ever thought this would happen, I never suspected an intervention would come at a time when I had absolutely no use for it - especially not when I had spent the past several days trying to help the friend who was conducting it.
“Dude, what did you put in that weed?”
Oregon’s crisp mountain air rushed through my lungs, but my eyes were still adjusting to the early morning glow of the tent’s interior. I turned over, yawning as my back rolled over onto a pesky volcanic remnant lodged beneath my sleeping bag - my body still feeling the affects from drowning in last night’s 30-pack and the ensuing midnight jam session in the shadows of the firelight. Yet, foggy reflections upon my return to the waking world were abruptly interrupted by an image of my buddy in desperate need.
Now, while Placebo once said that a friend with weed was better indeed, this moment seemed hardly appropriate for my usual morning wake and bake routine. I had to deal with the matter at hand. My best friend was shaking uncontrollably in his sleeping bag beside me.
“What are you talking about?” I shot back. “You were shaking when I woke up that morning at the base of Mt. Hood. I brought you home.”
He hadn’t slept in four days. Hadn’t had much water in that time either. I’d seen friends break in the past, but accusing me of lacing the trip’s stash was a tad different than professing self-divinity or the patronages of the devil like I’d heard before. Hindsight still seems fuzzy, but luckily, I was confused enough by his behavior at the time to cut our concert quest short and head for home.
“What’s in your lip ring? What did you put in there? I know you’re hiding something from me, man. I just want to know what you’re on. I’m your friend. I can tell you’re on something.”
Had his mind really run this far with it? Were these paranoid delusions of a spiraling drug addiction really possessing my amigo? There were no other reasons to deny it. Why else would he have staged this intervention, making his dad drive an hour to his son’s bachelor pad in Davis to supposedly put my life back on course?
I no longer recognized my high school wingman. The normally confident and trustworthy swindler was a nervous wreck with a stranglehold on misconceptions - betting on his hand before even looking at his cards. It was the biggest misread I’d ever seen him make, but there was no way to keep his chips out of the pot. He was far too committed to fold now.
I denied every accusation. Telling the truth had never been so simple, yet never had it been so easily shot down. I couldn’t come to grips with how powerless I felt, but my worries disappeared after my friend’s father took control of the situation. I’m sure his doctorate in psychology helped a little, but his paternal instinct clued him to who really needed a life jacket thrown their way.
My friend has apologized to me over the phone many times since. After finally being able to relax and get some sleep, he’s realized his faults - how his mind just grabbed a hold of anything it could find, how the anxiety just boiled over the brim. I know he understands I’ve always got his back, but it took me weeks to realize he was simply looking out for mine.
Forget the breakdown. Forget the unfounded accusations. Neither the concert nor the irony meant anything to me now. My pal was putting my life before his, an instinct that will always be buried in the mind of a true friend.
The So-Cal Weed Is What You Need
By Jeff Gibson
Growing up in Northern California had its advantages. While my childhood friends and I missed out on SoCal’s golden beaches and stellar surfing, we realized nothing on the West Coast could compete with the ganja our soil spits out. Now that I live in Isla Vista, it seems I hear this argument every time I pack a snapper with such “inferior” greens. Yet, after sampling some of the fruits Santa Barbara County’s home growers have to offer, I have realized my hella dank superiority complex has almost evaporated altogether.
Sure, we have Mendocino county where Measure G helped local connoisseurs grow their own means of herbal sustenance and medicinal clubs that attract all kinds of compassionate caregivers out there, but after grabbing a grip of a Santa Ynez strain this weekend, I couldn’t help but hold up my bong and offer a toast. Here’s to you, Mary Jane.
I guess we all have our prejudices, but now I can’t stop thinking about how wrong my opinions were on the matter. Maybe it was the crazy names I’ve heard pushed in the past like Master Kush, Granddaddy Purps, Monkey Fuck and even Nepalese. I have to give it to them. Dealers get pretty creative with labels if it’s going to turn them a fatter profit. In the past, though, it seemed like anything I smelled south of Monterrey was always dubbed with some eccentric tag that never lived up to the hype. Giant leaves and even more enormous stems took up most of the weight. Purple was simply a darker shade of brown and it would have taken a molecular microscope to find any trace of crystals.
Was it simply a trick of the Southern California trade? I knew there had to be better stuff out there. What kept Jim Morrison’s poetry flowing before he stumbled into the desert with a stomach full of peyote? What was George Jung selling along Venice Beach before he controlled 60 percent of the nation’s cocaine distribution back in the 1960s and ’70s? I figured there had to be at least a few plants nestled up in the Hollywood hills. Rick James may have been busy wrecking couches, but the herb he got his hands on must have been super freaky.
Luckily, my nose caught a whiff of this sticky stuff before my mind had the chance to accept Southern California’s mediocrity forever. Apparently I just wasn’t looking in the right place or I was too dazed and confused to leave my cozy stoners’ circle.
Really though, it just sort of fell in my lap one gloomy Goleta day. I was glancing through my fantasy football team last Sunday while waiting for a delivery of the Humboldt Trainwreck that I’ve survived on over the past few years, when a baggie of freshly plucked Santa Ynez came flying through the air.
After certain minor preparations and trying to find my grinder in my cave known as an apartment, I was on my ass in seconds. Forget your normal Isla Vista imports, this mountain mixture rivaled even the Bay’s sativa. I couldn’t believe it. The munchies have never made me feel more gluttonous and my dreams have never been as vivid. Have you ever found yourself struggling to survive on an iceberg infested with starving, meat-eating penguins? I hadn’t either. Now I’m missing four toes thanks to those cranky fuckers and have a nasty case of frostbite on my left testicle.
So, to all you SoCal stoners out there: I’m sorry. Don’t take offense to my previous ignorance. I had faith in you guys. It’s not like I had anything against you. Well, except for stealing my Raiders for 12 years back in the ’80s, but come on, I’m an Oakland sports fan. Faith is all I’m ever really left with.
Growing up in Northern California had its advantages. While my childhood friends and I missed out on SoCal’s golden beaches and stellar surfing, we realized nothing on the West Coast could compete with the ganja our soil spits out. Now that I live in Isla Vista, it seems I hear this argument every time I pack a snapper with such “inferior” greens. Yet, after sampling some of the fruits Santa Barbara County’s home growers have to offer, I have realized my hella dank superiority complex has almost evaporated altogether.
Sure, we have Mendocino county where Measure G helped local connoisseurs grow their own means of herbal sustenance and medicinal clubs that attract all kinds of compassionate caregivers out there, but after grabbing a grip of a Santa Ynez strain this weekend, I couldn’t help but hold up my bong and offer a toast. Here’s to you, Mary Jane.
I guess we all have our prejudices, but now I can’t stop thinking about how wrong my opinions were on the matter. Maybe it was the crazy names I’ve heard pushed in the past like Master Kush, Granddaddy Purps, Monkey Fuck and even Nepalese. I have to give it to them. Dealers get pretty creative with labels if it’s going to turn them a fatter profit. In the past, though, it seemed like anything I smelled south of Monterrey was always dubbed with some eccentric tag that never lived up to the hype. Giant leaves and even more enormous stems took up most of the weight. Purple was simply a darker shade of brown and it would have taken a molecular microscope to find any trace of crystals.
Was it simply a trick of the Southern California trade? I knew there had to be better stuff out there. What kept Jim Morrison’s poetry flowing before he stumbled into the desert with a stomach full of peyote? What was George Jung selling along Venice Beach before he controlled 60 percent of the nation’s cocaine distribution back in the 1960s and ’70s? I figured there had to be at least a few plants nestled up in the Hollywood hills. Rick James may have been busy wrecking couches, but the herb he got his hands on must have been super freaky.
Luckily, my nose caught a whiff of this sticky stuff before my mind had the chance to accept Southern California’s mediocrity forever. Apparently I just wasn’t looking in the right place or I was too dazed and confused to leave my cozy stoners’ circle.
Really though, it just sort of fell in my lap one gloomy Goleta day. I was glancing through my fantasy football team last Sunday while waiting for a delivery of the Humboldt Trainwreck that I’ve survived on over the past few years, when a baggie of freshly plucked Santa Ynez came flying through the air.
After certain minor preparations and trying to find my grinder in my cave known as an apartment, I was on my ass in seconds. Forget your normal Isla Vista imports, this mountain mixture rivaled even the Bay’s sativa. I couldn’t believe it. The munchies have never made me feel more gluttonous and my dreams have never been as vivid. Have you ever found yourself struggling to survive on an iceberg infested with starving, meat-eating penguins? I hadn’t either. Now I’m missing four toes thanks to those cranky fuckers and have a nasty case of frostbite on my left testicle.
So, to all you SoCal stoners out there: I’m sorry. Don’t take offense to my previous ignorance. I had faith in you guys. It’s not like I had anything against you. Well, except for stealing my Raiders for 12 years back in the ’80s, but come on, I’m an Oakland sports fan. Faith is all I’m ever really left with.
This Joint Is So Jumpin'
By Jeff Gibson
I can spot an expertly rolled joint the second it’s passed to me in any rotation. As my thumb and forefinger grab hold of such a creation, I realize it’s the craft that my comrades and I truly take pride in. You could call it a stoner’s sense of accomplishment, but I like to call it an herbal art form.And why not? Dal’ might have had his geopoliticus children and melting clocks, but my mind is much more inclined to question the realms of reality when my freshest strain gets tightly wrapped in a brand new king size Zig-Zag. Combine the two, though, and your eyeballs could roam his masterpieces for eternity. I’m sure old shifty Salvador wouldn’t have hesitated to join you on such a quest either.Some say Dal’ ruined art. Some say joints waste weed. Ignorance sure is sweet.While it may waste a puny amount of ganja, a joint exploits the unique creativity trapped inside any cloudy mind. Whether you’re a newbie who still uses the dollar-bill technique or you’ve perfected the inside-out approach out of sheer boredom, what you’re about to be toking adds a special zest to your environment - unless your room still reeks from the bong water and hookah coals you spilled on your already crappy carpet. Adios deposit. Hola negligence.Speaking of negligence, more annoying than spilling your bong is having to actually clean it once in a while. Rock salt and a good antibacterial soap are always recommended, but I clean my four-footer about every time I stop smoking weed. Joints are just more practical. Any vet will tell you that, even the lazy couch dwellers.You can discern a seasoned roller by the way they first approach the process. A sharp and trusty grinder should be within arms reach, unless they have a manual technique that they’ve been perfecting for a few years. A flat surface - I prefer Conrad’s Heart of Darkness or Kerouac’s On the Road as opposed to any tabletop - will provide a nice working surface and can catch any fallen or forlorn fragments. Forget those puny papers. It’s king size or no size. A solid crutch provides added support when rolling, but Randy’s wire papers are at least worth a try. And if spliffs are your thing, then a fresh bag of rolling tobacco should always be kept handy. These supplies are crucial if you want to make any joint a magnum oeuvre, but any real masterpiece stems from the maneuvering of steady, practiced hands.From my experiences, I can tell you that the French do it the best. I can’t explain it. My buddy Kevin rolls the tightest and fattest cones I’ve ever laid my bloodshot eyes on. Besides the fact that Parisians shove in about 3/4 tobacco, their trade is rarely paralleled around the planet. If you happen to find such expertise elsewhere, holler at a stoner.If you aren’t from France though, instead a simple mortal roller like me, then the technique takes a little practice.First of all, Chubbs was wrong. It ain’t in the hips; it’s really all in the hands. Getting your fingers used to the delicate pressure and slight detail necessary to roll a tight joint takes some time. Be patient. I’m assuming you’re about to be smoking your mind into oblivion, so it’s not like you have anywhere to waltz off to. The best thing about rolling is you can always start over. Unlike dropping your Bong Marley on the floor, rolling papers costs about three cents each to discard. Thus, it doesn’t really matter if you fuck it up. Start over; all you have to lose will rise to the rafters in no time.So, keep honing your rolling skills. If a bong or pipe looks appealing, understand that you’ll be missing out on an opportunity to express yourself, maybe even the chance to spot the Virgin Mary’s image hidden in the Mary Jane. If you keep it up, maybe I’ll see you in Anisq’ Oyo’ Park at NORML’s joint rolling contest next spring. I’ll probably be the dude smoking all entries.
