One New Year's Eve

A couple of minor incidents from around 1977 or 1978 have popped into my mind because of the holidays.

I had just moved to Revere, Massachusetts and spent a small fortune completely furnishing an apartment. Dee Dee and I were on the outs and I had no plans for New Year's Eve, so I decided to host a small family gathering.

Brother Billy was in the Navy and had returned to duty after Christmas, so the party consisted of my father and Carla, sister Kat and husband Peter, brother Ryan and wife Denise, and yours truly with Liz, a WAVE from the Portsmouth (NH) Navy Yard.

Everyone there smoked grass occasionally, so along with a fully stocked bar we were in the midst of a ton of snacks and a bag of grass, with rolling papers, a pipe, and a bong.

We had several hours of sitting around chatting, listening to music, having drinks, and having the occasional toke.

As midnight approached, someone suggested that we watch the Times Square ball being dropped and that *everyone* had to be stoned for that.

I turned the TV on and found the program, turned out the lights and lit some candles, and we passed the grass around. I had turned my father on the year before. To his dying day he insisted that marijuana had no effect on him. He probably believed it, but no one who had seen him smoke believed it. This night he agreed to try again, "Just to be sociable. It really doesn't do anything for me." Soon, however, he got his tang all tongueled up and was backing talkwards.

As the countdown at Times Square began, I ostentatiously looked at my watch and said "Now let's see if they're right."

Post-midnight everyone had the munchies again. WAVE Liz had baked and brought some oatmeal butterscotch cookies, and at some point brother Ryan bit into one.

Ryan: "Who made these?"

Liz: "I did. They're oatmeal butterscotch. Aren't they good?"

Ryan: "Gosh. Things with butterscotch sure are hard, aren't they?"

And Liz threw one at him.

*****
The "let's see if they're right" line above is one of the approaches I sometimes use to tease people, and I am reminded now that it is possible to overdo that.

Somewhere around that time my Assistant at work, David, and I went to Jacksonville, Florida on business. We stayed at the Hilton and met for breakfast. There were sugar shakers on the table and when coffee arrived I poured some sugar into mine. Setting the shaker down I said "Exactly two teaspoons."

David went berserk. "You don't know that! "You can't possibly know that that was exactly two teaspoons!"

Donnie: "David, I know that I can't be that precise. And I know that you know it. Why are you so upset that I said that?"

David: "It's not that you said that. It's the cumulative effect of all the things you have said before."

Airports, Hotels, and Grass

• One Friday night Jeff and I took an unplanned trip to Las Vegas. I took a dugout with some grass, leaving the pipe behind so I didn't have to worry about metal detectors. We would get some rolling papers in Las Vegas.
  
  In the event they were not difficult to locate and we were soon good to go. As mentioned earlier, I couldn't roll a joint to save my life, but Jeff could, so he carried and used the papers throughout the weekend.
  
  We had an enjoyable weekend, and Sunday afternoon, after getting stoned one last time, we headed for the airport. Just as we were about to enter the terminal, Jeff said "Oh, shit. Wait a minute." He walked over to a sidewalk trash container, reached into a pocket, and threw something away.
  
  "What was that?"
  
  "The papers."
  
  I guess we were supposed to be perfectly content to carry the illegal marijuana through security and back to Chicago, but were to take no chances with the legal rolling papers.
  
  
• In the mid-1970's I had to make a business trip from Boston to somewhere, Jacksonville, I think. Airport security in the US was a much more casual matter then, and it was my habit to carry a baggie with small amount of marijuana in my briefcase, along with a small stone pipe.
  
  Packing for this particular trip must have been done in a daydream. At the security checkpoint I put my briefcase on the conveyor belt, dumped my metallic objects into a small basket, and walked through. On the other side, a young woman approached me and asked if I would mind if she opened my briefcase. Some metallic object had caught her eye during the scan and she wanted to know what it was.
  
  I gave the go ahead, and right there on top of everything else was the bag of marijuana. She sifted through the briefcase's contents and found whatever she was looking for, looked up at me, and in a positively frigid voice said "Thank you."
  
