Pass the Kutshie by the left hand side.
The first thing I thought of when I saw today’s prompt was the obvious thing: memories — sometimes hazy — of various adventures with weed. Though most “adventures” involved sitting on the couch, while eating Cheetos and/or any candy I could shovel into my mouth.
I also thought of juke joint. I have, on occassion, combined the two experiences into one.
Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “joint.” Use it as a noun, an adjective, or a verb–use it any way you’d like. Enjoy!
I generally prefer a bong to a joint. Or a pipe or a one-hitter. Mostly because I can’t roll a joint to save my life. Plus, bong is easier and easier is good a few hours into a weed-fueled Family Guy or sci-fi movie marathon.
Sat next to a guy at the back of the class (I was a front-of-class student with grades, a back of the class student because I hate sitting in the front; not because I was a bad apple. I was chatty in first grade, usually with Steven Thibodeaux, but Ms. Toniette paddled it out of me with her slipper. Go Catholic school.) who I always thought smelled funny. He also had an inordinant fondness for The Wall. Never could figure out how he was dating Lori Lafarg(?), who was smart and smoking hot.
My first joint exposure was my freshman roomate — Bart. I think I’ve mentioned this before, he’d buy a quarter or an ounce. Then spend a good hour separating the seeds from the buds from the stems from the chaff on the table in our room. Then mixing them back together and doing it again.
“C’mere, Duhon. Smell this one.”
He was neither stoned nor imbiding spirits while doing this. Bart was a fantastic roomate, but one odd fucking duck.
Now that I think of it, it wasn’t a joint. Bart had stuck a pipe into the side of a plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol. We’d cut the screen in the room to hold the weed in the pipe. Bart called his creation “The SuperDestroyer” and it was an effective delivery system. A little water in the bottom to sooth the throat. Cover the air hole and the opening to keep the smoke in — waste not, want not.
I somehow ended up with it after our senior year (we lived together in an off-campus apartment) and continued to get SuperDestroyed for a goodly number of years after. In fact, it was the SuperDestroyer that got me in trouble driving back to DC after my first semester at American.
DON’T DO THIS AT HOME, but I was taking occassional hits off the SuperDestroyer on my return drive after Christmas. Around Knoxville, I ended up on the beltway without really noticing. LIterally at the same time as the thought popped into my head, “This doesn’t look right” the “Welcome to Kentucky” sign appeared on my right.
After a consultation with the driving atlas, I decided to cut through Kentucky and hit I-81 in Virginia around Luray or so. I discovered two things about Kentucky that afternoon:
- It’s very, very pretty in the mountains.
- I heard Dueling Banjos in my head until I got out of the state. At one point, I passed a gas station — still operating — that looked like something out of a 1950s documentary.
I have enjoyed many a joint over the years since then, and wish it were legal everywhere. Stupid that it’s not.
Enough with Mary Jane.
“Joint” also makes me think of a “joint”, which is a cool word to use to describe a bar. Any bar called a “joint” should have a certain loose-limbed quality to it.
A place to play some pool, drink some cheap beer, and shove coins into the jukebox to listen to “You Never Even Called Me By My Name”; the greatest country and western song ever written, at 2 a.m. as you make your way to 4.
And, since I half-watched RoadHouse (AGAIN) last night, made me think of that movie, one of the best bad movies ever made. Pain does’t hurt. Indeed.
I’ll wrap with two musical numbers and mention that the two best movies to watch stoned are Heavy Metal (GREAT soundtrack) and BC Rock.
Stroke the Furry Wall is from Get Him to the Greek, which I’ve watched too many times. I’ve felt like Jonah Hill a couple three times.
Anyway, that’s my allotted time.