Posts Tagged ‘marijuana’

4/20 Expect Delays

April 21, 2016

You are not shitting me.

Seriously.

San Francisco.

The amount of smoke over Golden Gate Park this evening as I was riding home was stupid.

I mean.

It can be foggy in the park, but this was something the fuck else.

It was already getting a little crazy out there when I was heading into work today at 12 noon.

Vendors setting up stands with water and ice.

Just chilling on the sidewalk waiting for the cotton mouth to commence.

I actually rolled through a smoke cloud at the Pan Handle.

I was grateful to get to work and not have to deal with it all too much, in fact, I had rather forgotten, I work in the Mission, people are always smoking up, not much different.

It was when I went home that it was messy.

All day love fest with the marijuana leaf and it was stupid on the roads.

I split lanes at one point as this car was not moving on the green light.

“GET OFF YOUR PHONE!” I hollered at the dazed and confused young woman driver who was texting and sitting through a green light.

Then I zipped by.

Thank you God for lane splitting.

Seriously.

I suspect pizza delivery drivers are making a lot of money tonight.

Grateful to have gotten home safe and sound, to lock up my scooter, shoot out a flirtatious text about a possible date and hustle up the street to the market to get some coffee before doing the deal.

And there’s the motorcycle

Hello ex-boyfriend.

Why you got to look so cute?

Ugh.

And I’m on my period, end days you know, but it does not seem to matter right now, I feel like I am just at the top of my game.

Not to be all ego and that, no rather my body is hormonally doing the dance of Saint Vitus trying to get some.

It did not help when he hugged me later.

Was that a “mmm” on my neck?

Maybe not, maybe it was just my imagination, like that hand at my waist lingering just a moment.

Dude.

Watch out.

His room mate caught me watching him walk out the door and I blushed to beat the band.

Well.

He does look good in those jeans and that blue flannel, flattering.

And moving on.

I know better.

I am pretty certain he’s got a lady friend.

And it ain’t me.

And I’m pretty sure it’s serious.

Or.

I’m pretty sure we would have hit it by this point.

There’s still chemistry there.

That’s ok.

I think right now I have chemistry with a lot of men.

I’m not saying that to stroke myself off, I’m still single over here, going to bed alone, but not lonely, thank you, in my little studio by the sea.

But.

There’s interest.

Oh yes there is.

This is fun, I thought earlier, intercepting  a few messages about “thinking about you” and well, yeah, me too, thinking about you.

I do sort of feel like I am on fire and it feels good.

I am a house on fire.

Burn me all down to the ground.

I’m not upset about this, I’m not looking to change it, I am completely accepting this heat and enjoying it.

Perhaps it is the apex of something.

“There is more to you than, that, that,”  he hesitated.

“That thing in the desert,” I interjected.

“Yes! You are so much more,” he beamed at me tender with sweet deep eyes, my friend patted my arm, “there is something that is going to happen in that time, you’ll see, it will be great.”

It will be.

I’m positive.

There is so much.

And.

There is more time than I thought!

I got my weeks confused.

I still have two weekends before my next school weekend, I had this big idea that I had to have papers written this weekend.

Nope.

I have another weekend before I go back in for my last round of classes before summer break.

I have never been more excited for summer break in my life.

Seriously.

So I can have some play time this weekend and not get my undies in a twist about having to write papers.

Thank God.

I’m still moving forward with reading and making sure that I am caught up with it, but I have some breathing space.

And as of yet.

A completely free Saturday.

I have thoughts of things I want to do.

Sex.

Ahem.

Heh.

Yoga.

Doing that deal.

Getting my nails done, a little mani/pedi will be a nice treat.

Sleeping in if I want.

Like I ever do.

Well.

I sort of did today, I decided to wait on the yoga before work until tomorrow.

Wednesday’s I go in a little early as I have an evening commitment that I am adamant about getting to, so I go in early and leave early, not the best day to squeeze yoga in as well.

But tomorrow.

Yoga it up I will.

And hopefully by the time I do head to work the 4/20 will have been cleaned up and swept away for another season.

Unlike my hormones and sex drive which just seems to be coming out of the closet.

“Oh my forties were insane, enjoy them!  It’s the best time, really, the sex was amazing,” she said and smiled.

I’m sort of understanding that on a very new level.

Maybe I’m just comfortable in my skin.

Maybe I’ve just been in one place long enough.

Easier to hook up with a sitting target than one constantly on the move.

Maybe, after all these years, I finally am embracing the sexy that I have been told I have.