  I just smiled in return and as I began to close the briefcase she dashed over to a middle aged, potbellied, gun carrying security guard. I couldn't hear what she said, but I saw him shake his head and say "No." Her voice rose and I heard her say "But I saw it." He shook his head more emphatically and walked away from her and I got my feet going too, heading for the gate before anyone changed his mind.
  
  At a guess, airports and airlines wanted no ill will between themselves and the casual user. Presumably, anyone stupid enough to put a bag of grass on top of his briefcase contents was understood not to be a veteran dealer.
  
  
• A planning associate, Ginny, and I sometimes had to make business trips together. It was our habit to fly out on Sunday afternoon and have dinner together that night.
  
  On one trip to Chicago, she informed me after we were airborne that she had just finished a huge meal cooked by her boyfriend's mother and really didn't have much desire to go out to dinner. *Eye*, on the other hand, had eaten very lightly in anticipation of the forthcoming dinner. Somewhat disingenuously, I told her not to worry about it.
  
  We checked in at the Ritz-Carlton (a major convention or two had booked all the rooms at other hotels. Life was tough.). I walked her to her door, entered with her, pulled out the grass, got her to roll a joint, and we got stoned. A few minutes later dinner seemed like a good idea to her.
  
  I went to my room and unpacked, went back and collected her, and off to dinner we went. When we got back to the hotel I walked her to her door and then headed for mine. I had just closed the door behind me when the phone rang.
  
  "Donnie, come quick. Come over here. You have to see this."
  
  I went back to her room and she led me over to the table with the ashtray. She had left the roach in the ashtray and while we were at dinner a maid had entered the room cleaned the ashtray, and put the roach right back into it.
  
  As with the airport incident, the Ritz-Carlton was not going to bust a customer for the unfinished half of a joint.

OK, everyone, This is the 128th post and I regret having to tell you that that's all there is for the moment. I'm sure that as time passes memories will pop into my head and I'll post them, but I'm out of material for Sunday and Wednesday posts.

I thank all of you who have followed the blog, and would like to remind anyone who might be interested that instead of having to check here for new entries you can use one of the "subscribe" links at the bottom of this page.

Thoughts About Marijuana

• Marijuana Is Not Addictive
  
  
  • How many times have you read about someone breaking into a house to steal marijuana money? Pulling a knife or a gun on someone to steal marijuana money? None, right?
    
  • If you smoke it and you know others who do, then you know people who have quit. Sometimes they've just lost interest. Sometimes they have had to quit because of employment - random testing, etc. How many of them had any problem quitting? None, right?
    
  • How many times have you run out of grass and been unable to get any for a while? We've all had it happen. How many times did it make you think about doing anything drastic? None, right?
    
  • How many people do you know who had trouble sleeping because they had run out of pot? None, right?
    
  • How many people do you know who have shown physical symptoms of marijuana withdrawal, such as weight loss or weight gain, runny nose, hyperactivity or lethargy? None, right?
    
  • How many people do you know who have suffered from a lack of self-esteem due to smoking or not smoking grass? None, right?
  
  Then by what definition is marijuana addictive?
  
  
• But there are reasons people shouldn't smoke marijuana. Kids shouldn't smoke it for obvious physical reasons. And smoking anything isn't good for your lungs.
  
  And there are behaviors that should not be indulged in when stoned, such as baby sitting or driving. My brother Billy says that "Alcohol makes you run red lights. Marijuana makes you stop at green lights." That's clever, funny, and true, but . . . stopping at green lights can be dangerous.
  
  And for that matter, trying to stay stopped at red lights. When I was younger and more stupid, I used to drive after smoking a little grass. I remember driving stoned in Boston once, around midnight, and stopping at a red light. On the right hand corner across the street there was a neon display that alternated between time and temperature. It changed from one to the other and I proceeded to drive right through the red light. Fortunately, I was the only driver in the area, but with a little less luck I could have been T-boned.
  
