Columnist Embarks on One Last Trip of Mayans, Moons, Stamps and 'Shrooms

I took a look around and realized I’m back here again.

Finding clues to a riddled life printed on cardboard cereal boxes. Nutritional facts for a starved teenage imagination. Gathering deeper meanings from gigantic green road signs.
CHARLOTTE
NEXT EXIT

Applying a detective kit on early morning infomercials. Knocking out the fat.

Hidden symbols peek out from underneath prescribed surfaces, all beckoning subconscious attention. But I was happier then.

Everything good needs replacing after all. The beginning of the end is the end of the beginning. A rose is a rose is a rose. Knock, knock on the door. Who’s it for? Better break on through. To bat country.

The key turns.

But the Spender in me can’t bear the conquest. Thanks, Ray.

Yet it’s stuffy in here. I’ll just keep the big door open.

The breeze lets itself in. Proof originality is immortal. And nothing’s been done before. It all just is. It’s all just you.

Question countertops. Interrogate tray tables. Then they’ll topple.

Come out from under the bar. Come out wherever you are.

The moon is full, shining white through the gray. It’s made of powdered sugar, political promises and barbecued spare ribs. Would ya eat it?

Why not? The Mayan calendar ends in four years. Think your world will disappear with it? Come dance across the water. You could keep floating, just for a while, until the warehouse slips away.

Read into it. Read your way out of it. Between the lines, the pages, the walls and the halls. You pay for what you get. You might as well earn it.

But the streets are crowded now.

You want a world with your own rubber stamp on it. But all the stamps look alike. And all the ink is red.

You’re allergic to possibility. Or maybe it’s the asphodels. We all are now.

Let your hair down.

Check out the view.

You aren’t what you are. You’re a figment of your imagination. You’re its plaything. A puppet hanging from a photoshopped string.

Blame it on weed. Attribute it to ‘shrooms. Insist it’s the coke. Equate it to ecstasy. They do.

It’s 21st-century witchcraft. And I’m the warlock.

Double, double, boil and trouble.

Fire burn and cauldron bubble.

Sweep away. Keep away.

We’re at bay.

Wait until they come and then they’ll steal you. They’ll take your self away. But all their cards are Kings. You’ve got a broom. Why not use it?

Ascend the pyramids and find out for yourself. They’ll spend their lives pillaging the catacombs below.

While you’re here, look down to the ground or up at the sky. Pulled by profits or envisioned enlightenment. Which one lurks at the fork in the road?

The tree is dying as we speak.

So I’ll ask you as we part:

Has it really all been done?

Magic Pesto is Held in High Regard

Brownies are just the beginning.

We’d begin by describing them as rich and gooey gateways to the realm of other delicious magical treats, but those in power have transformed the word “gateway” into weed’s ignorant little sidekick that won’t take a flashing neon hint and go the hell away. So we’ll just preface this column by saying we’re certain Isla Vistans can produce a wider variety of potent edibles than even Jeff has managed to swallow lately. Brownies? Where we’re going, we don’t need brownies.

Practically every edible starts with the simmering process - steeping your greens in butter, oil or milk to extract that precious THC. We’d hate to lose the n00bs at this juncture, but for a more informative description of this process, just Google “Celebrate 420 the Delicious Way” and we’ll guide you through the prelims. But now back to making goodies.

If Jondo spent as much time cooking as he did climbing half-domes, then he’d be a half-baked Prudhomme. From lava cakes to scones and truffles to muffins, he’s concocted some kooky compilations his friends can’t get enough of. But he’s here today to offer you all a little trick of the herbal trade.

Question: What do you usually do with the soft, leftover buds still covered in butter - and THC - once you’re done simmering them on the stove?

Well, including the leftovers in your recipe can lead to chunky and distasteful results, while chucking them in the trash bin just lets the seagulls have all the fun. Still no clue?

The answer is pesto.

Pesto sauce disguises the leftover plant material in with the herbs you need - either basil or cilantro - in order to make the tasty pasta topping. The best part is this recipe doesn’t even require any cooking - just a brief adventure to swipe your neighbor’s blender.

Here are your ingredients: Fresh cilantro or basil, making sure you maintain an equal herb-to-herb ratio in the final mixture. Pine nuts (about $20 per lb.), or cashews (about $12 per lb.), considering you probably spent most of your cash on your weed stash. Fresh garlic, because at least the vampires won’t get at you when you’re too stoned to move. Extra virgin olive oil, because some say it’s better with a first timer. And if we’re gonna talk about sex, a generous pinch of salt and pepper, maybe even some lemon or lime juice to give it some spunk. You could even throw in some sun-dried tomatoes or caramelized onions if you’re feeling lucky.

Assembly is pretty basic. Grab your blender. Pour in an equal amount of herb and bud while blending nature’s gifts on a lower power setting - you don’t want your latest efforts on your kitchen floor along with last week’s shredded cheese. Next, throw in a few spoonfuls (depending on how much sauce you’re making) of pine nuts (or cashews) along with olive oil, watching the blender do your work for you. The runnier you want your sauce, the more olive oil you should use. Try a little at first. You can always add more into the blend if you so choose. If you want to throw some acidity into the mix, now’s the time for lemon or lime juice - or champagne vinegar in true I.V. fashion. Salt and pepper can finally make their stage appearance at this point, but save the sun-dried tomatoes and onions for the encore.