I can spot an expertly rolled joint the second it’s passed to me in any rotation. As my thumb and forefinger grab hold of such a creation, I realize it’s the craft that my comrades and I truly take pride in. You could call it a stoner’s sense of accomplishment, but I like to call it an herbal art form.And why not? Dal’ might have had his geopoliticus children and melting clocks, but my mind is much more inclined to question the realms of reality when my freshest strain gets tightly wrapped in a brand new king size Zig-Zag. Combine the two, though, and your eyeballs could roam his masterpieces for eternity. I’m sure old shifty Salvador wouldn’t have hesitated to join you on such a quest either.Some say Dal’ ruined art. Some say joints waste weed. Ignorance sure is sweet.While it may waste a puny amount of ganja, a joint exploits the unique creativity trapped inside any cloudy mind. Whether you’re a newbie who still uses the dollar-bill technique or you’ve perfected the inside-out approach out of sheer boredom, what you’re about to be toking adds a special zest to your environment - unless your room still reeks from the bong water and hookah coals you spilled on your already crappy carpet. Adios deposit. Hola negligence.Speaking of negligence, more annoying than spilling your bong is having to actually clean it once in a while. Rock salt and a good antibacterial soap are always recommended, but I clean my four-footer about every time I stop smoking weed. Joints are just more practical. Any vet will tell you that, even the lazy couch dwellers.You can discern a seasoned roller by the way they first approach the process. A sharp and trusty grinder should be within arms reach, unless they have a manual technique that they’ve been perfecting for a few years. A flat surface - I prefer Conrad’s Heart of Darkness or Kerouac’s On the Road as opposed to any tabletop - will provide a nice working surface and can catch any fallen or forlorn fragments. Forget those puny papers. It’s king size or no size. A solid crutch provides added support when rolling, but Randy’s wire papers are at least worth a try. And if spliffs are your thing, then a fresh bag of rolling tobacco should always be kept handy. These supplies are crucial if you want to make any joint a magnum oeuvre, but any real masterpiece stems from the maneuvering of steady, practiced hands.From my experiences, I can tell you that the French do it the best. I can’t explain it. My buddy Kevin rolls the tightest and fattest cones I’ve ever laid my bloodshot eyes on. Besides the fact that Parisians shove in about 3/4 tobacco, their trade is rarely paralleled around the planet. If you happen to find such expertise elsewhere, holler at a stoner.If you aren’t from France though, instead a simple mortal roller like me, then the technique takes a little practice.First of all, Chubbs was wrong. It ain’t in the hips; it’s really all in the hands. Getting your fingers used to the delicate pressure and slight detail necessary to roll a tight joint takes some time. Be patient. I’m assuming you’re about to be smoking your mind into oblivion, so it’s not like you have anywhere to waltz off to. The best thing about rolling is you can always start over. Unlike dropping your Bong Marley on the floor, rolling papers costs about three cents each to discard. Thus, it doesn’t really matter if you fuck it up. Start over; all you have to lose will rise to the rafters in no time.So, keep honing your rolling skills. If a bong or pipe looks appealing, understand that you’ll be missing out on an opportunity to express yourself, maybe even the chance to spot the Virgin Mary’s image hidden in the Mary Jane. If you keep it up, maybe I’ll see you in Anisq’ Oyo’ Park at NORML’s joint rolling contest next spring. I’ll probably be the dude smoking all entries.
Halloween Midterms Spoil the Mood
By Jeff Gibson
In every class it seems like I’m hearing the same thing. Halloween? What is that? Oh well, we’ll give you a midterm on Nov. 1 anyway. You know, why not throw in a research paper on the Hawley-Smoot Tariff Act due that day, too. While you’re at it, here’s a 500-page book on Banobos you need to finish ASAP.
I still haven’t thought of a costume for Tuesday evening, but at this point, I feel like my professors are telling me I need to add a textbook and a highlighter to my outfit. Maybe I’ll be a giant flashcard. Naw, I’d be ripped apart in seconds once some dude dressed as a colossal joint figures out he forgot a crutch. There go my Chandler notes.
I feel like it’s always this way, though. The fourth week of Fall Quarter reminds me of being woken up in my birthday suit on the living room floor as a bucket full of ice cold water pours across my hung over carcass. But at least my roommate didn’t nail my crotch this time. That high bastard’s aim must have been a little off. Now I guess I’ll have to name one of my kids after him. He might have preserved a few anxious haploids.
I can’t stand children. Be a camp counselor for six years and tell me you love children - I won’t believe you. The problem is that I loathe their parents even more. Summer meant freedom to those rambunctious devils, but their moms and pops never got the clue. Most of their offspring grew up wishing they knew what a whole summer was, only to be handcuffed to a classroom desk wherever their parents enrolled them in the fast approaching fall.
I always told my campers that summer was a chance to change. No teachers, no homework, no rules. It was a break from the monotony. They’d ask me what monotony meant. I’d say it was Jamaican for Monopoly. They’d forget what I was talking about and race to the game chest. Then I’d sit in solitude and realize how groovy a little change could be. They were high times, but it never helped that I knew I’d also be back to the daily grind once the leaves started dropping.
At least my campers hadn’t figured out procrastination yet. I don’t know how I could have explained that one to them. Maybe somewhere along the lines of: Well guys, procrastination is when you’re glued to World of Warcraft for 12 hours straight the night before a test and you just can’t crack open a book. It’s when you give in to that girl who wants to come over for the night when you should be polishing your Spanish. It’s when a combination of coffee, cigarettes and Adderall looks like your only savior. Then they’d ask what Adderall was. I’d tell them it was the green shit Popeye was always scarfing.
We’ve all made procrastination a habit by now. It’s a ritual we’ve come to expect and one we’ve learned to perfect. It’s motivating actually. What better way to scare the shit out of yourself and get your ass in gear? I’m sure most of you are as good at procrastinating as I am at getting someone else to pack the bong for a quick snapper. My problem is that I just need something to ignite my inner collegiate flame once in a while.
“Hey, bro. Pass it, bro. Yo, don’t make me go Mac Dre status on you, homes.”
I’ll admit. I was hogging it for way too long. But shit, what was I supposed to do? My midterm was the next day. Wait Jeff, don’t forget the eight-pager, too. If I was going to pass my freshest cylindrical conception, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be any time soon. Mary and I had a date with existentialism - school could wait for after the rotation.
It was inspiring. The air smelled like a fresh rain fatefully falling after a genius’ death: While her blood slowly sieves through the earth, everyone anticipates the next mastermind to take her place on the shoulders of those who came before her. I guess our elders would say I’m killing my brain cells, an unusual studying tactic, but I like to call it a warm-up exercise for the ones still left.
In every class it seems like I’m hearing the same thing. Halloween? What is that? Oh well, we’ll give you a midterm on Nov. 1 anyway. You know, why not throw in a research paper on the Hawley-Smoot Tariff Act due that day, too. While you’re at it, here’s a 500-page book on Banobos you need to finish ASAP.
I still haven’t thought of a costume for Tuesday evening, but at this point, I feel like my professors are telling me I need to add a textbook and a highlighter to my outfit. Maybe I’ll be a giant flashcard. Naw, I’d be ripped apart in seconds once some dude dressed as a colossal joint figures out he forgot a crutch. There go my Chandler notes.
I feel like it’s always this way, though. The fourth week of Fall Quarter reminds me of being woken up in my birthday suit on the living room floor as a bucket full of ice cold water pours across my hung over carcass. But at least my roommate didn’t nail my crotch this time. That high bastard’s aim must have been a little off. Now I guess I’ll have to name one of my kids after him. He might have preserved a few anxious haploids.
I can’t stand children. Be a camp counselor for six years and tell me you love children - I won’t believe you. The problem is that I loathe their parents even more. Summer meant freedom to those rambunctious devils, but their moms and pops never got the clue. Most of their offspring grew up wishing they knew what a whole summer was, only to be handcuffed to a classroom desk wherever their parents enrolled them in the fast approaching fall.
I always told my campers that summer was a chance to change. No teachers, no homework, no rules. It was a break from the monotony. They’d ask me what monotony meant. I’d say it was Jamaican for Monopoly. They’d forget what I was talking about and race to the game chest. Then I’d sit in solitude and realize how groovy a little change could be. They were high times, but it never helped that I knew I’d also be back to the daily grind once the leaves started dropping.
At least my campers hadn’t figured out procrastination yet. I don’t know how I could have explained that one to them. Maybe somewhere along the lines of: Well guys, procrastination is when you’re glued to World of Warcraft for 12 hours straight the night before a test and you just can’t crack open a book. It’s when you give in to that girl who wants to come over for the night when you should be polishing your Spanish. It’s when a combination of coffee, cigarettes and Adderall looks like your only savior. Then they’d ask what Adderall was. I’d tell them it was the green shit Popeye was always scarfing.
We’ve all made procrastination a habit by now. It’s a ritual we’ve come to expect and one we’ve learned to perfect. It’s motivating actually. What better way to scare the shit out of yourself and get your ass in gear? I’m sure most of you are as good at procrastinating as I am at getting someone else to pack the bong for a quick snapper. My problem is that I just need something to ignite my inner collegiate flame once in a while.
“Hey, bro. Pass it, bro. Yo, don’t make me go Mac Dre status on you, homes.”
I’ll admit. I was hogging it for way too long. But shit, what was I supposed to do? My midterm was the next day. Wait Jeff, don’t forget the eight-pager, too. If I was going to pass my freshest cylindrical conception, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be any time soon. Mary and I had a date with existentialism - school could wait for after the rotation.
It was inspiring. The air smelled like a fresh rain fatefully falling after a genius’ death: While her blood slowly sieves through the earth, everyone anticipates the next mastermind to take her place on the shoulders of those who came before her. I guess our elders would say I’m killing my brain cells, an unusual studying tactic, but I like to call it a warm-up exercise for the ones still left.
Cross-Fade Your Pong Game
By Jeff Gibson
After constructing an impressive $30 Beirut beauty on our back balcony this summer, my roommates and I have come to the conclusion that we were born to play beer pong - along with the rest of Isla Vista. While I may not possess the smoothest arc on Del Playa Drive or the cat-like reflexes of some Sueno Road swatter, it seems I have more confidence in my tenacious pong skills after I’ve become completely cross-faded. Forget the popular partygoer opinion, once I’m spinning in two directions I start dropping shots like Prince decked out in his full purple attire.
Most randoms I meet at parties tell me they don’t like to smoke when they are already drunk. Then they explain to me that they just get tired and eventually pass out. I usually think, “Shit, I guess the whole joint’s for me then.” But some bro will almost always sneak through the crowd for a quick drag after he’s sniffed you out. I normally give in, shifting my attention for a split second to complete the handoff and - clunk. Damn, fucking bounce: Two additional cups to tack on to my spin velocity.
From the opposite end of the table, Doc told me that I just needed to make the fucking ball in the cup. He didn’t remember that I had an instinctual tendency to maximize my beer consumption and was sandbagging him in order to nab more beer from the situation - it’s what you think about when you’re too dizzy to talk to the hot girl giving you glances every time your merry-go-round makes its way around to her again.
I had one cup to go. Doc was down to three, quickly gaining ground after the five-cup streak I cruised through earlier in the game. I felt it was time to stop toying with him though. I aligned my double vision, pinpointing the lone red keg cup on the far side of the table. Then I called my shot. The Babe must have witnessed my intoxicated invocation to the beer gods because after the ball left my outstretched hand, it plopped softly into a bed of foam. Clickity clack.
Ask any expert and they’ll tell you the same thing: Beer pong is all about the tolerance curve. Never mind a solid arch, top spin or a soft touch, all that a night of strenuous beer pong really comes down to is the ability to make shots while you’re getting more fucked up with each toss. If a player starts out slow, don’t rip on the homie because he’s bound to come back next game and shove 10 cups in your belly before you even hit a rim. And that’s exactly why Mary and I get along so well - Natty and I spin one way, Mary spins the other.
The explosion rule works wonders for this tactic, especially the more games you pound through. While most pong vets will be too drunk by the seventh straight game to even hit the rack, I’m still able to lock on to whatever cup my inebriated partner just made before me. Not only does making the same cup knock out any adjacent cups, which might be touching your team’s two bull’s eyes, but it allows your team the opportunity of getting the balls back for a chance to turn the knife of defeat even further into your opponent’s full belly.
Too bad I told all my buddies about my tactic. Now everyone’s hitting center cup with their first shot and both sides are down to three cups in the time it takes me to rip a snapper out of my favorite bong. Now I have less time to work out the kinks in my mechanics and I’m forced to puff as fast as I can from one hand and gulp as fast as I can from the other - all while trying to defend against the fucking bounce.
Maybe I just shouldn’t have said anything. But now I wonder if smoking ganja would actually give me an unfair advantage in clashes between beer pong’s best? If two teams of two took sides on beer’s epic battlefield, would a substance other than beer taint the outcome of the game? Does it even matter what a beer pong player puts in their body, so long as he or she is the one who actually lofts the little white ball? And wouldn’t weed do more harm than good in competitions of consumption and athletic prowess?
I don’t think I have the authority to decide what’s right for the game. All I know is that the game is about getting super drunk while grabbing the pride of victory in the process. I just wonder whether adding a knuckle ball into your pitch repertoire is really all that immoral.
After constructing an impressive $30 Beirut beauty on our back balcony this summer, my roommates and I have come to the conclusion that we were born to play beer pong - along with the rest of Isla Vista. While I may not possess the smoothest arc on Del Playa Drive or the cat-like reflexes of some Sueno Road swatter, it seems I have more confidence in my tenacious pong skills after I’ve become completely cross-faded. Forget the popular partygoer opinion, once I’m spinning in two directions I start dropping shots like Prince decked out in his full purple attire.
Most randoms I meet at parties tell me they don’t like to smoke when they are already drunk. Then they explain to me that they just get tired and eventually pass out. I usually think, “Shit, I guess the whole joint’s for me then.” But some bro will almost always sneak through the crowd for a quick drag after he’s sniffed you out. I normally give in, shifting my attention for a split second to complete the handoff and - clunk. Damn, fucking bounce: Two additional cups to tack on to my spin velocity.
