come get me, coppers

Recollections of the Fest

2006-04-07T16:50:00.000-07:00

I went to the Solstice Festival last year with a group of friends. As a matter of fact, it was almost exactly a year ago -- May, I think. It was actually the first time I had travelled to Danville to attend the festival since I had taken leave of the city the in preceeding year. Don't ask me why. As glad as I was to be rid of that hippie town, I was strangely drawn towards it, and of all weekends to visit, I picked the weekend when Danville would be more packed with hippies than any other. The weekend of the hippies. The weekdend of the Solstice Festival.

There's one thing that the hippies and I have in common (aside from hating that son-of-a-bitch president), and if you haven't guessed it yet, it's drugs. Namely, that particular variety given to us by mother nature herself: marijuana. That's right man. Aside from color and creed, we can all agree on weed (I came up with that shit myself). And though while at the festival I love trying the variety of ethic foods and perusing through the outrageously expensive earthen-wares, on that day we went to Danville for one reason, and one reason only. And that was, to get high.

We did the tourist thing. We ate. We shopped. And the daytime activities were great, but as they say, the freaks come out at night. And so there we were.

Our first destination: The Community Gardens. A bit of a niche hang-out, but definitely the place to be during the Festival, conveniently located within walking distance from the main festival grounds, where the drum circles, mass orgies, and other earthly delights take place. As for these Community Gardens, any place for "community" is also a place for weed. And that's a fucking fact. Yin, yang. Night, Day. Community, weed. Weed, community. And to top it all off, this was the Community "Gardens". You don't have to tell me twice. So that's where we went.

Impatient as we were, and hesitant to share our stash with the more unfortunate sober hippies, we got a head start on our toking in the parking lot. Along our quarter-mile walk to the gardens from the parking lot, we must have stopped half a dozen times to hit the pipe, seeking out dark corners between buildings or hiding behind bushes to avoid the public eye. Now as experienced as I am with the administering of narcotics, I have to admit I'm a bit of a lightweight. So before we even arrived at the Gardens, I was pretty toasted. The rest of the night was a blur, but I'll try to reconstruct from memory what I can.

At the gardens there was a stage set up with some no-name reggae band playing, who were decent. A few of the other buildings had other themes going, one with colored lights and techno music, one playing rock. We met up with my buddy Kenneth and a few of his friends. They had a bong, and that really put us over the edge. I'd like to elaborate more on what happened at the Gardens, but honestly, I just don't remember the rest. I do remember this one random dude following us around for a while, trying to get a few free hits, but we must have lost him eventually.

My clearest memory is being at the store, and you'll see why. Don't ask me how we got there, but I guess somebody had driven while all fucked up. And I have no clue what we could have been buying -- we were all way too high to be interested in drinking. But there I was, waiting in line with Vincent and Charlene, while Dave stayed in the car. Now I've been to the store high plenty of times, but if there's one thought I can never seem to get out of my head, it's "do these guys know I'm high?" Yup, every time that question comes up. Come on, you know you think abf that shit too. It's a trip being around a bunch of sober people while you're stoned our of your fucking mind. So there I was, quietly waiting in line, while internally my thoughts were racing, thinking up a bunch of crazy shit, praying that I wouldn't suddenly blurt them out for all to hear. Now Vincent, he's a vet when it comes to the drugs, but Charlene, she's a lightweight -- even more so than I. I wouldn't go as to far as to say she was having a bad trip, she was definitely tripping, as we were about to find out.

A customer just in front, Vincent, me, then Charlene. A guy gets in line behind us with a large case of beer. It must have been an 18-pack. He sets it on the conveyor belt, just behind our items. So far, so good. Suddenly, Charlene picks up the case of beer, and tosses it at the guys feet, and then looks at him with disguest.

What the fuck...? Vincent, did you see that shit too? Why did she do that? What did I miss? I soon relized that I indeed had not missed anything. Vincent was just as confused as I by Charlene's bold, yet irrational behavior. As was the checker. As was the customer in front of us. As was the man with the case of beer. The world froze. The next few seconds, an eternity. All present, unsure of how to react -- what to say, if to say -- what to do, if to do. The customer in front, stopped from going through his wallet to find his money. The checker, stopped from his checking. We looked at the man with the case of beer, his face blank with confusion. They looked back at us, searching for an explanation, some logic to clear the confusion, an approval to let time continue. Everyone, looking at everyone for answers, avoiding everyone due to embarassment. I was fucking high, and I wanted to run and hide.

Two, three seconds. Twenty, thirty? Who knows. Eventually the checker resumed his checking, the customer in front paid, but the silence ensued. Not a word said, by me, nor any of the others, stranger or not, until in the safety of our car... until in the safety of our own fucked up thoughts. "I thought he was cutting in front of the old man," Charlene quiety tried to justify. Oddly enough, neither Vincent nor I could recall seeing an old man.

No more smoking for that girl.