  
• Credibility Gap
  
  The subject of marijuana is one that teaches children that their government, their schools, and adults in general will lie to them to get their way. Most kids know someone who smokes marijuana. It might be friends, older siblings, adult relatives, or anyone. And they know, absolutely, that they are being lied to about all the hobgoblins they are told accompany marijuana use. Why, then, should they trust these people on other matters?
  
  The government in general and politicians in particular annoy me on this matter. Many of them know better, but will pretend that marijuana is addictive and is dangerous in ways that it is not. Two Presidents, Nixon and Bush the Elder, created apolitical commissions to look into and make recommendations about the subject. These groups comprised politicians and non-politicians, Democrats and Republicans, active and retired people. Both commissions recommended decriminilization and both Presidents buried the recommendations. They were afraid of what would happen to them in the polls and they just didn't have the  balls  courage to do the right thing.
  
  
• Ramblings
  
  
  • Two friends drove from Cape Cod to Boston on a Sunday night. It was after midnight and they were about ten minutes from the city proper when they spotted an open Howard Johnson's restaurant. They had begun the drive after smoking some grass, they still had the munchies, and they had run out of snacks, so they decided to stop and eat. As they entered the parking lot it began to resemble a law enforcement convention. There were a half dozen cars there bearing the markings of city police or state police.
    
    But these were desperate times and they resolved to go through with it. Promising each other that they would act "normally," they entered and sat at a booth. After looking at their menus, they both ordered steak and eggs and a hot fudge sundae.
    
    
  • A friend, an Assistant Vice-President in a large corporation, was driving from Boston to Manchester, New Hampshire on a Sunday afternoon. He was a little stoned, alone in the car, and virtually alone on the road. He was doing about ten miles per hour more than the speed limit when he saw a state trooper coming from the other direction. He slowed down and they passed each other, and he was dismayed to see the trooper slow down and cross the median, reversing direction.
    
    He thought Might as well get it over with and pulled over to the side of the road and waited for the trooper. A few minutes later the trooper pulled in behind him, walked up to the window, and said, "Excuse me, sir. Would you mind telling me why you're stopped here?"
    
    
  • Perhaps a dozen of us, guys and gals, had gathered at a friend's house to watch a heavyweight championship fight, or to watch those who were watching it. Pretty much everyone had smoked some grass, and one guy, Bobby, had grabbed a Trivial Pursuit game and was thumbing through the cards, asking the group at large questions he thought interesting or difficult.
    
    I disappeared into the bathroom for a couple of minutes and when I returned everyone was looking at me. Bobby looked at the card and asked me a question about the Watergate burglars. My answer was "G. Gordon Liddy," and Bobby turned to the others and said triumphantly, "See? I told you he'd know. J. Lordon Gibby."

Debbie - Part IV

Settling In

So here we are, a month and a half after the "weekend visit," living together. We arrived with Debbie's car loaded to the roof with her clothing and other things.

The house was a raised ranch and had an attic with a drop-down ladder, and three bedrooms, one in use as a guest room and one as a combination library and computer room. As we unloaded her car I told her "Put anything anywhere you like. Move things out of closets or into different closets, whatever makes the most sense to you. Just tell me what you've done so I'll have a shot at finding things."

I did get to keep nearly half the master bedroom closet, which was perhaps more than fair, given the quantity of clothing each of us owned.

Several times during the first couple of weeks she asked "Is it OK if I . . . " and I told her it was the same deal. It was her home and she could rearrange anything at all. I had boxes and bags full of things that had not been opened for a couple of years and told her she could poke around in those, examine anything she chose to. She did, and from time to time I would hear "I didn't know about this" and "Tell me about this."

One of Debbie's practices in life was to stay on top of *everything* regarding neatness, organization, and cleanliness in the home. Cigarette in the ashtray? Time to empty it. Chair a quarter of an inch away from its station? Fix that now. My own tendency, to borrow the concept from the comedienne Rita Rudner, was to live like "a bear with furniture." But this caused no tension between us. I had a job and for the first few weeks she stayed home. She did decide to get a job when she got bored, but even then I had a maid coming in periodically, a substantial housekeeping relief.