From the opposite end of the table, Doc told me that I just needed to make the fucking ball in the cup. He didn’t remember that I had an instinctual tendency to maximize my beer consumption and was sandbagging him in order to nab more beer from the situation - it’s what you think about when you’re too dizzy to talk to the hot girl giving you glances every time your merry-go-round makes its way around to her again.
I had one cup to go. Doc was down to three, quickly gaining ground after the five-cup streak I cruised through earlier in the game. I felt it was time to stop toying with him though. I aligned my double vision, pinpointing the lone red keg cup on the far side of the table. Then I called my shot. The Babe must have witnessed my intoxicated invocation to the beer gods because after the ball left my outstretched hand, it plopped softly into a bed of foam. Clickity clack.
Ask any expert and they’ll tell you the same thing: Beer pong is all about the tolerance curve. Never mind a solid arch, top spin or a soft touch, all that a night of strenuous beer pong really comes down to is the ability to make shots while you’re getting more fucked up with each toss. If a player starts out slow, don’t rip on the homie because he’s bound to come back next game and shove 10 cups in your belly before you even hit a rim. And that’s exactly why Mary and I get along so well - Natty and I spin one way, Mary spins the other.
The explosion rule works wonders for this tactic, especially the more games you pound through. While most pong vets will be too drunk by the seventh straight game to even hit the rack, I’m still able to lock on to whatever cup my inebriated partner just made before me. Not only does making the same cup knock out any adjacent cups, which might be touching your team’s two bull’s eyes, but it allows your team the opportunity of getting the balls back for a chance to turn the knife of defeat even further into your opponent’s full belly.
Too bad I told all my buddies about my tactic. Now everyone’s hitting center cup with their first shot and both sides are down to three cups in the time it takes me to rip a snapper out of my favorite bong. Now I have less time to work out the kinks in my mechanics and I’m forced to puff as fast as I can from one hand and gulp as fast as I can from the other - all while trying to defend against the fucking bounce.
Maybe I just shouldn’t have said anything. But now I wonder if smoking ganja would actually give me an unfair advantage in clashes between beer pong’s best? If two teams of two took sides on beer’s epic battlefield, would a substance other than beer taint the outcome of the game? Does it even matter what a beer pong player puts in their body, so long as he or she is the one who actually lofts the little white ball? And wouldn’t weed do more harm than good in competitions of consumption and athletic prowess?
I don’t think I have the authority to decide what’s right for the game. All I know is that the game is about getting super drunk while grabbing the pride of victory in the process. I just wonder whether adding a knuckle ball into your pitch repertoire is really all that immoral.
Beatles' Music Benefited From Experience
By Jeff Gibson
While we may not come together on many issues, my mother and I see eye to eye on the important stuff. You know, like agreeing “The Thing” was Kurt Russell’s best performance and that Alfred Hitchcock was the greatest director of the 20th century. But while my mom insists that the Beatles were at their prime in the early 1960s, I cannot neglect the introspective and innovative benefits that a few joints had on the mop tops from Liverpool in what arguably changed music and popular culture, forever.
I would give up my entire bong collection for a chance to sit on a cornflake beside John, Paul, George and Ringo on that fateful night of Aug. 28, 1964. Huddled in a suite of the Hotel Delmonico, fans screaming from the sidewalks of Manhattan’s Park Avenue below, the most popular and commercially successful band in history received a glimpse of the artistic possibilities that a few joints can offer.
You could give all the credit to Bob Dylan, although his joint rolling skills were less than par according to Al Aronowitz - the Blacklisted Journalist who credits himself with the Beatles’ herbal induction in his book Bob Dylan And The Beatles, Volume One of the Best of the Blacklisted Journalist. You could even give the Beatles’ manager Brian Epstein some recognition for going along with the whole idea. To his own admission, Epstein was so high that evening he was “on the ceiling.” While it may have been Aronowitz’s stash the Beatles lit up, I’m going to have to pay most of my tribute to Dylan’s roadie and expert roller Victor Maimudes.
Surprisingly, the Beatles were unaware of the common pothead etiquette of puff-puff-pass. While Ringo burned down the first joint like Humphrey Bogart, Maimudes skillfully rolled many more, allowing each member to individually enjoy their ticket to ride. Maimudes, Aronowitz said, was able to roll a joint like “a regular cigarette” - a tight, cylindrical formation that should have been proudly displayed in the Smithsonian, right next to Washington’s crack pipe.
Maybe I’m giving Maimudes too much of the glory and Aronowitz’s side of the story is correct. Whatever truth lies behind the surface, the simple fact remains that the Beatles’ experimentation with weed opened the doors of perception on popular music.
Just look at the music produced after 1964. Aside from the re-recordings in Beatles VI, their 1965 albums Help! and Rubber Soul were a fatty leap in their musical innovations. Songs like “It’s Only Love” clearly referenced their new experimental habit, but numbers like “Norwegian Wood,” which also made use of the sitar, were a small taste of the innovative genius soon to follow in albums like Revolver, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and Magical Mystery Tour.
Expanding their minds was a favorite pastime, but the Beatles used the cognitive effects of weed to propel themselves into alternate realms of music and spirituality. They didn’t sit around their English homes and get stoned all day: The Beatles used the benefits of herb as an influence on their creativity, expanding upon their talents as musicians only to receive worldwide recognition for their influential stamp on the times.
While many denounce weed for its effects of sloth and childishness on the individual toker, the Beatles’ musical expansion clearly displays the positive benefits marijuana can have on the artistic process. You could argue that it was artists and not the weed that drove the solid drum rhythms and picked the groovy bass lines, but you cannot ignore the obvious references to the psychedelic and the fusion of Dylanesque folk that inspired a nation during the Summer of Love.
Would the Beatles have been the same without herbal experimentation? Not a chance in an octopus’s garden. Would they have been able to garner their early fame under marijuana’s influence? It’s hard to say - touting suits and mop tops probably got them more play than the Backstreet Boys. All I know is that John, Paul, George and Ringo sure look good above my couch as they cross Abbey Road - if only for inspiration.
While we may not come together on many issues, my mother and I see eye to eye on the important stuff. You know, like agreeing “The Thing” was Kurt Russell’s best performance and that Alfred Hitchcock was the greatest director of the 20th century. But while my mom insists that the Beatles were at their prime in the early 1960s, I cannot neglect the introspective and innovative benefits that a few joints had on the mop tops from Liverpool in what arguably changed music and popular culture, forever.
I would give up my entire bong collection for a chance to sit on a cornflake beside John, Paul, George and Ringo on that fateful night of Aug. 28, 1964. Huddled in a suite of the Hotel Delmonico, fans screaming from the sidewalks of Manhattan’s Park Avenue below, the most popular and commercially successful band in history received a glimpse of the artistic possibilities that a few joints can offer.
You could give all the credit to Bob Dylan, although his joint rolling skills were less than par according to Al Aronowitz - the Blacklisted Journalist who credits himself with the Beatles’ herbal induction in his book Bob Dylan And The Beatles, Volume One of the Best of the Blacklisted Journalist. You could even give the Beatles’ manager Brian Epstein some recognition for going along with the whole idea. To his own admission, Epstein was so high that evening he was “on the ceiling.” While it may have been Aronowitz’s stash the Beatles lit up, I’m going to have to pay most of my tribute to Dylan’s roadie and expert roller Victor Maimudes.
Surprisingly, the Beatles were unaware of the common pothead etiquette of puff-puff-pass. While Ringo burned down the first joint like Humphrey Bogart, Maimudes skillfully rolled many more, allowing each member to individually enjoy their ticket to ride. Maimudes, Aronowitz said, was able to roll a joint like “a regular cigarette” - a tight, cylindrical formation that should have been proudly displayed in the Smithsonian, right next to Washington’s crack pipe.
Maybe I’m giving Maimudes too much of the glory and Aronowitz’s side of the story is correct. Whatever truth lies behind the surface, the simple fact remains that the Beatles’ experimentation with weed opened the doors of perception on popular music.
Just look at the music produced after 1964. Aside from the re-recordings in Beatles VI, their 1965 albums Help! and Rubber Soul were a fatty leap in their musical innovations. Songs like “It’s Only Love” clearly referenced their new experimental habit, but numbers like “Norwegian Wood,” which also made use of the sitar, were a small taste of the innovative genius soon to follow in albums like Revolver, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and Magical Mystery Tour.
Expanding their minds was a favorite pastime, but the Beatles used the cognitive effects of weed to propel themselves into alternate realms of music and spirituality. They didn’t sit around their English homes and get stoned all day: The Beatles used the benefits of herb as an influence on their creativity, expanding upon their talents as musicians only to receive worldwide recognition for their influential stamp on the times.
While many denounce weed for its effects of sloth and childishness on the individual toker, the Beatles’ musical expansion clearly displays the positive benefits marijuana can have on the artistic process. You could argue that it was artists and not the weed that drove the solid drum rhythms and picked the groovy bass lines, but you cannot ignore the obvious references to the psychedelic and the fusion of Dylanesque folk that inspired a nation during the Summer of Love.
Would the Beatles have been the same without herbal experimentation? Not a chance in an octopus’s garden. Would they have been able to garner their early fame under marijuana’s influence? It’s hard to say - touting suits and mop tops probably got them more play than the Backstreet Boys. All I know is that John, Paul, George and Ringo sure look good above my couch as they cross Abbey Road - if only for inspiration.
Prometheus Brings Us Fire, Civilization Blazes
By Jeff Gibson
Old Man Winter’s gnarly breath has begun to blow its way through Isla Vista. Glance around. While the heaps of cigarette ash outside Storke Library are being swept from their Fall Quarter graves, students shuffling by huddle in hoodies, awakened from their summer slumber. It’s a welcome change from the monotony, but now I find myself wishing I had thanked Prometheus and his glorious gift of fire when a funeral pyre of turkey was piled high on my plate last Thursday.
I can’t imagine life without the flame. Vulcan’s influence on my mental and physical wellbeing is not only tied directly to my habitual inclinations, but also the ability of I.V. Deli Mart to harness fire and produce one mean chicken schwarma. And since many of you devote most of your time to a slowly burning cherry rotating between friends, I believe its time to burn one down in flame’s illustrious honor. While witches at the stake may disagree with me on this point, I’d like to offer a sesh in honor of the Titan who made my habit possible. So, go spark up the Nag Champa and I’ll grab the killer Trainwreck that just rolled into town.
Bear with me if you know your Greek mythology, but Prometheus was the original gangster. Snoop Dogg’s “Gz and Hustlaz” had to have been about him - the only Titan with the balls to steal fire from the gods and allow the Eastside party to begin. I’m telling you: Prometheus was the shit. The dude’s sacrifice to stoners everywhere not only landed him in eternal imprisonment, but some fucking eagle flew by and ate out his regenerating liver everyday single day. While I’m sure this allowed him to out-drink any Isla Vistan, I’m guessing most of his buddies got tired of climbing up a damn mountain in order to include him in the rotation.
With Prometheus tied to a rock all the time, stoners were forced to fend for themselves. If you wanted to light up a spliff you had to rub some sticks together real fast or find your high ass some flint. Good luck trying to light a bong. Thankfully, however, our ancestors weren’t too blazed to invent some nifty contraptions for instantaneous combustion on their own.
While it took a few centuries for us to finally figure it out, the friction match was invented in 1827 by English chemist John Walker and later improved for commercial use in 1844 by Gustaf Erik Pasch. Stoners rejoiced as they could only imagine the match’s endless possibilities. Walker’s creation allowed quick and easy access to another state of mind and helped foster an age of enlightenment for smokers around the globe.
In 1903, Austrian chemist Carl Auer von Welsbach combined iron and cerium, the composition basically found in flint lighters today, which produced a spark after a simple flick from the finger. Tree-hugging stoners danced barefoot through the forests in celebration of their match liberation, but would protest 23 years later when the lighter became commercialized by Louis Aronson.
Aronson’s original 1926 Banjo lighter paved the way for stoner simplicity and allowed for one-handed use - a must for those dedicated to the bong’s cause. With one hand free to grasp your glassware, piece creativity skyrocketed. Glassmakers could now construct any shape or size their clouded minds conjured, knowing that their artistic achievements would not hinder their customers’ toking efforts.
I’m telling you: You wouldn’t appreciate that Teamwork poster on your bedroom wall if it wasn’t for all these guys. And if you think a magnifying glass would work wonders outside in the Santa Barbara sun, the risk of being rolled on by the IVFP might be a little too high this time of year - especially if you flicked your Bic on some scabies-infested couch this summer and they’ve been mugging you and your neighbors from behind aviators ever since.
While Brooks Firestone shits a brick every time a rotting couch ignites in inferno in the middle of DP, I see flaming furniture as an offering to the gods of fire for letting us partake in a blaze’s exquisite qualities. They can try all they want to end our invocations, but fire should be celebrated, not relegated. It’s not like we all burned to ruin when Prometheus first handed us our freedom as a civilization.
