Now that I think about it, it’s OK to be a stoner
If having a weekly deadline for this column has done anything for lil ol’ me, it has caused me to preserve and to look more closely at the thoughts that float through my head. I am a stoner and, apparently, a bit of a goofball; I offer the following group of thoughts for your investigation:
Did David Bowie invent the mullet?
How tall is tall?
What tax bracket did I used to be in?
Hey, that cop’s lights look like the French flag!
Who, exactly, drives around with anatomically realistic testicles hanging from their trailer hitch? (Just to up the ante, this particular pair was that shade of blue that seems not to actually exist in nature, but only appears on the uniforms of minor league sports teams.)
If I were a dog, I wonder what kind of dog I would be.
Where can I get soft serve before nine in the morning?
To clarify, these gems popped into my head first thing on a Tuesday morning, sober as a judge, and the only law breached involved the process of typing them into my phone. (There was, sadly, no ice cream had that day.)
When I was about 20 I was doing a pretty solid One Step Forward, Two Steps Back. I realized that attempting to influence my thoughts in a calmer, more peaceful direction could be a worthwhile long-term project, so I borrowed a book about meditation from my girlfriend’s father. The method described in this particular treatise involved repeatedly counting from one to four. One, two, three, four ... One, two, three, four ... The author advised gently recognizing thoughts as they’d occur and letting them pass. One, two, three, four ... I don’t know how much this helped me at the time, but it was a wonderful method to fall asleep, especially during bus rides home to see my girlfriend.
A couple decades down the line, having learned a thing or two about operating a brain that keeps a solid two-and-a-half-dozen tabs open at all times, I love that I have the option of ingesting a plant that will allow me to get to a familiar neighborhood of the mind. Some “high-lights” (You like that, huh?) from the past weekend of visiting friends home for the holidays:
1) One binger: “Alright, alright”; not quite Dave Wooderson, but I’m cool with the comparison.
2) A quarter of a joint (shared with two friends plus a dude who someone kind of knows): pattern recognition, hearing music, thinking it’s probably real music, swaying.
3) Live resin dab taken from Rooster’s lovely scissor hash: As Bizzle said, “Decide how long you wanna be talking to yourself too much” – my professional advice: start small.
4) Half a blunt (blunts seem to deliver the same high whether they’re filled with kind bud or the seediest, stemmiest brick; it’s like some miracle of physics): Huuuuuuuhhh??? Did you say something about Bill Nye and consciousness?
The common denominator between these altered states? I’m well within my mind. I can still do stuff. Have I delivered any babies recently? No, but I haven’t answered any calls from unknown numbers, either. The media and pop culture loves to portray stoners as unmotivated and underintelligent, but, lest we forget, our boy James Franco was busy attending Yale for postgraduate literature around the time he was filming “Pineapple Express.” That’s the face we should present to America – smart, sweet and maybe a little silly. Embrace the stoned this week, DGO, and thank me when we meet again.
Christopher Gallagher lives with his wife and their four dogs and two horses. Life is pretty darn good.