The first few times I lit up, I offered her marijuana, but she declined. She had only smoked it once and had not enjoyed it. She told me about the experience and I suggested to her that she had smoked way too much for the first time and if she ever tried it again she should just do a little. Eventually she smoked it with me and we found we had a common trait - one little hit and we were gone. After that she would smoke with me perhaps half the time.

Incidents from the first few months of living together:

• We sometimes took walks around the neighborhood in the early evening. On one such occasion we passed a tree that had good solid limbs beginning perhaps two feet above the ground. I pointed to it and said "That's a good climbing tree." A moment later, perhaps wishing to continue that happy line, she pointed to a tree and said "That's a good climbing tree too."
  
  Now that tree's lowest limb of any consequence was perhaps five and a half feet above the ground. I laughed and said, "No it isn't." "It is too." "Well, let's see you climb it then."
  
  She was perhaps five foot two, max, and she jumped up to get a grip. She swung her feet up and was now hanging there upside down, ankles crossed above the limb. She took a moment - I don't know, perhaps to ponder her next move - and I began laughing so hard it was difficult to keep standing. In that position she looked exactly like a sloth, bedded down for the night.
  
  Eventually . . . "Get me down, you fool."
  
  She'd been wearing shorts, sneakers, and a short-sleeved blouse, and carried the scrapes and bruises from that little experiment for the next week or so.
  
  
• Debbie never minded telling stories on herself. One spring evening I arrived home and she told me about her curiosity regarding the rotating sprinkler at the end of the hose. What, exactly, powered it?
  
  She decided to pick it up and hold it at eye level, then turn the water on but with very low power. She did, then watched it for a few seconds before experiencing the splash! splash! splash!
  
  
• Before we picked up her car and brought it back, she would drive me to work, keep my car all day, and pick me up at night.
  
  During one of her very early excursions on her own, she couldn't remember exactly where we lived. She eventually found the street, then drove up and down it, trying the garage door opener on likely candidates, oblivious to the fact that the address was on the registration in the glove box. It worked eventually, though.

What to Say, When to Say It

• Perhaps a decade ago, I watched a TV episode of Cops. One of the incidents shown involved a young man who had a small amount of marijuana in his car. I don't recall what had caused a police officer to pull the young man over. In fact, it's been a long time and I can't give you all the details, only the flavor of the incident.
  
  Having found the marijuana, the officer asked the driver why he had it, and the response was that it was for personal use.
  
  The officer said something about "cops get killed" over marijuana related crimes, and the driver said, "I'm not into that."
  
  The officer persisted, saying that the driver was part of the chain that caused cops to get killed.
  
  The driver said something humble, the officer sprinkled the grass onto the ground, and sent the driver on his way.
  
  It occurred to me at the time that the "correct" response for the driver might have been something along the line of "Then they're getting killed for enforcing a bad law. Cops got killed enforcing prohibition, another bad law."
  
  For some reason this stayed with me, and a couple of days later I realized that if I'd been the driver, then even if my approach had "won" the argument, the marijuana and I probably would have gone to jail.
  
  Casting about for a third alternative, something between victory and defeat, I arrived at "I'd love to discuss this with you when you're off duty, but I think that in these circumstances I can only lose."
  
  Nope. Jail time again, I think. Even if I'm smarter than the driver, he was wiser than I would have been.
  
  
  
  
• A dozen or so years ago I had my gall bladder removed. I went through what I imagine to be the usual drill - seeing the Admissions Nurse the evening before, getting instructions from her, filling out a questionnaire, etc.
  
  The latter should have been for a security clearance, so comprehensive was the list of questions. Included in the "Are You a Druggie?" section was an inquiry as to whether I currently smoked marijuana. I hesitated only a moment and decided that the last person on earth I wanted to deceive was the surgeon who was going to be poking around inside me on the morrow, and affirmed that indeed I was a marijuana smoker. After all, medical records are confidential, right?
  