Old Man Winter’s gnarly breath has begun to blow its way through Isla Vista. Glance around. While the heaps of cigarette ash outside Storke Library are being swept from their Fall Quarter graves, students shuffling by huddle in hoodies, awakened from their summer slumber. It’s a welcome change from the monotony, but now I find myself wishing I had thanked Prometheus and his glorious gift of fire when a funeral pyre of turkey was piled high on my plate last Thursday.
I can’t imagine life without the flame. Vulcan’s influence on my mental and physical wellbeing is not only tied directly to my habitual inclinations, but also the ability of I.V. Deli Mart to harness fire and produce one mean chicken schwarma. And since many of you devote most of your time to a slowly burning cherry rotating between friends, I believe its time to burn one down in flame’s illustrious honor. While witches at the stake may disagree with me on this point, I’d like to offer a sesh in honor of the Titan who made my habit possible. So, go spark up the Nag Champa and I’ll grab the killer Trainwreck that just rolled into town.
Bear with me if you know your Greek mythology, but Prometheus was the original gangster. Snoop Dogg’s “Gz and Hustlaz” had to have been about him - the only Titan with the balls to steal fire from the gods and allow the Eastside party to begin. I’m telling you: Prometheus was the shit. The dude’s sacrifice to stoners everywhere not only landed him in eternal imprisonment, but some fucking eagle flew by and ate out his regenerating liver everyday single day. While I’m sure this allowed him to out-drink any Isla Vistan, I’m guessing most of his buddies got tired of climbing up a damn mountain in order to include him in the rotation.
With Prometheus tied to a rock all the time, stoners were forced to fend for themselves. If you wanted to light up a spliff you had to rub some sticks together real fast or find your high ass some flint. Good luck trying to light a bong. Thankfully, however, our ancestors weren’t too blazed to invent some nifty contraptions for instantaneous combustion on their own.
While it took a few centuries for us to finally figure it out, the friction match was invented in 1827 by English chemist John Walker and later improved for commercial use in 1844 by Gustaf Erik Pasch. Stoners rejoiced as they could only imagine the match’s endless possibilities. Walker’s creation allowed quick and easy access to another state of mind and helped foster an age of enlightenment for smokers around the globe.
In 1903, Austrian chemist Carl Auer von Welsbach combined iron and cerium, the composition basically found in flint lighters today, which produced a spark after a simple flick from the finger. Tree-hugging stoners danced barefoot through the forests in celebration of their match liberation, but would protest 23 years later when the lighter became commercialized by Louis Aronson.
Aronson’s original 1926 Banjo lighter paved the way for stoner simplicity and allowed for one-handed use - a must for those dedicated to the bong’s cause. With one hand free to grasp your glassware, piece creativity skyrocketed. Glassmakers could now construct any shape or size their clouded minds conjured, knowing that their artistic achievements would not hinder their customers’ toking efforts.
I’m telling you: You wouldn’t appreciate that Teamwork poster on your bedroom wall if it wasn’t for all these guys. And if you think a magnifying glass would work wonders outside in the Santa Barbara sun, the risk of being rolled on by the IVFP might be a little too high this time of year - especially if you flicked your Bic on some scabies-infested couch this summer and they’ve been mugging you and your neighbors from behind aviators ever since.
While Brooks Firestone shits a brick every time a rotting couch ignites in inferno in the middle of DP, I see flaming furniture as an offering to the gods of fire for letting us partake in a blaze’s exquisite qualities. They can try all they want to end our invocations, but fire should be celebrated, not relegated. It’s not like we all burned to ruin when Prometheus first handed us our freedom as a civilization.
Boardin' High Atop Ol' Mount Smokey
By Jeff Gibson
My mom never bought me frosted cereal - willingly at least. As much as I begged her for Tony the Tiger and his sugary flakes of corn, she rarely gave in to my childhood sugar fixation. Situated at perfect eye-level for my pint-size height, I’d walk the cereal aisle fascinated by the bountiful boxes I wasn’t allowed to toss into the cart. I didn’t figure it out at the time, but gawking at life’s sweetest fix has eventually led to my habitual inclination to salivate at the sight of pretty much anything coated in frosting.
Let’s take last weekend’s gigantic purple nug. I could have carved through the crystals like they were fresh Kirkwood powder. I stared at it. The snowstorm had dumped about six inches overnight, I figured. I had my purps pocketed and my board sported with a fresh coat of wax: Time to fly down the mountain.
I didn’t want to break it up though. Staring at it in wonder like I was still witnessing that giant orange tiger on that big blue box, bragging about how his shit was bomb, I just couldn’t come to terms with wrecking the spectacle.
My hat goes off to Tony. Kellogg Company has burned his image forever in the recesses of my retinas and while I still manage to grab a box every now and then, Tony just reminds me of the sugary perfection I can never get enough of.
But that bastard couldn’t get me out here, not amidst Mother Nature’s prime real estate in the freshly coated Sierra Mountains. Here the frosting was pure. Sure, my buddies and I would cut it up all afternoon, but the slopes had just opened and we were staring wide-eyed at a freshly shimmering bowl of sugar.
It was the first run of the day. Sitting on the lift chair, I figured it was a perfect time to roll a quick one. So, I pulled some supplies from my jacket pocket. Then Tony showed his evil mug - the purple I couldn’t bring myself to purge plummeted forty feet to the ground below. Grrreat.
I deserved a punch in the arm from every bundled up boarder on the lift, but instead we all just watched our liberation fall silently into the snow.
I was three feet tall again, ironically reaching for something I couldn’t possibly grasp, desperately craving what my buds and I both desired.
How could Tony do this to me? That corporate mascot had snuck his way into my now forlorn retreat. Snowboarding was perfection, but now Kellogg’s had to stamp their trademark on the mountain scenery. I thought I could have escaped those propagandists up here, but I guess I underestimated the sweet tooth they instilled in me as a child - and so did Tony.
Kellogg’s may have catapulted me into a lifelong sugar addiction, but my mother’s restrictions provided me with a keen ability to sniff out sugar hidden in any crafty places.
My buddies figured it lost, forgotten and forever frozen in Sugar Bowl’s wastelands. I knew I had a gift, but I usually attributed it to too much smoking. So when I found the nug still intact on my search down the mountain, I felt like I was an ignorant Pavlovian subject in a sick Kellogg’s experiment. Miles away from the supermarket, at an altitude rivaling my soon-to-be mindset, their slogans penetrated even the most sacred of places.
But no one could stop me up in the mountains. Tony tried to get his dirty paws on my freedom, but my nose found the way - barely.
Is that really what it takes now? We drive hours to escape the slogans, the mascots, the Dream, the sugar coating, and all we’re left with is a damp purple nug and the taste of Frosted Flakes in our mouths. Why do we have to travel hundreds of miles to escape the objects that dominate our culture and our minds only to never truly escape them? Is it the sugar we can’t get enough of? Is it Tony? Is it nature? Please, pass the sugar.
My mom never bought me frosted cereal - willingly at least. As much as I begged her for Tony the Tiger and his sugary flakes of corn, she rarely gave in to my childhood sugar fixation. Situated at perfect eye-level for my pint-size height, I’d walk the cereal aisle fascinated by the bountiful boxes I wasn’t allowed to toss into the cart. I didn’t figure it out at the time, but gawking at life’s sweetest fix has eventually led to my habitual inclination to salivate at the sight of pretty much anything coated in frosting.
Let’s take last weekend’s gigantic purple nug. I could have carved through the crystals like they were fresh Kirkwood powder. I stared at it. The snowstorm had dumped about six inches overnight, I figured. I had my purps pocketed and my board sported with a fresh coat of wax: Time to fly down the mountain.
I didn’t want to break it up though. Staring at it in wonder like I was still witnessing that giant orange tiger on that big blue box, bragging about how his shit was bomb, I just couldn’t come to terms with wrecking the spectacle.
My hat goes off to Tony. Kellogg Company has burned his image forever in the recesses of my retinas and while I still manage to grab a box every now and then, Tony just reminds me of the sugary perfection I can never get enough of.
But that bastard couldn’t get me out here, not amidst Mother Nature’s prime real estate in the freshly coated Sierra Mountains. Here the frosting was pure. Sure, my buddies and I would cut it up all afternoon, but the slopes had just opened and we were staring wide-eyed at a freshly shimmering bowl of sugar.
It was the first run of the day. Sitting on the lift chair, I figured it was a perfect time to roll a quick one. So, I pulled some supplies from my jacket pocket. Then Tony showed his evil mug - the purple I couldn’t bring myself to purge plummeted forty feet to the ground below. Grrreat.
I deserved a punch in the arm from every bundled up boarder on the lift, but instead we all just watched our liberation fall silently into the snow.
I was three feet tall again, ironically reaching for something I couldn’t possibly grasp, desperately craving what my buds and I both desired.
How could Tony do this to me? That corporate mascot had snuck his way into my now forlorn retreat. Snowboarding was perfection, but now Kellogg’s had to stamp their trademark on the mountain scenery. I thought I could have escaped those propagandists up here, but I guess I underestimated the sweet tooth they instilled in me as a child - and so did Tony.
Kellogg’s may have catapulted me into a lifelong sugar addiction, but my mother’s restrictions provided me with a keen ability to sniff out sugar hidden in any crafty places.
My buddies figured it lost, forgotten and forever frozen in Sugar Bowl’s wastelands. I knew I had a gift, but I usually attributed it to too much smoking. So when I found the nug still intact on my search down the mountain, I felt like I was an ignorant Pavlovian subject in a sick Kellogg’s experiment. Miles away from the supermarket, at an altitude rivaling my soon-to-be mindset, their slogans penetrated even the most sacred of places.
But no one could stop me up in the mountains. Tony tried to get his dirty paws on my freedom, but my nose found the way - barely.
Is that really what it takes now? We drive hours to escape the slogans, the mascots, the Dream, the sugar coating, and all we’re left with is a damp purple nug and the taste of Frosted Flakes in our mouths. Why do we have to travel hundreds of miles to escape the objects that dominate our culture and our minds only to never truly escape them? Is it the sugar we can’t get enough of? Is it Tony? Is it nature? Please, pass the sugar.
Keep Rollin', Rollin', Rollin' Blunts
By Jeff Gibson
Most nights, I lie on my bed staring up at the ceiling. Dreams spew like smoke from my mind as the THC comforts the void of my thoughts. Another blunt seems far out, but far from reach - my brain cells are now more capable of travel than the body, their poisoned receptacle. What if I offered to smoke out A.S.? Would we conquer the problem then? First, I needed to get one of those water bottles Michael Vick used for toting his purps around town in - another victim of the blatantly absurd restrictions choking marijuana’s positive benefits from the American population. Approaching this fork in my mind’s highway, I usually merge to my dreams, but not tonight. Tonight, I’m left wishing that someday stoners won’t have to act like nerf-herding smugglers in their eternal adventure to stay high.
I’d like to thank the NORML crew for their efforts in hosting the third annual Joint Rolling Contest coming up this Saturday in Anisq’ Oyo’ Park. Their determination to enlighten the ignorant is beyond praiseworthy, and now I’ve got an excuse to roll outdoors with my brethren. Don’t worry, A.S., I won’t skip you guys in the rotation, whatever your intentions were in funding the event. But forget the benefits of taxing what could become California’s largest cash crop. The social advantages that would arise from the legalization of marijuana are far more substantial to America’s collective frame of mind. And I really don’t want the government profiting from my dreams, especially the country’s law enforcement. Are we supposed to forget the years of persecution, forget the bongs they shattered in the fight? At least A.S. is funding my afternoon entertainment, though. I’ll still be hungover at noon, but I promise not to forget to pass the primo their way - unless the party gets busted by some super troopers, but then again, this isn’t Vermont.
I met a girl from Vermont the other day. Nice, tiny girl, great conversation, until, me being me, I ask her if she likes weed. I was expecting her to say no - it was little more than a hunch. Yet after my modest question clanked around in her eardrums, she just stared at me. If anybody had entered the room at this stage in our conversation, it would have seemed like I had asked her to strip bare-ass and dance pornographically on the edge of her father’s gravestone. I didn’t understand. It seemed a reasonable question, like asking what perfume she wore or whether she enjoyed listening to Robert Johnson’s music. I saw hatred in her eyes, eyes that didn’t understand.
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, Yoda said that “fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate and hate leads to suffering.” Well, I don’t know too many stoners who would wield a light saber in ignorance’s name, especially ones that wouldn’t first try to light a snapper with the Jedi’s sword. I still can’t understand why our peace of mind fosters the ignorant hatred towards us, but I realize that that little green Henson creation was right. Found something he did. Even if Master Yoda didn’t know the difference between his Master Kush or the fresh Trainwreck, his words of wisdom clearly give credence to a joint rolling revival.
In a time when the future of our inalienable freedom is shrouded in smoke, the Joint Rolling Contest may serve as a fundraiser for the legalization of marijuana, but more importantly it brings the community together to smoke out ignorance while we still have a chance.
Most nights, I lie on my bed staring up at the ceiling. Dreams spew like smoke from my mind as the THC comforts the void of my thoughts. Another blunt seems far out, but far from reach - my brain cells are now more capable of travel than the body, their poisoned receptacle. What if I offered to smoke out A.S.? Would we conquer the problem then? First, I needed to get one of those water bottles Michael Vick used for toting his purps around town in - another victim of the blatantly absurd restrictions choking marijuana’s positive benefits from the American population. Approaching this fork in my mind’s highway, I usually merge to my dreams, but not tonight. Tonight, I’m left wishing that someday stoners won’t have to act like nerf-herding smugglers in their eternal adventure to stay high.
