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Nov. 2, 2007 The road I live on is flat, long, and straight. It tops a fall line hill that's more like a plateau than anything else. The working class brick houses sit on two acre lots, most of the land is in the backyards. A sandy dirt road around the corner from my house juts through a woods of pine and oak and sweetgum. Occasionally, I walk through the woods and search for signs of the squirrels, white tailed deer, foxes, possums, raccoons, and bobcats that populate this wild area and leave persimmon-filled scat scattered about this time of year. The other day I strolled down the road and discovered a lucky prize parked on the dry sand that washes on to the sides of the road. Someone had carelessly tossed the butt end of a joint out a car window and it looked like there was at least two good tokes left on it. I picked it up, smelled it, pocketed it. Happiness is a free buzz. I saved it for Saturday night. I just knew my beloved Georgia Bulldogs were going to upset the Florida gators, and I also had a couple of Heinekens in the fridge, ready to celebrate with me. I predicted Georgia would beat Florida before the season started but nobody believed me. The game started and the dawgs got the first break, picking up a fumble and running with it and setting up the first score. I yelled and cheered for three hours while I sat next to an open window. The construction workers finishing up a house across the street must have thought I was a lunatic. The announcer kept repeating an ugly fact--Florida had beaten Georgia 15 out of the last 17 years. Everybody knew this. Why did he have to keep repeating this ugly truth? I've been a dawg fan since 1975--I've lived through the misery. But the dawgs won this one--friends, relatives, experts, oddsmakers were wrong; I was right. Oh the joy. My disabled wife's arm hurt from physical therapy and she'd been complaining all day. I gave her a percocet and put her to bed. I ordered my daughter to bed--it was past her bedtime anyway. I took my king-sized bottle of Heineken to the kitchen, unwrapped the roach which I'd covered in plastic wrap, and lit up for the first time since January 1, 1993. I used to be a pothead, smoking the happy herb throughout the 1980's. I made the most of what I had at the present, getting about six tokes, holding the t-h-c in my lungs for as I could hold my breath while I heard a helicopter buzz my house. I imagined the DEA using some high tech detection equipment--a flashback to the old paranoia. Ah yes. Stoned again, a weirder high than that induced by just alcohol. I forgot all about my beer by the way--I had to listen to some Led Zeppelin. I needed Led for my head. The walkman didn't work, we were out of batteries--a potential disaster. Luckily, I could plug the headphones into a little CD player. I listened to "The Lemon Song" countless times along with the best of Judas Priest and then more Led Zeppelin. I stayed up late, fantasizing about buying pot regularly again because it made me so happy. I loved the smell of it, the stimulating (and yet at the same time stupefying) effect on my mind. No wonder I had such a long love affair with that good old sweet leaf. ------------ About the author Mark Gelbart: My book, Talk Radio, is a black comedy about a radio talk show host who gets kidnapped and psychologically tortured by a loser. http://www.authorsden.com/marksgelbart Email: agelbart@aol.com Comment on this article here! ------------ All articles are EXCLUSIVE to Useless-Knowledge.com and are not allowed to be posted on other websites. ARTICLE THIEVES WILL BE PROSECUTED! |
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