Play Faster Dammit! More Reefer!

Up until then, I could cook, in that I could apply heat to foodstuff and create hot something or other from a can or more than likely, leftovers Mom had stuck in the fridge.

Patrick taught me the basics of how to truly cook, that is how to combine raw ingredients into something you could call lunch or dinner. The first time we put a meal together-it was pasta and red sauce-I remember the incredulity of having something in my mouth that did not resemble at all Mom's or my cooking to date. That is to say it did not have the texture, consistency and flavor of cardboard boiled in milk for eight hours.

We were both around 14, Patrick and I and were in with the girls like a bad organ transplant. With nothing else to do Saturday nights, we'd hang out, play cards, watch TV, muse about Virginia and Judy actually doing their hair and generally spend the time. One night the folks were out, we were hungry and instead of re-heating the posterboard latte, Patrick thought there was enough to put something more substantial together. So we did and I began to learn to cook.

In this, life is kind of like a whipsaw. Because for the all the hours my buddy and I put in in the kitchen in the lonely hearts club, it developed in us skills that in later years would ensure that any girl coming over for a light dinner would sit down at the counter with a glass of wine and be wowed at me in the kitchen. A path to other adventures paved with a little olive oil and fresh oregano.

Patrick's happily married and is raising a fine bumper crop of girls. He can speak to his own experiences.

All of which brings me back to marijuana.

If Patrick had come by that night with the express purpose of watching TV, playing cards and maybe putting something together food-wise, we'd all have been a lot better off. Instead he and I had plans to pass a joint around. Notice that we didn't have the common sense to get some grub set up for the inevitable munchies.

Instead of going outside into the tundra, I had discovered the updraft in the furnace exhaust pipe. The joint was lit, Patrick demurred at the last minute, so I greedily smoked the whole damn thing hugging the chimney like an ersatz-mutter.

Done.

Now to get stoned.

Funny.

Nothing's happening.

Heart's going a little fast.

Must be the excitement.

WTF?!?!?!!

WHY AM I STANDING ANKLE DEEP IN SNOW IN THE FRONT YARD WITH A MOUTH FULL OF MOUTHWASH???

GOT TO TAKE A SHOWER! CLEAN UP!

WHO ARE YOU?

CALL SOMEONE! I DON'T KNOW! CALL, NO WAIT, COPS USUALLY COME WITH AMBULANCES!

GOT TO TAKE A SHOWER!

About an hour later I stopped hyperventilating under streaming water. Got out, dried off, cleaned up the bathroom. Patrick noted that my eyes were about as red as whatever the simile for quite red was in 1977. He'd been calmly watching TV for about an hour while praying to Jesus that he'd never fall under the spell of this wicked weed.

So, Saturday night, you got anything going with Judy?

Nope.

You got something with Virginia?

Doubt it.

Guess we'll hang out.

Maybe cook something.

Yep.

Oh, this never happened, right?

Bunny on.