“You are so fucking hot,” he messaged me.

Thanks man.

I appreciate hearing that.

It’s nice to be acknowledged and it’s really nice to just not give a fuck.

This is where I am at in my life.

I don’t have to ask for approval or permission.

Not from you.

Not from me.

I think God’s got me covered pretty good.

I’ll go with God.

And if you don’t think there’s a lot of God in sex.

Well.

You haven’t heard me in the throes.

Ahem.

It’s all about the love.

Or the loving.

But whatever it is.

More please.

Thanks!

 

 

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Stairway to Heaven

May 27, 2014

Hello friends

It’s been a few days.

I have missed you.

I have so much to write about, I may not get it all out here tonight, but I will give it a shot.

I was away for the last three nights in Bradley, California for the 9th annual Lighting in a Bottle Festival.

I had never heard of it before this year and really hadn’t much inclination to go.

However, the opportunity to spend a weekend camping with a dear friend is not to be missed and you know, maybe I might see some music that I like.

Moby.

Moby

Moby

That’s right.

I got to see God.

No.

I don’t believe Moby is God.

But I do believe that he is a conduit for a higher power that so moved me I nearly danced my knees to pieces.

And I was so close I could almost reach out and touch him.

The set was beyond belief, I still cannot tell you how exactly it happened, but we just gradually made our way closer and closer to the stage, being there for the previous act helped, and the next thing you know while they are changing sets, we, my friend and I, are down in front, center stage.

It was so good.

So good.

This good:

Front row Moby

Me, front row, Moby

I was filled up with light.

Yeah.

I know.

Cheesy.

Corn ball.

Over the top.

But, whatever, I won’t argue with you.

You get to be right.

I get to be happy.

Man, was I happy.

Then the round of stair climbing truly began.

The festival was set up in a emptied lake resevoir that had dried up and the event was spread over quite a few acres, I am not sure the exact parameter of it, but it was probably spread out over two, two and a half miles.

And there were stairs going in and out of the gullies and valleys.

You could not make it from one side of the event to the other without going down some pretty big drops and long climbs in and out of the gullies up and down the stairs.

Now.

I am already a bit injured, from the scooter accident I had two weeks ago and the attack of the skateboard last week, and my legs were sorely taxed.

I must have climbed those fucking stairs a thousand times.

Perhaps I exagerrate.

But, not by much.

My friend and I postulated that we probably walked anywhere between three and five miles a day.  Maybe more.  I am not sure, but there was a lot of walking.

A lot.

Unlike Burning Man it was not flat and there really wasn’t much bicycle riding, although I did see some valiant efforts to do so and there were pedi cabs circling about.

The other thing was that there were vendors there, unlike Burning Man which is a gifting community and I found it a challenge to not compare the festival to it (the lights, the rigging work, the stages, the shade structures, some of the art and the artists, have all been to Burning Man).

For example The Front Porch was there:

The Front Porch

The Front Porch

An art installation that debuted, I believe, please do not quote me for fact, three burns ago on playa.  It features a front porch facade that is pulled by a tractor and the back side has a working kitchen with an oven, where yes, dear, you can bake cookies.

There is nothing more magical than the first time I saw the Front Porch rolling across the playa at Burning Man and I was riding my bicycle through a dusty night following the sound of bluesy folk music and the smell of homemade chocolate chip cookies being baked.

My goodness.

Free goodness too.

Nobody charges you for those cookies at Burning Man.

However, when I saw someone handing out slices of watermelon from a cooler I overheard this conversation:

“Oh my god, WATERMELON!”

“I’ll take a slice,” the man eagerly reached forward to the proffered piece.

Then he hesitated.

“Is it free?”

No.”

“Dollar a slice,” the vendor replied shutting the lid to the cooler.

The man retracted his hand as though he had been bitten.

That dude made a lot of money off the participants.

I suspect all the vendors did.

And I don’t begrudge someone making a living, but it was such a contrast to the kind of de-commidication that I have found so warming at Burning Man, that well, I was bummed out a bit by it.

I found also that the act of commidifying the spiritual aspects of the even made me quite judgemental about it.

I was also wearing my Ms. Judgy Pants with all the out right drug use happening.

Esctacy.

Molly.

Cocaine.

Pot.

Mushrooms.

Acid.

I saw so many fucked up people.

I saw more out right open use of drugs than I have in all the burns I have gone to, seven, combined.

I found it disgruntling and a bit disturbing.

Hey, let’s serve you some raw vegan gluten-free food, its organic too!