Once the sauce is mixed to your liking, you can throw the pesto onto just about any munchies your stomach is grumbling for. From pasta to sandwiches to steak to seafood to Woodstock’s pizza, you can turn your delicious meal into a trip to the moon without that overbearing herbal flavor or awkward crunch between your incisors.

Weed has had its time on the dessert menu. It’s time to incorporate your crave into the main course.

Weed Withdrawal Affects Perspective, Puppies Alike

A trip to the emergency room a few nights ago has led me to the realization that I owe my innards a little spring-cleaning. Diagnosis: Gastritis, most likely from excessive alcohol consumption in conjunction with severe side effects from anti-inflammatory medication. Solution: Prescription antacid medication in correlation with painkillers. More importantly: No alcohol, no spicy foods, no acidic drinks and … NO SMOKING!

Sounds like a lot more readers will be able to understand my column for these next few weeks until I get back on my bong.

But, in the meantime, I’m still a stoner, and that means I’m resourceful enough to make something out of nothing. And not smoking for the past couple of days has given me a fresh perspective on a few facets of life I’ve been happily oblivious to while sitting cross-legged in the haze.

People can be assholes when they suddenly stop smoking weed. I’m not talking about a crackhead-with-withdrawals kind of asshole, but more like your standard, “Middle-schooler where the fuck’s my afternoon snack?” kind of asshole. Some sulk in their misery until they find something else with which to amuse themselves. Like watching porn. Or smelling gym socks. Others just tell you how miserable they are until they sneak their way back into the rotation a few seconds later.

It’s the stoners committed to the cause, though - or rather, those whose life doesn’t need to revolve around weed for them to feel like themselves - that gives craving stoners all the inspiration we need to ignore Mary Jane’s persistent texts for a dank hookup.

Yesterday I started yelling at puppies for being too cute. Then I cussed my roommate out - in my sleep no less - for snoring. Outside International Market, I gave homeless men handfuls of Canadian currency. Later, I superglued a Bic to my balcony’s banister when no one was looking. When a spliff came my way, I held onto it until the flame ran out, then passed it to the left. Y’all should’ve seen my buddies try to pry the lighter off the banister.

I even took down a bird nest from the light fixture above my balcony because there was bird shit everywhere. And six fresh eggs equal breakfast. This last act may not seem like much, but talk to any stoner and they’d pack a bowl for the chance to see three little birds live on their doorstep. They’d probably sack me if they knew where I lived.

Speaking of which, I don’t have a television at home, but the whole San Diego State fraternity drug bust thing kept me occupied for about an hour two days ago. I just stared and drooled at all the green bags piled up in front of the camera, with proud narcotics police officers standing behind it all like they actually made a positive difference in the world. All I know is that some pig is getting a big shiny medal while most Aztecs will continue to smoke in honor of their brethren who got cuffed. If pigs could read - or fly - then they’d know Hunter’s wisdom is right again on this one: “The tendency is to push it as far as you can.”

With two smoke-free days under my belt, I felt like I, too, had done all that I could to follow the doctor’s orders. Until I realized I was going about this all wrong. It was my fault. I take full responsibility for my stupidity. But, damn, it took me way too long to figure out that I could just make edibles and get high without smoking. The omen manifested itself as chef Jondo, who had just got done creating a scrumdidilyumptious ganja pesto sauce. Mixed in with some penne or some pesto raviolis, it sounds like this whole “no smoking” thing won’t be that depressing after all.

Death Carries a Yellow Abdomen

Google claims I’m doomed to a self-destructive and self-defeating path. That, or I’ll find the death and rebirth I’ve apparently been searching for. But I’m pretty sure I don’t intimately know anyone who’s a Scorpio. Have I cut myself off from something? Is sex that important to me? As important as weed?

Forget that. Reason can have the waking moments. It’s the dream I’m interested in - without definition until I define it, without property unless I locate it. Unconscious quantum mechanics.

Handle the scorpion, she tells me. Protect him.

I do as she instructs, picking the yellow-abdomened arachnid up off the ground by his tail.

I rest him on top of my opened beer can. I’ve apparently been drinking. I don’t seem tipsy. He flaunts his clawed forearms at me from atop his Budweiser throne. He’s set for now, I imagine. A job dubbed well done before it’s done.

I see I’m stung on the tip of my thumb.

How fucking dumb.

Glancing down again I inspect the pedipalp prick. The blood slowly begins to puddle at the surface of my pale skin. A reddish crater turns maroon hot spring in seconds.

She scolds me from above for my arrogant blunder. She claims there’s little she can do. I thank her for her sympathy before the neurotoxin kicks in. An icy, deathbed high one would die for overwhelms my un-senses.

Or so I thought.

My unconscious persists.