The Night Crew

2006-04-05T17:51:00.000-07:00

I was at the store the other night. You know, a late night run. That's usually how I do it, considering the fact that I slave away at a desk all day, and don't get to smoke or drink until the evening -- and you know how I like to go to the store all fucked up. So I'm doin' my grocery run, and I decide to get some dates. Now I buy a pack of dates every now and then, and I like to buy them in bulk, if I can find them. They seem a little fresher that way. But these modern grocery stores don't sell much in bulk these days. As if it's gotta be vacuum-packed with a flashy label to be legitimate food. If you had told me ten years ago that I'd be buying fruits and vegetables in vacuum-packed cellophane wrappers, I'd have probably told you to shut the fuck up. But here we are, in 2006. And this store, being in the middle of suburbia hell, in a Spanish-style tiled-roof piece-of-shit shopping center, is by all means, what I would call "modern". So I settled for the plastic packaged dates.

I get to the checkout line. As you may know, late in the night there's only one line open, and it's usually un-manned, with some dude from the night crew stocking shelves nearby to ring up customers in the rare occurrence that one comes through. And you gotta give them their time getting to the register. If there's one thing I've learned in all my bouts of late-night shopping, it's don't fuck with the night crew. Because, frankly, they don't give a fuck. Sure they make an extra buck or so on their hourly wage for working a shift while the rest of humanity is fast asleep, but lets face it, they hate their jobs, and you have to admit, you can't say you blame them. But tonight... tonight, there was a decently nice woman commanding the register. She walked up, or I should say waddled up behind the counter, for she was a fairly large woman. So she's scanning through my groceries, and comes to the pack of dates, and asks "Whoa, what are these?". You've got to be kidding me. She had never seen a date before (and judging by her looks, probably never had one either - hah). So, I explained to her their relevance in the plant kingdom. "Are they good?", she asks. Yes, I replied, and proceeded to break open the cellophane wrapper to give her a taste. "Wow, these are good! And they're good for you too, right?" I considered giving her the straight answer, that yeah they're not the twinkies you're used to, but not exactly a vegetable medley either, consisting mostly of sugars with minimal nutritional value. Then I took another look at her 300-pound-ass, and replied, "Yeah, very good for you."

And by her standards, I'm sure they are.

Good Times, High Times

2006-03-26T17:28:00.000-08:00

Alright, alright, so I drove "slightly intoxicated" again. So what? It happens. Anyway, I'm almost home, and my car starts chugging on me. I didn't even notice at first, but when I down-shifted, I didn't feel the same "pep" that usually accompanies the acceleration. All of a sudden, my car shuts off. That's it. It just dies. That's what happens when you drink, man - you forget about the little things, you know, like gas. Luckily, and I do mean luckily, I was able to use the last few ounces of momentum to roll myself into the shopping center off to the right, where there happened to be, of all fucking things, a gas station. However, I wasn't quite to the pump, yet. Having a fairly light car, I gave it a go at pushing it to the nearest pump. It was slow going, but I got it rolling. Just as I roll up to the pump, some random dude at a pay phone offers to help me out. Thanks dude. The gesture is appreciated, but you're about 10 minutes and 200 calories too late. As I'm filling up, this guy gets back on the pay phone, and makes a few futile attempts to reach someone. He looks up at me a few times between calls, and I knew it right then - this guys gonna ask me for a ride. I could see it in his eyes. Sure enough, he walks up to me and says "Hey man, do you know where the Marriot on Ashton St. is?". A Marriot on little ol' residential Aston St.? I told him he must be mistaken. "Yeah, it's not supposed to be too far from here," he says. And then he springs it on me. "Hey would it be cool if..." - Don't even say it man. Alright, I'll give you a fucking ride. Pending on my car starting, that is. He doesn't look like the serial killer type, at least. Then again, I guess they never do. Oh well. "You're not a cop, are you?" he asks. Yeah, dude, I drive a piece-of-shit foreign car and ran out of gas conveniently right in front of you at 3-fucking-AM as part of my elaborate sting operation. But I guess it's good to ask for legal reasons. "No, I'm not a fucking cop." The tank fills, and the car starts. "Hop in."

"Do you smoke bud?", he asks. "Uh, yeah, but sorry dude, I don't have any on me." "Oh no, I have some. But, you're not a cop, are you?" I swear I thought we had just covered this, but I replied with a patient "no". And anyway, if I were, I've obviously already decided to risk the entrapment charges. "Aw fuck, you got me man. How'd you figure me out? That's it - my entire operation is ruined. Oh well, let me give you a ride to your hotel anyway." He didn't really come off as the brightest guy, but nice enough, so far. He offered to smoke me out on the way, and I gladly accepted. We proceeded on our way, and he rolls up his blunt. After he "thought he saw a cop" about 5 times on our 2 mile trip, I started to get the idea that this guy was maybe a little paranoid. He starts telling me all about this girl he's gonna meet at the hotel, and how she's gonna hook him up with a job and whatnot. He swears he's not with her though. Sure dude. You're gonna meet up with some girl at a hotel at 3-fucking-AM, about getting some job? Whatever, man. A blow job, maybe, I thought.

Sure enough, there's a goddamn Marriot on Aston. I admit, I'm surprised. I pull up, and after he's convinced no cops are watching, we light up. Five minutes later we go our separate ways. I drove home drunk AND high. Good times.

What the fuck

2006-03-09T14:50:00.000-08:00

Is this shit...