It’s gonna help you get over that cocaine/alcohol/acid/mushroom/GBH/K/Molly hangover you got going on.

Just in time for you to get to that yoga class you wanted to make.

I was mystified by it.

The quest for spirituality through incessant drug use.

I mean.

I get it.

I understand, I sought escape too, one time, dontcha know, but to see it encouraged to the point that it was, made me feel a little jaded about the entire event.

Though, in fact, despite myself and my nay-saying ways, I got to have that little spiritual awakening myself.

However, it did not come from drugs.

I came from music and it was so powerful that I hesitate to write about it.

Not from the stand point that I want to convince you.

I am not interested in convincing anyone.

I know what happened.

I was there.

I was aware.

I was not checked out and it completely took me by surprise.

Lying, exhausted from being up late the night before, climbing many sets of stairs, remember, pitching camp in the dark, dancing my ass off at Moby, followed by little sleep, awakening early, too early the next day, by seven a.m. when the hot sun chased me out of the tent, walking more, up and down those stairs, probably mildly dehydrated, in an oasis, I had an awakening.

Not unlike the one I had about seven and a half years ago after doing a lot of amends in my life.

I was underneath a shade structure, spent, lying on a mat on the dusty dry ground, head propped up on a pillow I had scavenged from the ecstatic dance group that was going on nearby, I closed my eyes and tried to rest.

Rest, however, can be a challenge when there’s a dj playing music and the bass is so heavy it shakes the ground beneath you.

But it happened.

Somewhere in the middle of the sound, carried on the waves of bass, brightened in the hot air, blue-ified sky, high above me, the sound blew in and out of my heart and broke it open.

The dj was spinning a Paul Simon song from the Graceland album that I had played so often during a certain period of my life that I still know all the words by heart.

I sang along to the words, the song being mixed with a classic four four beat, bass trembling beneath me, warm ground cradling me, I rose into the sky and cried it all out.

The grief, the loss, the idealized fantasy life that I had surrounded myself with so long ago, the ideas of who I am and what I am finally melting out of my soul, like a hard sugar candy crust that had finally been cracked.

Yellow, sweet, golden, I basked in the music and let it hold me.

I don’t know that I can fully articulate everything that happened in those moments, but the deep realization that grieving is not linear and has no time line, struck me again, that I could still be holding onto to these old thoughts and ideas, beliefs of who I am and what I am, to let go those concepts.

Who wouldn’t cry?

I had a lot of small epiphanies after the grief riveted out of my heart and I will write more soon.

It’s just late, my friends.

And I missed you.

But I missed my bed too.

Tomorrow.

More.

Love.

For you.

Or magic, should you prefer.

Magic

Magic

More Magic

More Magic

Black Light Magic

Black Light Magic

Light

Magic, it’s everywhere

 

 

 

Blame it on the Weather

April 21, 2012

Wow.

There is monkey shining  happening all over this fair city of ours tonight.

Damn Gina.

Get your 4/20 on.

Fuck me.

It was nutbuckets at work and Kai happened to mention, of course, it’s 4/20, it’s going to be lunacy all day.

I forgot.

4/20 the national holiday for smoking as much pot as you possibly can.  Or eating it–only in San Francisco, gluten free pot brownies.

You think I’m kidding.

In a city that is already fairly notorious for pot smoking, today is like some high holy holiday.

Pun unintentionally intended.

If only the monkey’s at the zoo kept it to the pot maybe it would be a little more manageable.  I mean, once you’re high, who the hell gets off the couch?

Do you see a lot of people out there “stoned” driving?  Motherfuckers usually be too lazy to get off they asses and order a pizza, let alone get out there and mingle it up.

Or they are in a comatose from trying to top off the burritos they got at Taqueria Cancun with a double scoop of Salted Caramel ice cream from BiRite Ice Creamery.  Then, they make it to Dolores Park and crash in the grass.

Ah grass.

Remember when a lid was not a hat?

Remember your parents picking seeds out of a sack?

Remember slinging QP’ers with your friends?

Hmmm, I don’t.

But that’s because I am allergic to marijuana.

Did not stop me from living with a pot head for a good five years.  Good lord could that man smoke.

Good lord all the fruitless arguments I had with him.

“Do you have to smoke before we go into the movie,” as he whipped out a one hitter and stuffed it with some stinky blueberry nugs. Or stuffed the bong for his morning wake and bake.

Oh, I got the patter down.