I’d like to thank the NORML crew for their efforts in hosting the third annual Joint Rolling Contest coming up this Saturday in Anisq’ Oyo’ Park. Their determination to enlighten the ignorant is beyond praiseworthy, and now I’ve got an excuse to roll outdoors with my brethren. Don’t worry, A.S., I won’t skip you guys in the rotation, whatever your intentions were in funding the event. But forget the benefits of taxing what could become California’s largest cash crop. The social advantages that would arise from the legalization of marijuana are far more substantial to America’s collective frame of mind. And I really don’t want the government profiting from my dreams, especially the country’s law enforcement. Are we supposed to forget the years of persecution, forget the bongs they shattered in the fight? At least A.S. is funding my afternoon entertainment, though. I’ll still be hungover at noon, but I promise not to forget to pass the primo their way - unless the party gets busted by some super troopers, but then again, this isn’t Vermont.
I met a girl from Vermont the other day. Nice, tiny girl, great conversation, until, me being me, I ask her if she likes weed. I was expecting her to say no - it was little more than a hunch. Yet after my modest question clanked around in her eardrums, she just stared at me. If anybody had entered the room at this stage in our conversation, it would have seemed like I had asked her to strip bare-ass and dance pornographically on the edge of her father’s gravestone. I didn’t understand. It seemed a reasonable question, like asking what perfume she wore or whether she enjoyed listening to Robert Johnson’s music. I saw hatred in her eyes, eyes that didn’t understand.
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, Yoda said that “fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate and hate leads to suffering.” Well, I don’t know too many stoners who would wield a light saber in ignorance’s name, especially ones that wouldn’t first try to light a snapper with the Jedi’s sword. I still can’t understand why our peace of mind fosters the ignorant hatred towards us, but I realize that that little green Henson creation was right. Found something he did. Even if Master Yoda didn’t know the difference between his Master Kush or the fresh Trainwreck, his words of wisdom clearly give credence to a joint rolling revival.
In a time when the future of our inalienable freedom is shrouded in smoke, the Joint Rolling Contest may serve as a fundraiser for the legalization of marijuana, but more importantly it brings the community together to smoke out ignorance while we still have a chance.
Smoke Out Delivery Dude for Some Fast Food
By Jeff Gibson
A knock on my door usually means one of two things: Either the Chinese food delivery man finally found my address, or my dealer wants to show off the latest Big Buddha strain he just got off some bro downtown for hella cheap. But unless Hermes is also sporting bloodshot eyes, I feel rude answering the door with a cloud billowing out of my living room. Smoking etiquette requires a sesh with my dealer for sure, but every time I’m handed my Kung Pao chicken, I wonder if a Trainwreck spliff would trounce my measly tip.
Once in a while, some mad dasher from Domino’s will give my roomies and me a “Smells good in here” or a “Looks like I got here just in time.” I used to just neglect the small talk for what it was worth, but I’ve come to understand how easy it is to include your meal ticket into the rotation. Because unless the delivery guy is glaring at you from behind that goofy uniform with a disapproving smirk, most delivery men and women would love to grab a drag before having to bounce to the next drop-off point on the list.
I’ve seen some delivery guys practically ask for it. While I’m flipping through a stack of Washingtons, their eyes usually dance around the room until they find my bong resting on the coffee table. The bigger stoners don’t even have to search - my Snoop Dogg Blunt Wrap poster tipped them off the second their eyes focused through the haze. And if they are all about the Zig-Zag smoking, I think it’s a customer’s obligation to pass the delivery man a bowl in charity’s honor.
Besides, do you really think they can do anything with that buck or two you’d have thrown their way otherwise? Okay, so they’ll be able to swipe a candy bar from International on their way home, but that’s even considering you tip them at all. I’m positive that tips in Isla Vista are about as rare as Dead Heads at an Avenged Sevenfold concert. Sometimes you get too distracted to add on a little extra, though, especially if you’re watching your neighbor the Guitar Hero II master bust out a 623-note streak on Hangar 18 when the doorbell rings. I mean, pizzas can be devoured, but legends never die.
You might be asking: What if they don’t smoke? Well, I seriously doubt any conscious or sober entity could handle a food delivery shift for more than a few hours. Plus, most delivery workers I’ve come across smoke more weed than I do. Whether or not I doubt that their ganja is as good as mine, I feel that the offering is a perfect time to propose a powwow that will expand the horizons of everyone involved. For, not only does the deliveryman get a quick lift from the mundane, but now the customer has locked up a consistent service that will pull through in the clutch whenever hunger matters most.
Do you think that a Silvergreen’s sandwich or Deja Vu burger will take three hours to get to your house when those in possession of your order know its delivery foreshadows a few tokes? I doubt it. Do you think they’ll still hock a loogie in your burger now? Maybe, but at least this way you can still call their boss and report that the fucker stoned if you bite into something that doesn’t belong inside a bun.
So, the next time you phone in an order to your favorite local restaurant with antsy fingers, make sure to roll up a blunt or pack a bong before a knock comes a-rapping on your chamber door. You never know what might stem from the situation.
A knock on my door usually means one of two things: Either the Chinese food delivery man finally found my address, or my dealer wants to show off the latest Big Buddha strain he just got off some bro downtown for hella cheap. But unless Hermes is also sporting bloodshot eyes, I feel rude answering the door with a cloud billowing out of my living room. Smoking etiquette requires a sesh with my dealer for sure, but every time I’m handed my Kung Pao chicken, I wonder if a Trainwreck spliff would trounce my measly tip.
Once in a while, some mad dasher from Domino’s will give my roomies and me a “Smells good in here” or a “Looks like I got here just in time.” I used to just neglect the small talk for what it was worth, but I’ve come to understand how easy it is to include your meal ticket into the rotation. Because unless the delivery guy is glaring at you from behind that goofy uniform with a disapproving smirk, most delivery men and women would love to grab a drag before having to bounce to the next drop-off point on the list.
I’ve seen some delivery guys practically ask for it. While I’m flipping through a stack of Washingtons, their eyes usually dance around the room until they find my bong resting on the coffee table. The bigger stoners don’t even have to search - my Snoop Dogg Blunt Wrap poster tipped them off the second their eyes focused through the haze. And if they are all about the Zig-Zag smoking, I think it’s a customer’s obligation to pass the delivery man a bowl in charity’s honor.
Besides, do you really think they can do anything with that buck or two you’d have thrown their way otherwise? Okay, so they’ll be able to swipe a candy bar from International on their way home, but that’s even considering you tip them at all. I’m positive that tips in Isla Vista are about as rare as Dead Heads at an Avenged Sevenfold concert. Sometimes you get too distracted to add on a little extra, though, especially if you’re watching your neighbor the Guitar Hero II master bust out a 623-note streak on Hangar 18 when the doorbell rings. I mean, pizzas can be devoured, but legends never die.
You might be asking: What if they don’t smoke? Well, I seriously doubt any conscious or sober entity could handle a food delivery shift for more than a few hours. Plus, most delivery workers I’ve come across smoke more weed than I do. Whether or not I doubt that their ganja is as good as mine, I feel that the offering is a perfect time to propose a powwow that will expand the horizons of everyone involved. For, not only does the deliveryman get a quick lift from the mundane, but now the customer has locked up a consistent service that will pull through in the clutch whenever hunger matters most.
Do you think that a Silvergreen’s sandwich or Deja Vu burger will take three hours to get to your house when those in possession of your order know its delivery foreshadows a few tokes? I doubt it. Do you think they’ll still hock a loogie in your burger now? Maybe, but at least this way you can still call their boss and report that the fucker stoned if you bite into something that doesn’t belong inside a bun.
So, the next time you phone in an order to your favorite local restaurant with antsy fingers, make sure to roll up a blunt or pack a bong before a knock comes a-rapping on your chamber door. You never know what might stem from the situation.
Legal Salvia Highs Trip Out Users
By Jeff Gibson
“Is this shit ever going to do anything to me?” I asked.
I tried to step out of the metallic Volkswagen Beetle as the solar system spiraled around the vertical axis of my tunnel vision. Plumes of a red orange cloud began enveloping my hippie spacecraft until I realized we were plummeting through Jupiter’s upper atmosphere. The journey here was instantaneous. Five minutes before, I had been surrounded by the Viet Cong and engaged in an epic firefight beneath the rainforest canopy.
Apparently I had spoken too soon.
That was my first trip on salvia, way back in high school in my buddy’s vine-infested backyard. Back then, I had never even heard of the salvia plant, or Salvia divinorum as its known in the scientific community, and I hadn’t the faintest idea about its psychedelic effects. We just picked up a gram of 25X on Telegraph Avenue, sprinkled some on top of a bowl then snapped away. And the best part - this shit was legal.
While my knowledge of salvia’s past has slowly evolved from ignorance into a database rivaling Erowid’s vaults, I still haven’t found much solid research on the currently legal drug. While the herb is only native to the Sierra Mazatec area of Mexico, the history of the psychotropic Salvia divinorum, and the psychoactive effects its active principle salvinorin A, can be accurately dated back to the early 20th century when scientists documented the medicinal and visionary properties claimed by the area’s natives. In 1938, anthropologist Jean Johnson wrote that native Mazatec shamans used the plant’s psychological benefits to find lost objects, chewing the leaves for extended periods of time to absorb the principle - the most powerful natural psychoactive known to man - into the bloodstream.
It is not known how long the Mazatec have been using salvia in this manner, but it is rumored that the drug first made its way to the United States in the early 1960s. Yet, while the Mazatec would chew the leaves of the salvia plant to get their fix for extended periods of time, the most common form sold nowadays in American head shops comes as an extract of the plant ranging in potencies. Since salvinorin A does not chemically resemble any other known controlled substances like cannabis or hallucinogens, the United States Congress has yet to ban the drug nationally - despite Missouri’s statewide prohibition and New York’s recent, yet futile, attempts to ban it.
Smoking the extract usually results in short periods of hallucination, lasting anywhere from a few minutes to almost an hour, and has been used as a successful antidepressant for some. The actual effects range from person to person, even from trip to trip. Since it requires a large amount of salvinorin A to be absorbed into the bloodstream in order to experience the hallucinations, users can have widely different experiences if they do not inhale enough of the vaporized principle or if they exhale the smoke before it can be absorbed by the lungs. I witnessed this firsthand the other night, when our trio of journalistic journeymen discovered these alternate realms of reality.
“Why are you laughing?” Nick spurted as he lay prostrated on my bedroom floor, still clutching the pipe he had just recently hit. He spouted something about the room closing in on him, his mind converging on the vanishing point of the surrounding objects bending into oblivion.
Mark and I couldn’t stop laughing. While Nick was babbling something about voices repeating inside his head, Mark was hearing sound reverberations on the couch and I was enthralled by an evil skateboard protruding into my subconscious, whispering a dark warning to stay the fuck away. At least I retained some traces of common sense though - I knew I couldn’t skateboard to save an ounce of weed. Nick was tripping balls imagining that Mark and I were divine Sirens luring him into a permanent hallucinogenic state. I had been there before, though. I couldn’t relate completely with Nick’s analogies, but I understood the sudden burst of power he was under. I understood that you have to accept anything your subconscious will throw at you. So if you want to try salvia, stop by I.V. Deli Mart to pick some up. Trust me, you’re in for one hell of a ride, but only if you hold it in long enough.
“Is this shit ever going to do anything to me?” I asked.
I tried to step out of the metallic Volkswagen Beetle as the solar system spiraled around the vertical axis of my tunnel vision. Plumes of a red orange cloud began enveloping my hippie spacecraft until I realized we were plummeting through Jupiter’s upper atmosphere. The journey here was instantaneous. Five minutes before, I had been surrounded by the Viet Cong and engaged in an epic firefight beneath the rainforest canopy.
Apparently I had spoken too soon.
That was my first trip on salvia, way back in high school in my buddy’s vine-infested backyard. Back then, I had never even heard of the salvia plant, or Salvia divinorum as its known in the scientific community, and I hadn’t the faintest idea about its psychedelic effects. We just picked up a gram of 25X on Telegraph Avenue, sprinkled some on top of a bowl then snapped away. And the best part - this shit was legal.
While my knowledge of salvia’s past has slowly evolved from ignorance into a database rivaling Erowid’s vaults, I still haven’t found much solid research on the currently legal drug. While the herb is only native to the Sierra Mazatec area of Mexico, the history of the psychotropic Salvia divinorum, and the psychoactive effects its active principle salvinorin A, can be accurately dated back to the early 20th century when scientists documented the medicinal and visionary properties claimed by the area’s natives. In 1938, anthropologist Jean Johnson wrote that native Mazatec shamans used the plant’s psychological benefits to find lost objects, chewing the leaves for extended periods of time to absorb the principle - the most powerful natural psychoactive known to man - into the bloodstream.
