I’m currently living in a small town but unlike many small towns, this one is 50 miles from New York City. This means that anyone between 18 and 40 lives here because they either got pregnant, don’t care about culture or adventure, or are too lazy and lame to want anything from life other than what they grew up with.
I’m currently living in a small town but unlike many small towns, this one is 50 miles from New York City. This means that anyone between 18 and 40 lives here because they either got pregnant, don’t care about culture or adventure, or are too lazy and lame to want anything from life other than what they grew up with. Of course I’m here, so I can’t be too harsh on them. But I have lived a great life so far in some amazing cities, and I’m just passing through, so they’re fucking lame.
The other night I got cabin fever, so I went to a local bar to get drunk. The bar was OK, albeit not really my scene: no graffiti or coke in the bathroom, a mobile DJ playing shitty top 40 remixes and talking on the mic, gangs of large-ish women in black stretch pants with Jennifer Anniston hair doing “buttery nipples” and “blow jobs.” I should have known I was in trouble.
I decided to drop my big-city expectations of what a fun Saturday night should be and just hang with these suburban norms. The conversations were mundane, but polite. Nobody was off-the-hook annoying, and the heifers at the bar were flirting it up with me because I told them that I was a writer who had just moved back east from San Francisco. As the evening wore on, everybody in there got plowed and fat girls started dancing on the bar, which is always fun. At last call, some sweaty bald guido in a vertically-striped millionaire shirt and gold chain asked the whole bar if they wanted to come back to his house to get stoned. Of course I said yes.
The guy and his girlfriend (who was a stripper-looking, hosebag in mall fashion) lived in the top half of a stupid suburban duplex two blocks away. Flat screen TV, sectional couch, trophies from high school and family photos on the bookshelf instead of books, three boxes of Franzia in the fridge … I had wandered into heaven for boring people. By the way, EVERYBODY at this apartment was AT LEAST 30. He fired up Scarface on the DVD player (“Dude, this is the best movie ever. Have you ever seen it?”) and broke out the vaporizer.
Now, being a first class party animal, I’m all too familiar with hardcore weed culture. I own some glass pieces and have a delivery service number or two, but this guy and his friends were off the deep end. Usually, going to someone’s house to get stoned is an excuse to continue getting fucked up and trying to fuck some drunk chicks, but these people were INTO it. The dude brought out three types of weed, and the people in the apartment looked at the buds one at a time, reverently, as though they were at a fucking museum. Then the guy explained to the whole room the etiquette of smoking weed (pass to the left, pack a hit and finish it, etc.). Then he reviewed what type of high each weed was claimed to possess according to the guy he got it from. I hadn’t heard shit like this since I was 16.
Then this albino dude with long red hair starts telling me he loves to eat when he’s high because he gets the “pot munchies” and asked if I had ever encountered this effect. This guy, again, was like 30 years old. Our gracious host then broke out a coffee-table book that had nothing but pictures of weed in it and started laying the buds next to the pictures and offered people the opportunity to snap some pics of the great weed they were about to smoke. I thought it was a silly joke, but these retards whipped out their phones and started POSING with the buds! I now realized that I had ended up with some of the lamest people I’d ever met … and we hadn’t even gotten high yet.
Finally, after I took a couple tokes and got the dude to give me a couple buds, I got up and wandered into the other room where dude’s girlfriend and her best friend were drinking beer and rolling their eyes at the “pot party” going on in the living room. She offered me a beer and a bump, so that was alright. As I took out my keys, she said I had to go do it in the bathroom because people would get freaked out about being around coke. These lame-asses who think good weed is the best thing in the world would get freaked out by another illegal drug? This was the last straw. I said OK, took her shitty blow to the can, dumped the whole bag into one line, snorted it up, and hit the door, pausing momentarily to thank her for the hospitality. She asked me where her bag was, and I said I thought she wanted me to finish it, so I did. She got all twisted up and I heard her yell “Asshole!” at the back of my head as I walked down the stairs.
On the front porch, there were THREE dudes puking in the bushes, and I heard one of their girlfriends say, “He always gets dizzy when he smokes weed.” Jesus. If you get dizzy EVERY time you smoke weed, maybe you shouldn’t smoke weed! As I got in the car to drive home, I decided to get the fuck back to the city ASAP.