  I returned the questionnaire to the nurse, who scanned it in microseconds. She weighed me and made an entry, took my blood pressure (Isn't sphygmomanometer a great word? And it represents pretty much all that I retain from high school physiology.) and made an entry, and had me sit down again. She told me where and what time to report in the morning, advised me to get as much sleep as possible, absolutely forbade the consumption of any liquids after midnight, and concluded with "And no marijuana!"
  
  A couple of weeks later I played back the above scene for brother Billy, who thought for a minute and said, "Yes, medical records are supposed to be confidential, but I think you'd have been better off answering 'no' on the questionnaire and then telling the surgeon about it in the morning. "
  
  And I think he was correct. Today I am long past caring about who knows that I still smoke grass, but in principle his would have been the better approach.

Sam Conure, R.I.P.

Sam was a conure, about ten years old, owned by my friend Bobby.

When Bobby draws from a bong, he draws deeply, which usually results in a minute long fit of squeaks and sputters as he tries, sometimes unsuccessfully, to avoid coughing.

From long experience, Sam knew what was coming the minute he saw Bobby reach for the bong, and he would begin imitating Bobby's squeaks, sputters, and coughs. This was usually rewarded by the single finger salute from Bobby, along with a two syllable curse, the second syllable sounding like "q."

A few years ago, Bobby got home from work to find Sam sitting in the bottom of his cage, which was a little unusual as the cage door had been left open for him and his wings weren't clipped.

Getting Sam to hop up on his finger, Bobby set him on his perch in the cage. Sam teetered a little and then - flop! - back to the bottom of the cage. Bobby took him out and examined him, then set him back on the bottom of the cage. Before long Sam had leaned forward and was supporting himself with his two feet and his beak.

Somewhat alarmed, Bobby took him to a veterinarian. The vet examined Sam but could find nothing wrong. He told Bobby he'd never seen anything like it, to take Sam home, and if he wasn't better to bring him back in the morning.

Bobby took him home, set him in the cage (three point stance again), and kept an eye on him for the rest of the evening. On waking in the morning, Bobby found that Sam was back to normal.

Several nights later, Bobby grabbed a little grass for the bong, sat down, and began to smoke it. The usual series of imitative sounds from Sam ensued, followed by the usual salute and epithet. And then, and then . . . Bobby watched as Sam flew down to the baggie on the table and began eating the marijuana buds!

Obviously, the bird had gotten himself stoned, causing the crisis of several days before. Equally obviously, he liked it and was doing it again. Bobby acquired the habit of putting the baggie in a drawer where the bird couldn't get to it.

But there's a sequel. Bobby sometimes gave Sam a small twig from the bag, and Sam diligently chewed it up, getting a little stoned in the process. And when I visited and Bobby and I got pizza, a stoned Sam would eat it with us - and no, not just the crust, but the cheese and sausage as well. Soon after that Bobby would put Sam in his cage and Sam would be out for the night.

Me and Cassie At a Ball

• About 20 years ago, a married couple, Jeff and Cassie, both worked at a small junk mail company at which I also worked. One week Jeff was absent from mid-week on. That Friday night Cassie showed up at the local watering hole, sans Jeff.
  
  "Hi, Cass. Where's Jeff?"
  
  "He's still got the flu. And he's really a PITA. 'Cassieeeeee, will you bring me a glass of water? Cassieeeeee, will you go get me a hot fudge sundae?'"
  
  Flash forward to the following Friday. Among the early arrivals at the bar we see Jeff, but not Cassie. Jeff and I sit at a tall round table with our drinks, and I cannot resist: "Cassieeeeee, will you bring me a glass of water? Cassieeeeee, will you go get me a hot fudge sundae?"
  
  Jeff grins and says, "Bitch told you that, huh?"
  
  
• Several years prior to that, the company for which we worked had been smaller and in a different location. There our most frequented bar was at a Chinese restaurant.
  
  Jeff worked nights and at that time I was an independent consultant, arranging my time as I wished. Jeff would show up to collect me at around two o'clock every Friday, and we would go "warm up the bar" for our colleagues who would begin to trickle in around five o'clock.
  