It is not known how long the Mazatec have been using salvia in this manner, but it is rumored that the drug first made its way to the United States in the early 1960s. Yet, while the Mazatec would chew the leaves of the salvia plant to get their fix for extended periods of time, the most common form sold nowadays in American head shops comes as an extract of the plant ranging in potencies. Since salvinorin A does not chemically resemble any other known controlled substances like cannabis or hallucinogens, the United States Congress has yet to ban the drug nationally - despite Missouri’s statewide prohibition and New York’s recent, yet futile, attempts to ban it.
Smoking the extract usually results in short periods of hallucination, lasting anywhere from a few minutes to almost an hour, and has been used as a successful antidepressant for some. The actual effects range from person to person, even from trip to trip. Since it requires a large amount of salvinorin A to be absorbed into the bloodstream in order to experience the hallucinations, users can have widely different experiences if they do not inhale enough of the vaporized principle or if they exhale the smoke before it can be absorbed by the lungs. I witnessed this firsthand the other night, when our trio of journalistic journeymen discovered these alternate realms of reality.
“Why are you laughing?” Nick spurted as he lay prostrated on my bedroom floor, still clutching the pipe he had just recently hit. He spouted something about the room closing in on him, his mind converging on the vanishing point of the surrounding objects bending into oblivion.
Mark and I couldn’t stop laughing. While Nick was babbling something about voices repeating inside his head, Mark was hearing sound reverberations on the couch and I was enthralled by an evil skateboard protruding into my subconscious, whispering a dark warning to stay the fuck away. At least I retained some traces of common sense though - I knew I couldn’t skateboard to save an ounce of weed. Nick was tripping balls imagining that Mark and I were divine Sirens luring him into a permanent hallucinogenic state. I had been there before, though. I couldn’t relate completely with Nick’s analogies, but I understood the sudden burst of power he was under. I understood that you have to accept anything your subconscious will throw at you. So if you want to try salvia, stop by I.V. Deli Mart to pick some up. Trust me, you’re in for one hell of a ride, but only if you hold it in long enough.
Kids Still D.A.R.E to Do Drugs Anyway
By Jeff Gibson
I haven’t done a load of laundry in about three weeks. The pile of dirty clothes in my closet resembles Disneyland’s Matterhorn — only instead of finding a gnarly abominable snowman amidst the hidden crevices, you’d probably find the piece I’ve been missing since January. Yesterday, though, in all its irony, I came across my old, wrinkled D.A.R.E T-shirt while probing the heap for my bubbler. The black menace was buried beneath the dress shoes I never wear and the khaki pants I wish I never bought. In the past I would have just ashed my joint on the meaningless piece of cloth, but this time I figured I’d invest some thought into the hypocritical propaganda I had buried in the depths of my mind.
Originally, I thought the whole thing was a joke. Cops who had no credentials would stand in front of our class and spout pig jargon about violence correlating with drug use, and how we all had “the right to be happy.” Hell, if we had the right to be happy, then I’m sure every Elmer’s-sniffing adolescent seated next to me would be playing four-square out on the asphalt instead of listening to a man in uniform boast about his decked out squad car.
I actually remember the program’s “lessons” pretty vividly — how they tried to explain that drug use is a symptom of low self-esteem or dictate the dangers of drug dealers waiting to profit off of our innocence. Through the years, I don’t think I’ve ever even seen some of the outrageous paraphernalia their diagrams depicted. D.A.R.E.’s erroneous interpretations of drug abuse and drug culture failed to sway my mind as a fifth grader, and I look back now and can’t help but laugh at the program’s blatant failure to acknowledge its faults and, more importantly, a child’s common sense.
After getting on the program’s website, my Curious George instinct kicked in and I discovered that not much has changed since I used to carry a Ninja Turtles lunchbox to school. For starters, the link to D.A.R.E.’s statistics on prescription drugs is six years old. The information on pharmaceuticals is embarrassingly small, only comprising brief summaries of Ecstacy, GHB and Ritalin. If D.A.R.E. wishes to actually educate youth on drug abuse, the program’s vaults are about as helpful as a broken down stem and about as clueless as an L.A. tourist on San Francisco’s Hippie Hill.
D.A.R.E.’s interpretation of National Drug Intelligence Center research studies is also extremely misleading. On the program’s homepage, a link was recently posted entitled, “Marijuana can cause acute psychosis.” After reading the actual scientific report posted on the NDIC webpage, the researchers never claimed a causal relationship between psychosis and smoking marijuana. They administered 2.5 to five milligrams of Tetrahydrocannabinol intravenously to a group of fewer than 30 patients and found positive results in both the control group and a group composed of those with schizophrenia. I’m sorry, five milligrams of THC in your veins is definitely going to make you trip out, but acute schizophrenia? Come on, the results do not stipulate whether the control group had even smoked marijuana before or how exactly the patients described their symptoms. Furthermore, the statistics found on methamphetamines were far more engaging and relevant to actual drug abuse prevention.
Statistics aside, the most appalling aspect of the website was the picture located above the D.A.R.E mission statement. In the photograph, nine children ranging in ages from elementary to high school stand, clad in D.A.R.E attire, beside three smiling D.A.R.E. police officers. I’d overestimate and say two of these children are actually smiling. None are showing their teeth.
D.A.R.E has it all wrong. We shouldn’t tell our kids what they shouldn’t be doing. Instead, we should give them something they should be doing.
I haven’t done a load of laundry in about three weeks. The pile of dirty clothes in my closet resembles Disneyland’s Matterhorn — only instead of finding a gnarly abominable snowman amidst the hidden crevices, you’d probably find the piece I’ve been missing since January. Yesterday, though, in all its irony, I came across my old, wrinkled D.A.R.E T-shirt while probing the heap for my bubbler. The black menace was buried beneath the dress shoes I never wear and the khaki pants I wish I never bought. In the past I would have just ashed my joint on the meaningless piece of cloth, but this time I figured I’d invest some thought into the hypocritical propaganda I had buried in the depths of my mind.
Originally, I thought the whole thing was a joke. Cops who had no credentials would stand in front of our class and spout pig jargon about violence correlating with drug use, and how we all had “the right to be happy.” Hell, if we had the right to be happy, then I’m sure every Elmer’s-sniffing adolescent seated next to me would be playing four-square out on the asphalt instead of listening to a man in uniform boast about his decked out squad car.
I actually remember the program’s “lessons” pretty vividly — how they tried to explain that drug use is a symptom of low self-esteem or dictate the dangers of drug dealers waiting to profit off of our innocence. Through the years, I don’t think I’ve ever even seen some of the outrageous paraphernalia their diagrams depicted. D.A.R.E.’s erroneous interpretations of drug abuse and drug culture failed to sway my mind as a fifth grader, and I look back now and can’t help but laugh at the program’s blatant failure to acknowledge its faults and, more importantly, a child’s common sense.
After getting on the program’s website, my Curious George instinct kicked in and I discovered that not much has changed since I used to carry a Ninja Turtles lunchbox to school. For starters, the link to D.A.R.E.’s statistics on prescription drugs is six years old. The information on pharmaceuticals is embarrassingly small, only comprising brief summaries of Ecstacy, GHB and Ritalin. If D.A.R.E. wishes to actually educate youth on drug abuse, the program’s vaults are about as helpful as a broken down stem and about as clueless as an L.A. tourist on San Francisco’s Hippie Hill.
D.A.R.E.’s interpretation of National Drug Intelligence Center research studies is also extremely misleading. On the program’s homepage, a link was recently posted entitled, “Marijuana can cause acute psychosis.” After reading the actual scientific report posted on the NDIC webpage, the researchers never claimed a causal relationship between psychosis and smoking marijuana. They administered 2.5 to five milligrams of Tetrahydrocannabinol intravenously to a group of fewer than 30 patients and found positive results in both the control group and a group composed of those with schizophrenia. I’m sorry, five milligrams of THC in your veins is definitely going to make you trip out, but acute schizophrenia? Come on, the results do not stipulate whether the control group had even smoked marijuana before or how exactly the patients described their symptoms. Furthermore, the statistics found on methamphetamines were far more engaging and relevant to actual drug abuse prevention.
Statistics aside, the most appalling aspect of the website was the picture located above the D.A.R.E mission statement. In the photograph, nine children ranging in ages from elementary to high school stand, clad in D.A.R.E attire, beside three smiling D.A.R.E. police officers. I’d overestimate and say two of these children are actually smiling. None are showing their teeth.
D.A.R.E has it all wrong. We shouldn’t tell our kids what they shouldn’t be doing. Instead, we should give them something they should be doing.
Gauchos Smack Bruins in da Mouf
By Taj Gordon
This story appears as part of the Daily Nexus’ 2007 April Fools’ issue.
With UCLA’s 100th NCAA Championship on the table yesterday, the #1 UC Santa Barbara beer pong team handed the #5 Bruins their biggest loss of the season in the final game of the 2007 NCAA Beer Pong Tournament in Isla Vista, Calif. The Gauchos, who had arguably the toughest tournament schedule of any top seeded team heading into the final four, avoided the upset from #3 Chico in the semifinals to advance to the final game Sunday.
Junior left-hander Timothy Dre helped UCSB (38-6 overall, 20-0 in the Big West) get on top early, sinking his first three shots before the southpaw narrowly missed a bouncer that found its way past the unsuspecting Bruin (30-11) defense.
UCLA was able to cut the deficit to one after sinking two shots on the ensuing possession, but the bring-back proved useless as senior swatter Mpong a Moute and junior lefthander Darth Richard both air-balled over all eight cups.
“[The Bruins] were swaying after two beers,” Dre said. “I knew we had the tolerance to go far in this tournament. I just didn’t figure the other schools would have been the lightweights that they were. I mean, winning six games in a row happens all the time in Isla Vista. We just happened to do it against the nation’s best.”
Santa Barbara quickly capitalized on UCLA’s inebriated mistakes by plopping down two bring-backs on a drive that seized five cups from the Bruins and gave the Gauchos a gigantic 8-2 lead.
After a prolonged dispute with the tableside referee concerning elbow enforcement, the Bruins hit rim on consecutive shots before being booed profusely by the surrounding Del Playa beach crowd.
“That punk Richard was trying to argue that my elbow was going past the table,” Dre said. “I told him he’d better concentrate more on standing up straight.”
Sophomore right-hander Arc Devine continued to demonstrate the impenetrable defense he exuded all season long, not allowing a Bruin bounce shot past his reach, and was crucial in the closing shots of the game where he deflected three sloppy UCLA bounces.
Dre closed the game for UCSB, sinking back-to-back shots to give the Gauchos their third NCAA national championship - the beer pong programs’ first ever.
“I wish we had the chance to drink more,” Devine said. “I don’t even think I had a buzz going. Near the end I had to steal a forty from some bro in the crowd. UCLA wasn’t going to get me drunk, so I had to take matters into my hands.”
This story appears as part of the Daily Nexus’ 2007 April Fools’ issue.
With UCLA’s 100th NCAA Championship on the table yesterday, the #1 UC Santa Barbara beer pong team handed the #5 Bruins their biggest loss of the season in the final game of the 2007 NCAA Beer Pong Tournament in Isla Vista, Calif. The Gauchos, who had arguably the toughest tournament schedule of any top seeded team heading into the final four, avoided the upset from #3 Chico in the semifinals to advance to the final game Sunday.
Junior left-hander Timothy Dre helped UCSB (38-6 overall, 20-0 in the Big West) get on top early, sinking his first three shots before the southpaw narrowly missed a bouncer that found its way past the unsuspecting Bruin (30-11) defense.
UCLA was able to cut the deficit to one after sinking two shots on the ensuing possession, but the bring-back proved useless as senior swatter Mpong a Moute and junior lefthander Darth Richard both air-balled over all eight cups.
“[The Bruins] were swaying after two beers,” Dre said. “I knew we had the tolerance to go far in this tournament. I just didn’t figure the other schools would have been the lightweights that they were. I mean, winning six games in a row happens all the time in Isla Vista. We just happened to do it against the nation’s best.”
Santa Barbara quickly capitalized on UCLA’s inebriated mistakes by plopping down two bring-backs on a drive that seized five cups from the Bruins and gave the Gauchos a gigantic 8-2 lead.
After a prolonged dispute with the tableside referee concerning elbow enforcement, the Bruins hit rim on consecutive shots before being booed profusely by the surrounding Del Playa beach crowd.
“That punk Richard was trying to argue that my elbow was going past the table,” Dre said. “I told him he’d better concentrate more on standing up straight.”
Sophomore right-hander Arc Devine continued to demonstrate the impenetrable defense he exuded all season long, not allowing a Bruin bounce shot past his reach, and was crucial in the closing shots of the game where he deflected three sloppy UCLA bounces.
Dre closed the game for UCSB, sinking back-to-back shots to give the Gauchos their third NCAA national championship - the beer pong programs’ first ever.
“I wish we had the chance to drink more,” Devine said. “I don’t even think I had a buzz going. Near the end I had to steal a forty from some bro in the crowd. UCLA wasn’t going to get me drunk, so I had to take matters into my hands.”
