Russian Giant...

rocky! rocky! rocky!

I think that is actually tony duncan in a "giant russian" suit, like the ones you can get at the mall, just more realistic.

A sweet cannabian tale....

So here I am. Three am. Drinking some water and watching TV. Playing guitar during the commercials. (I am pretty certain that this new number I'm workin on is 'the one,' as it began just as the commercials began during carson daly's late night jaunt, and came to a victorious end just as the show kicked back in with its host. [The only, and I mean, practically only, reason I was watching that program at all was because it said in the description that Cheryl Hines would be the first guest of the evening. She was enjoyable as one would expect.] ) Beautiful young Elizabeth asleep in our bed.

I am getting high! That's the plan, as one would expect it to be, having returned home at 1:15am from a long and yet suprisingly smooth evening of workings. So I am drinking my water and doing my business. Now I know, like some or most of you, I occasionally attend to more paranoidish ideas when I am under the influence of marijuana. I definitely wouldn't say I get actually paranoid, but would rather claim "entertain" as the operative word in the previous sentence. In retrospect, I chose instead to go with 'attend to,' and yet, in truth, 'entertain' is more apt. Anyway, I'm kickin out the guitar jams, kickin back to the TV screen, just cold chillin before I shortly make my way to bed.

The TV is on somewhat loudly, but I swear I am hearing something else. Almost like a walkie-talkie, or a loud, muffled voice, coming from somewhere. I start to think, maybe the noise is from a cop car out front. You know how sometimes they use them speakers that sound like weird junk. So I go to my window and look out onto a quiet street. No lights, no action. But the noise seems somewhat more clear to me now. Where the fuck is that coming from?

I go back to the remote control and lower the volume completely. Now I know I hear something. It's aforementioned walkie-talkie voice, along with honest to goodness conversation between two male voices. I look out my other window but I don't see anything. So I go to the door, and peak out the guitar chord plug peephole. I pull out the chord softly, to see...

TWO POLICE OFFICERS. AT MY DOOR. AT THREE IN THE MORNING. HAVING A DISCUSSION.

Shit! I put the plug back in the hole, and I swear neither of them even noticed at all. I went back to my living room, now conveniently located more closely to the front door, and put the bong and the North Carolinean tobacco back in their hiding spots.

The I go and open the door. I'm all like "what's up, how you doing?" Two cops, prolly not much older than me, if even, all like confused already, and now taken aback. I'm lucky I didn't get a gun pulled on me. That would have been fucking awesome. But as it stood, they asked, in a really circuitous and confusing way, if I was the owner of the dog/s upstairs. Now I'll be honest, at the time I was prolly more than fairly stoned. So it may have been that in my highness I failed to comprehend their quick to the point cop talk, and instead only heard the sound of two guys who were pretty sure before I opened the door that they were in the wrong place, and were now soft pedaling around the question 'how the hell do we get upstairs?'

I returned the favor by replying in only the most circuitous and confuse-ed of ways. Not really, I just kinda did ramble for a minute. I felt bad selling out my neighbors like that. But really, you know I ain't the one that called and complained, even though I'm the one who gets the worst of it. If I knew who was complaining, I would be all like "you need to get the fuck over it and NOT get the authorities involved. It's not even that loud."

I shoulda said that to the cops. I shoulda been all like "I don't know who's complaining, but I live right underneath those two pit-bulls, and if they wanna fight at 3am, that is their business, and it is by no means my or anybody else's duty, responsibility, or privilege to put a stop to their natural urges. I mean, Christ, trust me, it is really not that loud. You should just let those people sleep, as they have finally gotten the dogs to lie down. Go in peace, officers. Go in peace."


But like I said, I was pretty effing stoned.


Post Script: In this new pre:We all knew it was coming, and post:yesteday world we apparently now live in, it really doesn't matter if I write about smoking. After all, everything you could possibly want to know about me (and all of us) is available through numerous channels. My cell phone histories, my emails, my credit information, the conversation I had with Bobby on the phone the other day, the conversation we had in 2000 on the Madison rooftop. Et. Al.

So if, and when, I run for president [2020bd] I apologize, like Al Gore, well in advance, for having ever smoked a whole bunch of marijuana. Unlike our current president, I can now boast that I have seen, actually seen, cocaine, for the first time. Just this week at my place of work, Ray found an empty baggie of cocaine on the bathroom floor. You could tell it was cocaine because it was a lil nickle bag, but instead of being filled or emptied with juicy chronic, it was all white and powdery and junk. I thought about trying it, since it was right there in front of me. I've never done coke on account of the fact that I am absolutely convinced it would give me a heart attack the first time I do it. But here it was, in as an innocous form as ever. Alone in my office, with a bag I would have to lick clean to be able to even possibly get anything out of. So the high wouldn't be too intense, and I would be significantly less likely to die of a heart attack upon using it.

Wait a minute. Did you say "would have to lick clean"? Did you also say before that "found on the bathroom floor."? Now I know this "bathroom area" I speak of. It is less a bathroom than an area where quiet recently a swell of nasty ass waters congregated, upon the clogging of the main drainage pipe with "tampons and grease." Were I a worker for the Roto Rooter, I would spice things up a bit, and tell the customer it was clogged "with tampons and bloody grease." But hey, ever guy's got his own art.

So I didn't lick the bag. Having spent a good deal of time in the midst of the sludge, wet vaccing like 50 gallons of it, I couldn't bring myself to lick up on something that may have been through the 'flood.' I threw it out, like a good boy. Who needs that crap anyway. George...? Officer...?