  Virtually the entire work force smoked marijuana and it was typical for us to leave drinks on the bar or on a table and tell the bartender that we were going out to "listen to the new speakers" in someone's car. Jeff and I would do this a couple times on a Friday afternoon while having two or three drinks and waiting for the others to arrive.
  
  One afternoon we were sipping our first drink, and I told Jeff I had a new music cassette and I wanted him to listen to one piece from it. "OK, Donnie. What is it?"
  
  "I don't want to tell you."
  
  "It's OK. Whatever it is I'll listen to it."
  
  "It's Chopin's Grande Valse Brilliante, my favorite light classical piece."
  
  "Aw fuck."
  
  "You never know, you might like it."
  
  On finishing our first round we decided to go to the car and smoke a little grass. When we were finished I asked, "Ready?"
  
  "Yeah, OK, but I'm not gonna like it."
  
  I turned it on, sat back, and closed my eyes. About 30 seconds into it I snuck a look at Jeff and his expression had changed from one of resignation to one of interest. A moment later he chuckled. I asked him, "What?" and he waved me off.
  
  When the piece finished he said, "I like it, Donnie."
  
  "Good. So what was that chuckle about?"
  
  He laughed. "Well, I was picturing me and Cassie at a ball, all dressed up. I had a ruffled shirt and pants tucked into tall boots, and she was wearing a very low cut gown that went all the way to the floor, and she was covering her breasts with a fan. At that point where I laughed, she cleaved me."

First Joint

I grew up in New England, for the most part New Hampshire during grammar school and Massachusetts during junior high and high school. The illegal use of drugs was frowned upon much more sternly than today, and in my parents' circles people who used drugs of any kind were referred to as "dope fiends." I suspect that they actually knew very little about the subject, and as teenagers my friends and I knew even less.

I didn't know of - and still don't know of - any drug use by my friends during my high school years and my years in the Army. Since I already knew everything anyway, I dropped out of high school at 17 and joined the Army. I spent nearly ten years there, but finally tired of it and got out. Honorably, I might add, and as a staff sergeant (E-6 for those of you from other services).

I imagine that some military friends and acquaintances used drugs - or at least marijuana - especially during the year I spent in Vietnam. But many things go over my head and not only did I not know of anyone doing so, the thought never even occurred to me.

I left the Army at age 27 and embarked on a civilian life. As time passed I learned that several of my friends smoked grass, but I didn't have any particular interest in doing it myself. I was already aware that the claims of politicians that it was addictive were nonsense, but I didn't need any more expensive habits, or bad habits either, for that matter.

Pot smokers are easy to get along with for reasons other than that they may be stoned. They'll offer you a hit and if you decline, well, that's cool. No pressure. They don't proselytize.

When I was thirty-five, I met Joan, a waitress at the Backgammon Lounge in Boston (now defunct, alas). We became friends, but not dating friends. Soon after, a girlfriend of hers, Mary, moved to Boston to share an apartment with Joan and Lily, another girlfriend. All three were from the same small town in New York, and all in their mid-twenties.

Coincidentally, Mary was hired at the same company and in the same programming division where I worked, and for a short time I was the only person in Boston that she "knew," outside of her roommates.

During the first or second week that she was there she came to me and asked if I could be her chauffeur for an afternoon several days from then. She was going to a dentist to have wisdom teeth removed, and "They're going to put me under and I don't want to drive after that." It was an easy yes, and several days later I drove her to the dentist.

After a half hour or so she left the dentist's chair and I was summoned to another area where I found her on a cot, her head on a pillow and a blanket covering her from ankles to chest, her face looking like that of a chipmunk. I pulled a chair over to the cot, took one of her hands, and waited until she opened her eyes. "How do you feel?"

"Great! I don't want to come down. I can't wait to get home and roll a joint."

When we were given permission to leave, I walked her to the car. We had one stop on the way to her apartment, and that was for groceries - soups, ice cream, whatever she was going to be able to eat without much chewing. I was useless at helping her put things in the refrigerator, the first criticism being "Not my shelf." The girls had shelves of their own and separate areas in the freezer.