Celebrate 4/20 the Deilicious Way
By Jeff Gibson
Forget playing pranks, filing taxes and little miss horny Mother Nature. When April rolls around, every conscious stoner starts crossing off the days until the most glorious holiday this side of Groundhog Day - 420. Some vets have been planning their festivities since last year’s comedown. Others are laying out the blue prints for this round’s ounce blunt. But what would the holidays be without a feast of illustrious proportions? In honor of getting creative with your herbs, I’ve consulted with one of Isla Vista’s most prodigious chefs to get you all started on some incredible, edible creations for your 420 bash.
Most recipes my chef Jondo uses involve about one to two ounces of shake, but vaporized weed works wonders, too. If you want, you can use your stickiest icky, but we’d rather scrounge the bottom of the bag than sacrifice some bomb chronic. And the clubs downtown push an ounce of shake for about 35 bucks. You can do the math, we’re too baked too count.For the noobs out there, edibles begin with the simmering process. In order to separate the essential oils from the ganja fibers, you’ll need to steep your greens in cooking oil, milk or a butter and water mixture. Whichever you choose is entirely personal preference, but the possibilities with all three are unbounded. If you don’t test them all out, you’ll be settling for magic brownies when you could have a whole mystery tour on your plate.
Oil is far out with Asian cooking, vegetable dishes and other oil-based recipes. Milk can be used in ice cream and other desserts, as well as in drinks, hot or cold. With butter, however, the possibilities are a little danker. Jondo says it best: “Any recipe you do with butter, you can with weed butter. And that’s like any food, ever.”
For recipes that require butter, you’ll need about one to two ounces of greens for every two sticks of butter you’re using. Throw these in a pan with a couple cups of water then simmer it all over low heat for about an hour. Be careful not to boil or burn your concoction, otherwise the THC will denature and all of your friends will be questioning your cooking skills instead of the nature of reality. We’ve come across methods in the past that didn’t employ water, but the advantage to using good old H2O is that it helps to separate the oil from the leaves or stems, producing a higher yield in the process. Plus, your shit will be a whole lot stronger.
Once you’re done simmering, strain the leaves, stems or whatever is left of the weed from the mixture. You can repeat the process again with these greens to really extract all of the THC oil, but more than twice is overkill. When you’ve gotten out all the ganja, leave the weed butter in the fridge for about an hour. This will cause the butter to naturally separate from the water and rise to the surface. Once it’s separated, simply poke a hole in the butter layer and drain off the water, then scoop off the top layer of butter and you’re set.
If desserts are more your thing, then milk weed is a valuable commodity. Using the same method as with butter and water, simply steep an ounce or two of weed with a cup or two of milk, but avoid burning the milk at all costs. Now your edibles will build strong bones and strong minds.
Simmering your ganja in oil is pretty much the same as the earlier methods. Using about one to two ounces of greens for every one cup of cooking oil, simmer on low heat for about an hour - no burning, no boiling, smooth as butter, baby.
So now that you have the beginnings of a delicious 420 feast, where do you go from here? Well, the possibilities are endless. We recommend being creative with it, doing whatever pops into your faded mind. The best idea I’ve ever heard Jondo mention, other than climbing Lizard’s Mouth, is using weed butter for Buffalo wings - I practically drooled on myself. All I thought about was what a juicy Buffalo wing would do for my ghost riding reputation. I’d be an Oaktown legend, biatch.
But we’re in Isla Vista. So be an Isla Vista legend next Friday and I’ll catch y’all rolling in the park the next day - I’ll probably be sporting a few crumbs in my stubble.
Forget playing pranks, filing taxes and little miss horny Mother Nature. When April rolls around, every conscious stoner starts crossing off the days until the most glorious holiday this side of Groundhog Day - 420. Some vets have been planning their festivities since last year’s comedown. Others are laying out the blue prints for this round’s ounce blunt. But what would the holidays be without a feast of illustrious proportions? In honor of getting creative with your herbs, I’ve consulted with one of Isla Vista’s most prodigious chefs to get you all started on some incredible, edible creations for your 420 bash.
Most recipes my chef Jondo uses involve about one to two ounces of shake, but vaporized weed works wonders, too. If you want, you can use your stickiest icky, but we’d rather scrounge the bottom of the bag than sacrifice some bomb chronic. And the clubs downtown push an ounce of shake for about 35 bucks. You can do the math, we’re too baked too count.For the noobs out there, edibles begin with the simmering process. In order to separate the essential oils from the ganja fibers, you’ll need to steep your greens in cooking oil, milk or a butter and water mixture. Whichever you choose is entirely personal preference, but the possibilities with all three are unbounded. If you don’t test them all out, you’ll be settling for magic brownies when you could have a whole mystery tour on your plate.
Oil is far out with Asian cooking, vegetable dishes and other oil-based recipes. Milk can be used in ice cream and other desserts, as well as in drinks, hot or cold. With butter, however, the possibilities are a little danker. Jondo says it best: “Any recipe you do with butter, you can with weed butter. And that’s like any food, ever.”
For recipes that require butter, you’ll need about one to two ounces of greens for every two sticks of butter you’re using. Throw these in a pan with a couple cups of water then simmer it all over low heat for about an hour. Be careful not to boil or burn your concoction, otherwise the THC will denature and all of your friends will be questioning your cooking skills instead of the nature of reality. We’ve come across methods in the past that didn’t employ water, but the advantage to using good old H2O is that it helps to separate the oil from the leaves or stems, producing a higher yield in the process. Plus, your shit will be a whole lot stronger.
Once you’re done simmering, strain the leaves, stems or whatever is left of the weed from the mixture. You can repeat the process again with these greens to really extract all of the THC oil, but more than twice is overkill. When you’ve gotten out all the ganja, leave the weed butter in the fridge for about an hour. This will cause the butter to naturally separate from the water and rise to the surface. Once it’s separated, simply poke a hole in the butter layer and drain off the water, then scoop off the top layer of butter and you’re set.
If desserts are more your thing, then milk weed is a valuable commodity. Using the same method as with butter and water, simply steep an ounce or two of weed with a cup or two of milk, but avoid burning the milk at all costs. Now your edibles will build strong bones and strong minds.
Simmering your ganja in oil is pretty much the same as the earlier methods. Using about one to two ounces of greens for every one cup of cooking oil, simmer on low heat for about an hour - no burning, no boiling, smooth as butter, baby.
So now that you have the beginnings of a delicious 420 feast, where do you go from here? Well, the possibilities are endless. We recommend being creative with it, doing whatever pops into your faded mind. The best idea I’ve ever heard Jondo mention, other than climbing Lizard’s Mouth, is using weed butter for Buffalo wings - I practically drooled on myself. All I thought about was what a juicy Buffalo wing would do for my ghost riding reputation. I’d be an Oaktown legend, biatch.
But we’re in Isla Vista. So be an Isla Vista legend next Friday and I’ll catch y’all rolling in the park the next day - I’ll probably be sporting a few crumbs in my stubble.
NFL's Absurd Reefer Poilcy Hurts Williams
By Jeff Gibson
Until I lost it at a house party on Del Playa Drive last spring, my Ricky Williams jersey was my most prized piece of sports memorabilia. Forget the Ken Griffey Jr. foul ball and autographed Mark McGwire rookie card. Ricky’s green armor meant more to me than courtside Warriors tickets. What’s the big deal about Ricky? Well, do you know anyone else that turned down millions of dollars, a mountain of NFL records and gaudy prime time commercial appearances to smoke the reefer? I didn’t think so.
But that’s not entirely accurate — Williams didn’t walk away from millions just to toke up whenever he felt the opportunity. Known for his shyness in public, the 1998 Heisman Trophy winner at Texas was diagnosed with social anxiety disorder in 2001 and felt marijuana helped him cope in certain social situations. Williams also explored treatment with GlaxoSmithKline’s antidepressant drug Paxil and worked with the pharmaceutical company to help teach others about the disorder, and empower the 53 million U.S. adults who share the disorder. But Williams soon admitted that marijuana produced far fewer side effects than Paxil, and ended his ties with GlaxoSmithKline.
Williams’ first positive test for marijuana came after he joined the Miami Dolphins in 2002. That season, he led the league in carries at 383 and rushing yards at 1,853. In December 2003, he failed his second drug test, and then announced his retirement from the league before training camp the following season. He explained his personal views clashed with the NFL’s absurd substance abuse policy. In the season without Williams, the Dolphins managed their worst record since the 1960s, going 4-12 as the second-worst team in the NFL. The league continued to make matters worse for Ricky. He has since returned to the Dolphins, failed another drug test, played in Canada for the CFL, attempted to re-join the Dolphins and failed another drug test. During his time away, Williams converted to Hinduism, taught free yoga lessons and spent time at a Native American school of holistic medicine called Ayuveda in Grass Valley, California.
After seven seasons in the NFL, Williams tested positive for marijuana a total of five times, has served a year and four games worth of suspensions and owes the Dolphins a total of $8.6 million for breaching his contract in 2004 by retiring.
But the problem doesn’t rest in Ricky’s hands. The NFL and its ridiculous substance abuse policy is what needs to spend some time in the review booth.
In what couldn’t be further from the truth, in 2003, broadcast analyst Cris Collinsworth wrote that the NFL’s best policies concerned the handling of the steroid issue. Collinsworth’s ignorance of the NFL is sickeningly ironic as he erroneously praises the harshness of steroid penalties. He explains that first offenses carry a four-game suspension, a second comes with a six-game suspension and a third offense results in at least a year away from the field. Chris must be breathing exhaust fumes. Suspensions that the NFL dishes out for marijuana offenses are foolishly similar. Williams was suspended for four games and fined $650,000 for his second offense and faced the same one-year suspension as with his third positive test for marijuana.
How does that add up? With more athletes these days admitting to smoking weed, marijuana-related suspensions might start spewing out of NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell’s ass like a cascading bong rip. Michael Vick and rookies like Calvin Johnson, have been blasted recently by the media for smoking weed. It seems the NFL will continue to lead the ban bandwagon, failing to recognize which substances hinder the game and its players and which substances they should leave up to the players’ discretion and their psychological needs.
Ricky didn’t abandon his team, his coaches or his fans. The NFL abandoned him long before he had a chance to prove himself and his vast array of talents.
Until I lost it at a house party on Del Playa Drive last spring, my Ricky Williams jersey was my most prized piece of sports memorabilia. Forget the Ken Griffey Jr. foul ball and autographed Mark McGwire rookie card. Ricky’s green armor meant more to me than courtside Warriors tickets. What’s the big deal about Ricky? Well, do you know anyone else that turned down millions of dollars, a mountain of NFL records and gaudy prime time commercial appearances to smoke the reefer? I didn’t think so.
But that’s not entirely accurate — Williams didn’t walk away from millions just to toke up whenever he felt the opportunity. Known for his shyness in public, the 1998 Heisman Trophy winner at Texas was diagnosed with social anxiety disorder in 2001 and felt marijuana helped him cope in certain social situations. Williams also explored treatment with GlaxoSmithKline’s antidepressant drug Paxil and worked with the pharmaceutical company to help teach others about the disorder, and empower the 53 million U.S. adults who share the disorder. But Williams soon admitted that marijuana produced far fewer side effects than Paxil, and ended his ties with GlaxoSmithKline.
Williams’ first positive test for marijuana came after he joined the Miami Dolphins in 2002. That season, he led the league in carries at 383 and rushing yards at 1,853. In December 2003, he failed his second drug test, and then announced his retirement from the league before training camp the following season. He explained his personal views clashed with the NFL’s absurd substance abuse policy. In the season without Williams, the Dolphins managed their worst record since the 1960s, going 4-12 as the second-worst team in the NFL. The league continued to make matters worse for Ricky. He has since returned to the Dolphins, failed another drug test, played in Canada for the CFL, attempted to re-join the Dolphins and failed another drug test. During his time away, Williams converted to Hinduism, taught free yoga lessons and spent time at a Native American school of holistic medicine called Ayuveda in Grass Valley, California.
After seven seasons in the NFL, Williams tested positive for marijuana a total of five times, has served a year and four games worth of suspensions and owes the Dolphins a total of $8.6 million for breaching his contract in 2004 by retiring.
But the problem doesn’t rest in Ricky’s hands. The NFL and its ridiculous substance abuse policy is what needs to spend some time in the review booth.
In what couldn’t be further from the truth, in 2003, broadcast analyst Cris Collinsworth wrote that the NFL’s best policies concerned the handling of the steroid issue. Collinsworth’s ignorance of the NFL is sickeningly ironic as he erroneously praises the harshness of steroid penalties. He explains that first offenses carry a four-game suspension, a second comes with a six-game suspension and a third offense results in at least a year away from the field. Chris must be breathing exhaust fumes. Suspensions that the NFL dishes out for marijuana offenses are foolishly similar. Williams was suspended for four games and fined $650,000 for his second offense and faced the same one-year suspension as with his third positive test for marijuana.
How does that add up? With more athletes these days admitting to smoking weed, marijuana-related suspensions might start spewing out of NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell’s ass like a cascading bong rip. Michael Vick and rookies like Calvin Johnson, have been blasted recently by the media for smoking weed. It seems the NFL will continue to lead the ban bandwagon, failing to recognize which substances hinder the game and its players and which substances they should leave up to the players’ discretion and their psychological needs.
Ricky didn’t abandon his team, his coaches or his fans. The NFL abandoned him long before he had a chance to prove himself and his vast array of talents.