This particular ex slung a lot of pot.  Grew a lot of pot and smoked a ridiculous amount of pot. Pot. Pot. Pot.

In fact, he’s probably stoned some where right now.

God bless him.

I did not know I was allergic, I just thought that I was getting really, really, really high.  But the pot that I was smoking was not very good, I was just so sensitive to it, that I was getting high off it (note to younger self, if it had been good, you probably would have died doing the bath tub bong hit from the cut off 2 liter 7-Up plastic bottle).  I found out later after I got really truly sick, from of all people, my mom, who told me she was also allergic and my dad, good old pops, used to test out how good the pot was by having my mom smoke it.

The sicker she got, the better the pot.

There is some thing wrong with this picture, isn’t there?

Anyway.

Here’s what happens when I smoke:

I laugh my ass off.

I pass out.

I vomit.

The laugh my ass off part lasts for all of five minutes then I would vomit and pass out–having unfortunately locked myself in the bathroom at the party house.

Not the best way to meet your new boyfriends friends.  And to top it off they were aficionados.  Truly.  These boys knew their pot and they knew how to grow it and where to get their clones from.  Can you say Northern Skunk mixed with blueberry Sativa cross pollinated with, oh never mind.

They were all rich kids, but my ex.  He met them through a bizarre set of circumstances that shook out like this–UW Madison fucked up his dorm assignment, he should have been staying at Ogg Hall–where another couple of my previous boyfriends had hailed from–but got reassigned, on the state’s dime, to The Towers.

The Towers and the State Sider, private dorms for the rich and privileged set of out-of-state kids that go to UW Madison.

There he fell in with a pack of East Coast monied trustafarian kids.  They all had connections, they all had disposable cash, and they all adopted my ex, who had a very green thumb and expensive tastes and knew which parking lots you could steal sodium halogen lights from for your hydroponic grow room.

It was a recipe for horticulture that eventually led to many a lost night of sleep when the cops busted down the door and discovered said grow room.  Thank God they did not discover the scale under the bed, the stash of four thousand dollars in the mini fridge in the bedroom, or the just harvested pounds that he had distributed not even the day before.

Oops.

Oh and guess what?  Possession is 9/10s the law, even if you are allergic to pot.

Even if your boyfriend tells the cops that the plants were all his.  Apparently if you’re on the lease, like I was, you’re culpable too.

Damn.

Lost my two grand that I was saving up for a road trip to California to play frisbee golf across the Western United States to lawyers fees.  I got off by “donating” a $200 fine to D.A.R.E.

Thanks honey.

Yes, you read that previous paragraph correctly, frisbee golf, or Disc Golf, if you will.  I played for a few years and my ex was actually an amateur who dreamed of going pro and would play the tournaments to get points up for a place at Nationals.

I have seen some amazing things thrown across a field.

Actually, I rather miss it.  I just realized that Golden Gate Park got a frisbee golf course back in 2006 or 2007.  Maybe I’ll go throw a round next weekend.

I was there covering the opening event with NPR.  I was interning at KQED radio (where I was informed that I had the talent to be an announcer and the voice, but that I needed to go back to the Midwest and work in a small market until I got my chops up and then move to a small city system and then, maybe if I was lucky, fifteen years down the line I could get a part-time gig with NPR).

Not so much, thanks.

The neat, yes, I said neat, thing about covering that story was that I was actually the “reporter” who broke the angle to KQED.  No one had ever heard of the sport when I brought it up, I had found it in a press release that had been sent to the station, most of which end up in the recycling, but this one I scooped.  And it ended up getting air play.

Fairly cool.

Wow, that was a total digression from the topic at hand.

Or was it?

Our minds tend to wander a little when we’re high right?

Back to the post.

It did not help matters that it was glorious today.  Super sunny, warm, hot even, for San Francisco anyway.  I actually saw riders come into the store who had broken a sweat.  I haven’t broken a sweat on my bike in quite a few weeks.

Speaking of, I hope the entire Mission stays high tomorrow and sits at the park, it’s just me and the GM running the show.  We are short-staffed.

It could get interesting.

And with that realization, I should wrap this little guy up and start thinking about getting to bed.  I will be busy tomorrow.

But at lease I won’t be getting stoned online chat calls.

Seriously, it was liked getting prank called all day long.  I felt like I was on a Simpson’s episode with Bart calling into the shop and telling me to let Prince Albert out of the can.

Al Co Holic?  Are there any AL Coholics here?

Uh, yeah.

I see you there in the grass with your bong blazing right along.

Now, just stay there, ok?


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