I stumble out of the toxicity thanking passersby I’m still alive. Their quizzical faces can’t dissuade my invigoration. I’m still here. How thrilled I am to delay the inevitable return.

Rioters outside my childhood home request my attention. I fend them off inside my garage, one at a time. We flee down the street, chasing back the darkness beneath glazed streetlights. The pistol in my hand doesn’t fire. I’ve never pulled the trigger, I just know. It’s enough for them to flee.

Teleportation lands me in my bathroom, naked and dry before the steaming shower. My severed penis lies in my bloodied hands. The scissors remain partly open, resting upon the drain of the bathroom sink. I gaze up. In the oversized mirror he looks lost, a reflection of my stubbly face staring back at me.

Motionless and limp, I rest it on the counter. Inside the shower, scalding water burns the stump that’s left. It seemed a good idea at the time, a time I never had the chance to witness. What the fuck was I going to do with it now? Reproduction, bodily pleasure, what do I need them for in here?

Outside the shower, I can’t pry my pupils from my reflection. My beard snakes out from my skin, then fades to white wisps that float freely in zero gravity. Eye sockets that once beheld the beauty in the world plunge inside my skull.

The serpents slither between my bare toes. I run for a blade, but they turn to cheddar cheese when I chop at them. Party favors, I guess, if you grab some Triscuits.

My pupils dilate, coming to focus on the computer screen I dozed off in front of. I type “wikipedia” into the navigation bar. A jigsawed world manifests itself before me. Where do I find where I end and it begins? I click on the link that reads “Random article.” The computer does the searching for me. Until this world fades away once more.

UCSC Sets Bar for Resposible Tokage

Uncomfortable. As in the feeling I get when a crackhead-turned-probation officer can’t stop shouting her paranoid delusions at me from the passenger seat: “The fucking pigs are going to recognize my red scooter. They’re gonna arrest us for all this shit!”

Curious. As in how the fuck the police would know we were driving back from our purchase - unless the neo-junkie didn’t shut her mouth real quick.

Strange. As in the cannabis club being located in the lot next to an Odwalla distribution center.

Carnival. As in the Beach Boardwalk masquerade my buddies and I had been planning since our stash ran out or the reason why I was on this wild kush chase in the first place.

Santa Cruz at its most squeamish.

But aside from my last close encounter at the University of California’s stoner commune, my visits to UCSC rank highly on my scale of stoned endeavors.

Maybe it’s the gorgeous beach view. Naw, we have that here and still managed to give the UC system scabies.

Maybe it’s the redwood trees. Nope, they’re still pissed Model T’s were driven through their relatives.

Maybe it’s the ganja. Negative, ours just costs more. (Shipping fees weighed in with the four-hour drive from the grower in Santa Cruz. Five if they’re blazed on the job.)

Maybe it’s the law enforcement hired there. …

Or the university controlling them?

Let me draw your attention to an article published Tuesday in the Santa Cruz Sentinel.

It’s no Boulder, Colo., but UC Santa Cruz’s 4/20 festival this year was a marvel of modern stoner pride. Sunday afternoon, thousands of students and visitors packed into a meadow behind the university’s Porter College to collectively take a rip … or a few.

Without incident, the planned event was a big hit as clouds of smoke rose from the crowd at around 4:20 p.m. to the accompaniment of cheers.

And, as strange as it seems to anyone unfamiliar with Santa Cruz, university police and hired security on hand simply watched from the metaphorical sidelines. University administrators even planned for the event by having a few fire engines on the scene, as well as police roadblocks around the campus dissuading outlanders from attending via motorized vehicles.

Apparently, the administration didn’t think a bunch of stoners could behave themselves around a shitload of lighters. Or did they? It’s not like any arrests were made, nor did there appear to be any incidents of police harassment. So why is the administration trying to make it seem like they don’t support the event?

“This is an event that’s unsanctioned and unwelcomed by the university. It’s based on an illegal activity that has become large in recent years and we’re attempting to send a signal that it’s not welcome,” Jim Burns, a spokesman for UCSC, told the Sentinel.

Unwelcome? I was getting ready to send a letter praising the university’s handling of the matter, and now Burns isn’t supporting the students’ decision to burn one down? Burn. But at least actions speak louder than words. Stoners everywhere should appreciate how UCSC officials handled the event, despite the fact that their public statement contradicts their passive manner toward the matter.

I hope the actions of UCSC can encourage acceptance on other college campuses.

Although there may be a few spots at our university capable of handling such a massive bunch of stoners, I find it hard to imagine the UCSB administration wouldn’t treat a similar celebration with the unnecessary forces of those in attendance at the Halloween shit show.

A large part of the problem, though, is the evangelical policeman. A breed rarely found in peaceful SC until I Googled for more.

Rich Westphal, task force commander with the Santa Cruz County Narcotics Enforcement Team, had the audacity to proclaim the 4/20 gathering “a moral slap in the face to the cause.”

I bet you’ll find him in Isla Vista next Halloween, handcuffing a girl who stumbled slightly while gutsy students handle the sober thieves and rapists.