4/20/23
Newsletter #312
The Crack of Dawn
Here’s a completely inappropriate story that I enjoy: I would guess this was 1974, when I was 16, Ivan Raimi was 17, and Sam was 15. It was a Friday night, there were no parties, nobody wanted to go to the movies, or shoot pool, or whatever, and Ivan and I couldn’t think of what to do. We were at the Raimi’s house and lo and behold, who should saunter past but Sam. Ivan and I looked at each other and mutually decided, “It’s time for Sam to get high.”
We drove Ivan’s monster old green Buick, the Green Ghost, up to the nearest liquor store, Bottle & Basket (where my dad had an account). None of us was old enough to buy alcohol, but luckily for Ivan, at the age of 17, he was already losing his hair, plus he had a fake ID. While Ivan was in the store, I rolled a joint. With a 12-pack of beer, we drove about a hundred yards into the big dark parking lot of Strike & Spare bowling alley. We gave Sam a beer and said, “Here, drink this.” It seems to me that Sam made a weak objection, saying, “But what about mom and dad?” Being his older brother, Ivan said, “Forget them. Drink.” Sam did as he was told. I lit the joint and handed it to Sam, saying, “Here. Smoke this.” He looked skeptical, like this might not be a good idea. We quickly disabused him of that silly notion and urged him on, “Just shut up and smoke it.” This was peer pressure at its finest.
Once we got Sam completely fucked up, we drove him home and kicked him out of the car. Now he could go inside and deal with his parents, or retreat to his Spider Man encrusted bedroom. Having accomplished that, Ivan and I took off to go find some action.
Meanwhile, I did the same thing to my younger sister, Pam. It was about that same time, 1974, so Pam was 13. We were standing in front of the house on a warm summer evening and Pam said to me rather offhandedly, “I don’t know what the big deal is about pot. I tried it a couple of times and nothing happened.” I nodded thoughtfully and said, “I see. Wait here.” I returned a moment later with a freshly loaded bong containing some excellent Columbian Gold. I said, “Smoke that.” I got it going and showed her how to use it. Pam took three or four big hits, coughed her brains out, then got totally stoned. Following the proscribed ritual, I then abandoned her at home. She could either attempt to deal with our parents while stoned, or go hide in her bedroom and listen to the Jackson 5. I bet she chose the latter.
My nephew, Ari, did the same thing with his little sister, Eden. [I’m implicating everybody today]. I would guess this was about fifteen years ago, so Ari was eighteen and Eden was sixteen. I received a phone call here in Detroit in the evening. It was Ari and Eden in a car in Florida, where they lived, and Ari announced, “Uncle Josh, I just smoked Eden down for her first time, and you’re the first person we thought of.” I said, “Thanks. So, Eden, what do you think?” She burst out in hysterical laughter and said, “I’m so high I can’t believe it.” Ari added, “She’s had two hits.”
Flashing backward about two years, Eden used to go to summer camp in northern Michigan and she lived in Florida. So she would fly to Detroit, stay with me, then I’d take her to the camp bus. Except one year I was trying very hard to grow weed indoors, and had turned my second bedroom into a grow room. I live in a 900 sq. ft. house, so there was no way to hide it, or explain it away. I was just her nutty uncle who grew weed in the house.
That experiment was a failure. I grew seven kinds of exotic weed that all looked wonderful. Sadly, none of them tasted any good, nor did it have any THC. The lights, the pans, everything went into the garage.
And now that pot is legal, it seems normal. Since I have been to Amsterdam many times over the years, since the ‘90s, I knew it would be. A coffee shop, where you get weed in Amsterdam, is simply a fragrant café to all the passersby. It’ s also an incredibly friendly place. In Amsterdam I could be reasonably sure I’d meet somebody and have a conversation.
But in America we don’t sit and smoke it together, like you’re supposed to, we take our shit and go home. In my case, I call a phone number and they deliver. It’s too bad (I mean, it’s great, but it’s still too bad). I like hanging out with other people and smoking weed. Perhaps exchanging ideas; possibly even laughing; but being with other members of my genus.
In Barcelona two weeks ago, I went to the Smoke Signals dispensary. It’s located in a gorgeous part of town, as most of Barcelona is, and it’s simply a black steel-gated door with push-button intercom. I was met by a pretty Asian gal, had my passport scanned, paid 20 Euros to join their club, and was let in to what should be a normal dispensary. A counter where they sold weed, a cooler containing a variety of cold bubbly waters and fruit juices, a pay coffee machine, and four somewhat secluded booths with seating all around (as well as a pile of rolling trays and free rolling papers).
As I entered I was immediately befriended by a 35-year-old Spaniard named Mario who spoke English well. He led me to the weed counter, then he sat down with his four friends where, get this, they were silently playing chess, and smoking weed. The casting was perfect. All male: a tall one, a short one, a dark one, a goofy-looking one. All intently watching this chess game. I finally said, “Look, you’re having fun, and it's not connected to a computer.” All five of these guys looked at me in slow-motion, their faces slowly registering, it seemed to me, “Did he make a joke? By God, I think he did.” All of them smiled in appreciation of my attempt, though I got no laughs, and they returned to the game.
Houston, we have synchronization. The Crack of Dawn is being published at the crack of dawn. Jettison the payload.