The Usual Suspects Shut Down Rotation
By Jeff Gibson
She told him she was tired of trying to make him understand. Tired of feeling frustrated, tired of excuses - being drunk or stoned didn’t count. She was tired of convincing herself it wasn’t her problem.
And it wasn’t.
But most of us end up tripping over the bong along the way. It’s not intentional. It’s not malicious. Fuck, it’s not even deep-seated. Face it: There are just some times when you need to sit back and let someone else handle the rolling duties for a change. You’d be amazed at the shit you didn’t realize you were actually getting away with.
Communication’s the name of the game here, similar to everything else you become involved with, I guess. Don’t end up coming off like some clueless boyfriend who couldn’t decide between his babe or beer pong. Make sure you mind your surroundings so you don’t start grinding on people’s grillz. You really don’t want to end up with the reputations any of these suspect stoners have been tagged with.
The Scavengers: Made famous in the stony epic “Half Baked,” scavengers always find a way to sneak up on you when you’re in the middle of a smoke session. The problem, though, is that these guys never seem to have a stash of their own, nor do you ever find them throwing five on it. You’ve practically made it rain on them, and all you feel like is pulling a Pacman Jones and asking for your stash back. Oooo…
The Swoopers: Like the pesky scavenger, swoopers find a way to nuzzle into the best spot in the rotation, aka the next in line. While some believe seating arrangements to be a survival of the fittest - so stoned they see Darwin’s mug in their half-devoured pita - most of us aren’t down to be swooped on. Wait your turn. This isn’t Disneyland - although I hear it’s fun on acid.
The Roachers: Being stingy with your weed is one thing; smoking a joint till it’s down to the crutch - I’m talking totally crutch - is another. You won’t get high smoking paper. I don’t care how much resin your boy back home told you gets stuck to the sides. While some tokers consider this act detrimental to the lungs, I just can’t stand the fucking smell. Put it out. Go roll another one.
The Mongers: If you’ve seen the movie “Sandlot” and you know Hercules, then you know what I’m talking about when I say slobber. Really, how hard is it to keep a spliff dry for a brother? Most of us get by just fine - dry as the Mojave, letting us trip like we’re on peyote. Seriously though, the last thing I want to know is what your pit bull tastes like after she’s been slobbering on your face. Ali G would call it “restecp.”
The Femme Fatales: If flashing a blatant “fuck me” look doesn’t get a stoner turned on, then a phat rip out of their 5-footer will be sure to get your name on the list. Flirting is a harmless gateway towards a free blunt, but make sure you’re not just using your new bud to score some herb. They’ll probably catch on before you think. And yes, dude - bros can also be dubbed femme fatales.
Always keep in mind that the rotation can be a crafty little bitch. It’s almost inevitable. Everyone wants the same thing, and sometimes our similarly insurmountable urges get the best of us. But try to keep them in check and watch yourself (but first shake your ass), because I’m tired of this misunderstanding. “And, yet, my heart still skips a beat every time the floor creaks because there is some part of me that to wants to hope that you’re still coming” to sneak in a few quick puffs before you’re on your way.
Daily Nexus columnist Jeff Gibson always loves her as she’s walking out the door.
She told him she was tired of trying to make him understand. Tired of feeling frustrated, tired of excuses - being drunk or stoned didn’t count. She was tired of convincing herself it wasn’t her problem.
And it wasn’t.
But most of us end up tripping over the bong along the way. It’s not intentional. It’s not malicious. Fuck, it’s not even deep-seated. Face it: There are just some times when you need to sit back and let someone else handle the rolling duties for a change. You’d be amazed at the shit you didn’t realize you were actually getting away with.
Communication’s the name of the game here, similar to everything else you become involved with, I guess. Don’t end up coming off like some clueless boyfriend who couldn’t decide between his babe or beer pong. Make sure you mind your surroundings so you don’t start grinding on people’s grillz. You really don’t want to end up with the reputations any of these suspect stoners have been tagged with.
The Scavengers: Made famous in the stony epic “Half Baked,” scavengers always find a way to sneak up on you when you’re in the middle of a smoke session. The problem, though, is that these guys never seem to have a stash of their own, nor do you ever find them throwing five on it. You’ve practically made it rain on them, and all you feel like is pulling a Pacman Jones and asking for your stash back. Oooo…
The Swoopers: Like the pesky scavenger, swoopers find a way to nuzzle into the best spot in the rotation, aka the next in line. While some believe seating arrangements to be a survival of the fittest - so stoned they see Darwin’s mug in their half-devoured pita - most of us aren’t down to be swooped on. Wait your turn. This isn’t Disneyland - although I hear it’s fun on acid.
The Roachers: Being stingy with your weed is one thing; smoking a joint till it’s down to the crutch - I’m talking totally crutch - is another. You won’t get high smoking paper. I don’t care how much resin your boy back home told you gets stuck to the sides. While some tokers consider this act detrimental to the lungs, I just can’t stand the fucking smell. Put it out. Go roll another one.
The Mongers: If you’ve seen the movie “Sandlot” and you know Hercules, then you know what I’m talking about when I say slobber. Really, how hard is it to keep a spliff dry for a brother? Most of us get by just fine - dry as the Mojave, letting us trip like we’re on peyote. Seriously though, the last thing I want to know is what your pit bull tastes like after she’s been slobbering on your face. Ali G would call it “restecp.”
The Femme Fatales: If flashing a blatant “fuck me” look doesn’t get a stoner turned on, then a phat rip out of their 5-footer will be sure to get your name on the list. Flirting is a harmless gateway towards a free blunt, but make sure you’re not just using your new bud to score some herb. They’ll probably catch on before you think. And yes, dude - bros can also be dubbed femme fatales.
Always keep in mind that the rotation can be a crafty little bitch. It’s almost inevitable. Everyone wants the same thing, and sometimes our similarly insurmountable urges get the best of us. But try to keep them in check and watch yourself (but first shake your ass), because I’m tired of this misunderstanding. “And, yet, my heart still skips a beat every time the floor creaks because there is some part of me that to wants to hope that you’re still coming” to sneak in a few quick puffs before you’re on your way.
Daily Nexus columnist Jeff Gibson always loves her as she’s walking out the door.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Twice the High Is Twice the Fun: Columnists Hook Up for Some Sensual, Stony Sex With Mary Jane
By Jennifer Paradise and Jeff Gibson
In honor of the sexiest college holiday, this 4/20 we have decided to get together for a night of smoking weed, watching sick episodes of “Planet Earth” and having some dirty sex - at least in the deep and dark corners of Jeff’s creepy mind. His impressive ability to clear bowls with ease leaves his mind hazy and full of perverse thoughts, but Jenny’s deep and dark crevices were itching for a big sticky nug. We were left with no other choice but to combine our reputable writing talents and light a match on the discussion of how marijuana creates a primal urge to get it on.
Some of Jenny’s best dates have included bowl after bowl of dank weed, a Will Ferrell movie and taking it to the bedroom for some stony goodies. Unfortunately, last time she decided to make a smoke-fest sexual, things went from hot and heavy to just silly when her sexy partner got a mad case of the giggles and fell apart. Although her sexual desires were not satisfied, the whole situation was so funny that she, too, fell into hysterics. If you can laugh at yourself when you’re stark naked and unable to perform, it shows you have the sense of humor not to take yourself - or your sex life - too seriously.
Speaking of performance problems, for all the heightened senses your body experiences during stony sex, there are still a few setbacks to getting baked before humping. Sometimes your man may suffer from temporary impotence, or your lady might become drier than the old schwag you picked up in T.J. The whole experience, from foreplay to climax, is slower and more time consuming than if you were sober. Being a fan of slow and sensual sex, Jenny finds that taking your time to hit every mark makes sex infinitely more satisfying - not to mention that the feeling of every touch and lick is drastically enhanced by your high. Jeff’s sexual appetite leans more toward the fast lane, but he agrees that the two highs combine for a pleasure more divine. It is this heavenly sensation that leaves you begging for more, completely disregarding the monotony of your surroundings. You feel lost in your partner’s shared exclusion, promoting exhibition within your intimate nutshell, now climaxed to the apex of the ceiling.
Weed has been called a gateway drug, but the only gateway is to lowering your inhibitions, increasing your comfort level and creating the perfect atmosphere for a romp. The high helps to calm your nerves, leaving you more open-minded to new and interesting positions and sex toys that you may otherwise be too shy to try out.
Jeff enjoys adding a little green into the mix. If a chick can’t wait to get in your pants before you’re done rolling that fatty, late-night spliff, just pull her hand off your lap and promise her some spontaneous smoking in the sack. Sure, you’ll have to make sure you don’t drop ash on her ass, but think about all the possible positions you can pass from. And if your partner enjoys long, hard paraphernalia instead, why not propose a venture down under to complement that bong load she’s packing? But, attention stoner freaks, make sure your mate is down before you pop Mary’s cherry; you might end up waking up to the smell of the bong water that has now soaked in your mattress. If said marijuana virgins have trouble choking down the thick cannabis smoke, delicious edibles provide an intense body high that’s tingly to the touch; even the lightest strokes or kisses would be enough to send a super stony body high into the arena of a full-blown orgasm.
Sex in the bright morning is far superior to sex during any other time of the day. Both partners are alert and hopefully excited from some dirty dreams. Plus, everything showcased in early morning sunlight provides another visual stimulus to get things wet and hard, as opposed to being hidden away in a dark room. While Jenny usually rolls over to reach for her partner’s morning wood to the rouse of her alarm clock, most stoners rise in search of a grinder, papers and that fucking forlorn lighter - white Bic bastard. So why not combine the two? Turn your wake and bake into a shake and bake.
Daily Nexus columnists Jeff Gibson and Jenny Paradise didn’t have any trouble researching for this column.
In honor of the sexiest college holiday, this 4/20 we have decided to get together for a night of smoking weed, watching sick episodes of “Planet Earth” and having some dirty sex - at least in the deep and dark corners of Jeff’s creepy mind. His impressive ability to clear bowls with ease leaves his mind hazy and full of perverse thoughts, but Jenny’s deep and dark crevices were itching for a big sticky nug. We were left with no other choice but to combine our reputable writing talents and light a match on the discussion of how marijuana creates a primal urge to get it on.
Some of Jenny’s best dates have included bowl after bowl of dank weed, a Will Ferrell movie and taking it to the bedroom for some stony goodies. Unfortunately, last time she decided to make a smoke-fest sexual, things went from hot and heavy to just silly when her sexy partner got a mad case of the giggles and fell apart. Although her sexual desires were not satisfied, the whole situation was so funny that she, too, fell into hysterics. If you can laugh at yourself when you’re stark naked and unable to perform, it shows you have the sense of humor not to take yourself - or your sex life - too seriously.
Speaking of performance problems, for all the heightened senses your body experiences during stony sex, there are still a few setbacks to getting baked before humping. Sometimes your man may suffer from temporary impotence, or your lady might become drier than the old schwag you picked up in T.J. The whole experience, from foreplay to climax, is slower and more time consuming than if you were sober. Being a fan of slow and sensual sex, Jenny finds that taking your time to hit every mark makes sex infinitely more satisfying - not to mention that the feeling of every touch and lick is drastically enhanced by your high. Jeff’s sexual appetite leans more toward the fast lane, but he agrees that the two highs combine for a pleasure more divine. It is this heavenly sensation that leaves you begging for more, completely disregarding the monotony of your surroundings. You feel lost in your partner’s shared exclusion, promoting exhibition within your intimate nutshell, now climaxed to the apex of the ceiling.
Weed has been called a gateway drug, but the only gateway is to lowering your inhibitions, increasing your comfort level and creating the perfect atmosphere for a romp. The high helps to calm your nerves, leaving you more open-minded to new and interesting positions and sex toys that you may otherwise be too shy to try out.
Jeff enjoys adding a little green into the mix. If a chick can’t wait to get in your pants before you’re done rolling that fatty, late-night spliff, just pull her hand off your lap and promise her some spontaneous smoking in the sack. Sure, you’ll have to make sure you don’t drop ash on her ass, but think about all the possible positions you can pass from. And if your partner enjoys long, hard paraphernalia instead, why not propose a venture down under to complement that bong load she’s packing? But, attention stoner freaks, make sure your mate is down before you pop Mary’s cherry; you might end up waking up to the smell of the bong water that has now soaked in your mattress. If said marijuana virgins have trouble choking down the thick cannabis smoke, delicious edibles provide an intense body high that’s tingly to the touch; even the lightest strokes or kisses would be enough to send a super stony body high into the arena of a full-blown orgasm.
Sex in the bright morning is far superior to sex during any other time of the day. Both partners are alert and hopefully excited from some dirty dreams. Plus, everything showcased in early morning sunlight provides another visual stimulus to get things wet and hard, as opposed to being hidden away in a dark room. While Jenny usually rolls over to reach for her partner’s morning wood to the rouse of her alarm clock, most stoners rise in search of a grinder, papers and that fucking forlorn lighter - white Bic bastard. So why not combine the two? Turn your wake and bake into a shake and bake.
Daily Nexus columnists Jeff Gibson and Jenny Paradise didn’t have any trouble researching for this column.
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