Food safely stored, she sat down with a baggie and rolling papers and began rolling a joint, a process I had never witnessed (and still cannot imitate). "Colombian," she said, as if it should mean something to me. I just nodded.

In fact, she rolled two of them and when she was done she lit one and passed me the other. Now's as good a time as any. I decided to see what the fuss was all about and lit the other. In short order I was flying, on one of the best highs grass has ever given me.

We moved into the living room, she turned the TV on, and we sat on the couch. The experience is impossible to describe and the closest I can come to it is to say that I had a wonderful feeling of well-being, and that it seemed that there was some kind of field, more powerful than an aura but possibly its big brother, around my head. I was absolutely content. Numb, but content.

The girls had an old console black and white TV, which fit nicely with everything else. Old, used furniture, threadbare carpet, and so on. They had all just finished college and were just starting out. Still, it was one of the most comfortable homes I've visited. We watched the TV - some sort of game show I think - in total silence. After a few minutes, the vertical hold went and we watched that for a few minutes. Not entirely sure I could stand up, I nevertheless said, "I'll fix it."

I could and did stand up and I walked over to the TV, crouched down to examine the controls, and actually stopped the rolling. Miracle of miracles.

I stood up, walked to the middle of the room, and turned around to admire my handiwork. A few minutes later Joan arrived home, took in the situation, and said, "Hi Don. Are you leaving or just standing?"

"Just standing."

OK, back over to the couch with Mary. Lily arrived and soon the four of us were stoned and watching some awful TV program.

Somehow I found myself holding a glass with some liquid and ice cubes, as was everyone else. Now I still had on my three piece suit, white shirt - collar buttoned - and tie. I became aware that the girls were giggling and that Mary was trying to get an ice cube inside my collar. OK, that's cool. This didn't bother me at all, and I slowly became aware that way out there somewhere, perhaps eighteen inches to the right of my neck, there was a cool spot. Before long the spot began approaching my neck and became too cool, and I took the ice cube out from under my collar and plunked it into my glass, earning a small round of applause.

That's pretty much it. I know that marijuana has different effects on different people - I have a couple of friends who get paranoid when they smoke it. They feel like everyone's whispering about them. They've tried it, they didn't like it, and they just don't do it.

Since then I have shared marijuana with any number of people, somewhere along the way no longer being surprised to learn of different people who smoked it, a list that in my experience goes from teenagers up to executives in billion dollar corporations.

As for the girls, we all became good friends, with Joan remaining my "best" friend of the three. Perhaps three or four times a year I'd get a call at one o'clock or even two o'clock in the morning: "We're bummed. Why don't you come over and visit. Bring your popcorn popper." I would, and I'm sure that all four of us were dragging on the mornings after.

One New Year's Eve I was between girlfriends and had declined several invitations to parties, determined to just relax for once. Joan called and was in tears. She had been stood up by the bum she was dating and she had nothing to do and was alone in the apartment. I drove over, we got stoned, and I took her to see Superman, which had been released only a couple of weeks earlier. We got there just as the movie began and the only adjacent seats were in the first row. Stoned, Superman, big screen, first row - how good does it get? It was about two and a half hours long and when it finished we still had the munchies. There was no question of being seated at any decent restaurant without reservations, so we picked up some Chinese food and took it back to her apartment. All in all, a fun night.

I still do the occasional hit. I'm an easy high and a quarter ounce will last me a year. The only person I ever turned on was my father, who volunteered. I was candid with my parents about it, as was my brother. Once Mom asked me "Why do you do it?" and I told her about the feeling of well-being, and she seemed content with that as an answer. Lord knows she had seen my brother and me smoke it often enough with no effects obvious to her except perhaps that we sometimes became a little quieter, sometimes a little sillier.

She once watched my brother Billy roll a joint and asked, "Billy, could I try making one of those?" "Sure, Mom." When she was done she proudly held up something that looked like Moby Dick, but lumpier.

A thought: If you smoke pot and you haven't seen the 1930s movie "Reefer Madness," try to find it and watch it. Get high first. It's an anti-marijuana propaganda film, and the ultimate in high camp.