the don't-gotta-bong blues or journal 11/15/04

Allright, so I'm hanging around reading this poetry for school: Ben
Johnson's "Inviting a Friend for Supper" which is witty, simple, wise,
and pleasant but for me, simply lacking any fire or thrill. So I decide
to get up and smoke pot with my friend Emerick, who should be closing
the coffeeshop where he works. So, I get in there and it's crowded so I
can't ask for espresso for smoking him out. No big deal; I sit down and
start reading Vanity Fair, some article about Jonny Cash and this
wonderkind producer who made him hot again in the 90s. Supposedly this
producer, who has long hair and a wild beard, is into all kinds of
beatnik/religious exploration but has never tried drugs. That's either
a very wise man or, more probably, a fool. Drugs are such an easy way
to an elevated consciousness, you better have something really cool
going if you disdain them. I could read ten books and not get the
wisdom and serenity I get from a single bong hit and that's not even
talking about psychedelics. Anyway, this group of customers is talking
loudly, particularly this tall, homeless guy with red hair. So
basically, I hang out for a hour and a half, reading UTNE Reader(the
last wild tiger is supposed to die in the next twenty years, five if we
get Rumsfeld for our next President) and then talking with these morons
Emerick has there for like an hour past closing time. We're talking
outside about religion, society, etc. except that I'm not talking much
because I don't like to converse with fools. And then this neighbor who
was bothered by the red-head's loud and vexacious voice, comes out and
says something to the effect of: "I've found the best rule is that you
don't talk about religion or politics." Great, a less obvious idiot.
And all I really wanted was to walk home with Emerick, use his bong,
and get back to my reading; Emerick's usually happy to get the
smoke-out. I keep hanging cause I walked there and I figure he'll close
like he's supposed to any minute now. But he doesn't; he just argues
with these nuts. Emerick, a thirty + drinker and druggie from France,
attracts nuts because he tolerates them. He tolerates my eccentricities
but doesn't seem to realize that I'm not a nut. So he ends up by saying
he's going to close and disappearing into the shop, where he cranks up
this heavy metal. Now, I'm standing out in the cold feeling as insulted
as hell and not wanting to go home without using Emerick's bong(I find
a bong is generally the only worthwhile way to smoke pot; it gets you
past the lethargic phase to the inspired phase.) And I see the neighbor
come out and get on this pay-phone and I'll bet anything he was calling
the cops about Emerick's music. So I walked home, just a few blocks.
For a moment I felt lazy and thought I'd read old Ben and then go to
sleep but then I realized that the only way to make this experience
nominally worthwhile would be to write it down. So tommorow morning,
I'm going to sell my accoustic guitar and buy a small bong so I don't
have to deal with Emerick and his pet nuts. There will still be plenty
of barbaric and uncouth people in my life(yesterday, at this drug
house, these kid pot-dealers were having a sword fight, for fun, with
real swords.) Liking my beautiful, God given body, I slipped out the
back without buying anything. And I'm forced to deal with all this
nonsense because geniuses like Bush keep pot illegal because it makes
people stupid. Anyway, I've written a song: "All the stupid people,
where do they all come from? All the idiotic people, where do they all
belong? Elmer Fuddinsky sits in the white house..." All right, I gotta
get back to my homework.