Saturday, December 24, 2016



Man I am just so delighted with Lay's potato chips

Just the baseline kind in the yellow bag, straight-up an exact-deliverin' product

If I was Warren Buffet I would be like, "All companies should basically be as perfect as a Lay's potato chip, time and again, Charlie and I will buy them all and take them to our Valhalla of freedom and catered seminars"



Okay so as you can see that was the type of mind I was in last night, all Cool-Whupped good on some of that Golden Tabloid, my new and only favorite strain of the marihuana that seems to connect all my calls through the operator direct and correct for once.

To review, mostly weed does some pretty low shenanigans on my woggin, straight-up logging me out of society for a shift. Here are some of the ways it typically gets south on me:

1. I smoke it with somebody who is way better at smoking it than me and I feel like I have to pull a good rip of it to impress them and as soon as I set the bong down Popeye squeezes a can of roller coasters down my throat (hyuk nyuk nyuk!) and I got to go hurl and entertain the Eternal Screensaver of the Password-Locked Mind until sleep comes.

2. I smoke it and then every terrible thing I have ever done or been to anybody or probably was or will be to somebody is ready as an instant list, and it auto-plays in my mind as I sit on the couch, from my mama hatin' on being pregnant to the underpaid, hungover guy who has to clean out the old paint cans and jars of unmatched screws of my final carport. Smoke still curling in a slight way off the bottom of my nostrils, moisture visibly at play on the inner surfaces. On this list: (1) A guy I yelled at way too hard while way too juicy on Guinness, for working on his car outside the bedroom window at 2am while Molly was trying to sleep. (2) A really idiotic sexist thing I said about "why Volkswagens are cars for women" once at a nice restaurant years ago, all brassy and Sinatra, and I remember the sophisticated rich lady at the table next to ours saying "Jesus Christ, how much longer do I have to listen to this idiot," but I pretended at the time that she wasn't referring to me. (Now she is referring to me forever in my marijuana memory.)

3. I get really anxious like the universe is that big stone ball that races after Indiana Jones and I am Indiana Jones, but I never see the ball and I am just standing in whoever's kitchen it is and I'm not allowed to look around for the ball, but I know I am about to die from it. And also I concurrently feel that sensation like when you step off a curb that you didn't see and for five inches you know what it's like to die from the first part of a plane crash.

4. On a few occasions the high has been a pleasant enough time. About as often as you get the hundo ring at skee-ball.

So that is regular weed experiences. Golden Tabloid doesn't do that. Golden Tabloid is like the following (which I wrote down in a notebook "while reporting for the Golden Tabloid"):

I am in a sauna, or a room, and no one has ever made a mistake. I am nothing but the lower part of the eye, where the slight pressure from gravity, eyeball against lid, is the only thing that reminds me that I am physically manifest. I love that I can understand, through Tabloid, how great rich people feel when every detail and tax situation has been calmed to their benefit and satisfaction. My car, should I summon it, is a plush white terrycloth experience, like a moisture-less blintz I have snuck inside, where I receive all the good feelings I would have felt had I gotten all the gifts I'd wanted as a child. We are going Christmas shopping in a place where volunteer minks—tall as a parent, with spicy, musky cologne—give you a loving, selfless, genuine hug every time you enter a new store, and you love hugging them back.

When you leave the store, they are hugging someone else, but they make sure to put a hand on your shoulder, smile, and make eye contact.

That is Golden Tabloid. I can also explain it in a shorter way:

I am the bone-love daddy of all of this deal    


So now, the boys saw that Tabloid was doing some right things with me, which I guess meant making me less of my real-ingredients drag, and they were all for maintaining the drip. Apparently they wetted up some black licorice chews, all muling them with some butter-extracted mg's of GT, thinking I could just pop them like my usual Zauberpunkt tabs. Good dudes.

Problem with that plan of theirs was, rodents. My boy Todd, specifically. A rodent has a brain and extremities that lust for crumbs, for protein or copper or a pot sticker you put too much fish sauce on as a something that was a mistake in the first place, and Todd is Chief Survival Officer of that clean-up crew. Little dude found that baggie full of spiked licorice about three seconds after Ray and T left the room, and pushed those nubs down the hatch like it was a damn Japanese contest show. I mean who in a mile can't whiff some hand-wringin' bud like smokey starin' down a red-eyed roadie.

The bag of licorice was the same size as Todd but it was all gone when they found him. Claw marks demonstrate that he didn't even undo the Ziploc, he just tore through the plastic with his face and teeth, getting at the payload fast as he could.

They say you can't OD from weed and generally speaking that is Garfunkel's Sounds of Science but it's guys like Todd that really change the rules. Todd is the mustard in the math that actuaries know they'll take a bath on.   

Of course it is a good thing that Todd was on Golden Tabloid and not some high-creepin Reaver strain like Son Of Saturn or THE OFFICIAL INSTAGRAM OF CHAINSAWS or he might be growin whiskers underground. Because of the nature of this weed though he is currently just floating around all of our houses, no joke, he is prone in a position like how you would be if you were cuddled on your side on the couch, yet he is sort of floating/levitating like a magic dark nugget of tranquility. He floats about six inches above whatever surface is under him, and if he bumps into a couch for example he sort of rises to meet the plateau of the cushions and then floats above those cushions in a direction, until he encounters the next change in elevation. Kind of like a peaceful silent Roomba that wishes you no harm. Like a video game on autopilot until someone puts a quarter in. He floats between our houses and seems to know a safe path. Is this the truest form of high? It is a question.

Anyhow, I got to thank Ray and T on the hands for all the cookin they did up for me. Maybe bring them a tray of my new chorizo and cotija cemita sandwiches. I bought all of the ingredients for these back when I was planning on being high forever but now that I just use the GT here and there to even out the sidewalk I rarely deep dive into Pueblan specialty foods. Yeah, GT shook somethin' a little loose for me, in the brain, like adding a new window to a house, but I ain't obviously ever going to be a central dude of Bob Marley posters and wearing sunglasses indoors.

Oh and uh Happy Holidays. I ain't quite the joy I want to see in the world, but here and there in spots these days I like when I look down a long street and see the trees all lined up and doing their canopy thing, and in my heart I can know a grain of satisfaction that somewhere over the clouds out there the sun is always bright and waiting for me when I can get myself there. And I think I even found a way to let the universe pull me up when I ain't able to pull myself. Thank you Golden Tabloid, thank you some guys who I know, thank you carbon.