TAKE ME TO YOUR DEALER

Monday night, I accidentally smoked too much weed and had a baby
freak-out. I mean "accidentally" not in the same way my friend John
"accidentally" forgets to stock up on contraceptives when his
girlfriend comes over, or how my friend "accidentally" leaves her
wallet at home every time we go for an expensive meal.

Monday night was really accidental, as in, I am new to this whole
smoking drugs thing and I did not know my limits. Now I do-apparently
it's less than half of a joint the size of a baby carrot.

Don't get me wrong, I may have been a late bloomer (I was straight
edge until my early 20s), but I'm not a total newbie when it comes to
illicit substances.

In elementary school, I smelled my share of magic markers.

And those crack suppositories followed by the GHB/goofball/Percoset
cocktail really hit the spot at that twink dungeon I hit up last
Tuesday. Good times.

I'm also no stranger to bad trips. Like that time I was at that
outdoor rave tweaking on ecstasy and mushrooms and totally bummed.
Not because everyone turned into slow-motion Dr. Seuss zombie demons,
but because it didn't matter because nothing really existed anyway
and the essence of my being was busy being concentrated into a single
ball of galactic light that was now scattering over the universe, so
what was the point of it all? Ugh. Don't ask.

The only upside to that was recovering in the open field the next
morning watching the sun beam down on a young hippie couple
frolicking and playing games like spin-around and peek-a-boo with a
glittering reflective blanket. Not because I was enlightened by their
glorious unabashed innocence and pure joyful abandon, but because
they were using the very reflective blanket I had horked up my toxic
cocktail and half a burrito on an hour before.

But smoking weed was never something I got into. Was I afraid I'd
like it too much? Or was it that I was really afraid of liking reggae
too much? Who knows?

It could have been all the anti-smoking propaganda we're exposed to
as kids, like those nasty cigarette packages with the yucky mouths on
them or that cartoon Polly the Throat Polyp and her Tar Baby Kids
(which I wish existed).

Either way, I was a tween and I didn't get high. It certainly wasn't
from a lack of exposure. Like everyone who grew up in the West
Island, I had a friend who had a weird skid older brother. You know
the kind: long, unkempt hair, bad skin and a desperate desire to try
and fit as many band logos on their jean jacket as space would allow.
They were cool because they didn't really give a shit what kind of
trouble you were up to, but every now and then, they would show you
something awesome like how to make a blow torch out of a lighter,
some tape and hairspray, or how "Stairway to Heaven" was actually a
song about paganism, witches and Satan worship.

The door to their bedrooms (always in the basement) would invariably
have some kind of warning scrawled on loose leaf and tacked on, about
how entering their secret chamber would make you die some kind of
slow and horrible death.

From underneath the door, there'd always be that weird smell, a
smell at once skunky and intoxicating. In my innocence, I wondered,
"Is that what it smells like when you grow up?" Or maybe he's some
kind of pyromaniac and he's obsessed with melting stuff, like how I
used to melt Star Wars figurines?

Now I can stop wondering. It has been about six months that I have
occasionally been "on pot." I gotta say, no big whup.

Oh, and that baby freak-out I just had? Totally under control.

The key to dealing with bad trips, I've learned, is first surviving
one. After that, you'll know it'll be over and you can stop worrying
and just laugh at stupid shit like how amazing your brain is because
you can brush your teeth and marvel at how amazing your brain is at
the same time (had to be there).

After that you could try and do funny things like play a musical
instrument or take a shower.

But once you realize that making music doesn't work because your
limbs feel a million miles away and you're starting to drone out on
boring shit that you KNOW would sound like crap if you were straight.

And showers are sort of awkward after you realize you've been
shampooing your hair for 20 minutes, the way you can feel better is
lie down and listen to great music.

Which is exactly what I did. I lay down, put on Pharoah Sanders'
Karma album, wigged out for an hour, and laughed about how cheesy the
whole experience of being high is before drifting off and having
crazy dreams about older skid brothers and hippies spinning around
reflective blankets.