Saturday, February 6, 2010

Jeff Buckley High

Should I be embarrassed to admit that I used to smoke a lot of pot? I didn’t start out that way, of course. I remember when I first tried it - more embarrassment – I was in college, I was no rebel in highschool. It was at a house party in my first semester, one of the many parties that took place at the pivotal ending of semester one. An entire week in which my purse contained not only lipstick and face blotting papers from the Body Shop, but also a plastic mickey of Smirnoff and a bottle of lemon Snapple. There I was, decked out in a form fitting navy blue dress with white straps (I still have the dress) and chunky white heels (the heels went the way of 1997). My heels, though chunky, were sinking into the damp, night grass and I was trying to keep exuding coolness as best as possible. So when the joint was passed to me, I wanted to smoke it like a pro, but in fact, I had never even smoked a cigarette and didn’t know the first thing about inhaling. I couldn’t lie, I have a major problem with honesty, even though I was trying to be a pro, instead, I said “How do you inhale?” Ugh.

After pretending to be high at that party, a friend and I decided to hit up another party we were also invited to. It was one of those shin digs in the basement of a college student rental house complex. You know the type, red painted walls and a guy at a set of turn tables in the corner who thinks he’s the shit. When the joints were rolled up and eventually passed to me (again) I was all “Look guys, I don’t know how to do this” and the humiliation of a group of strangers all hovering around me, simultaneously trying to teach me how to inhale ensued. After not getting high, my friend and I decided to call it a night and go back to her place for beauty rest, but we left by the wrong door. I don’t remember quite how it happened, but we ended up locked in the parking garage. In a fit of giggles, believing we were high, (ok she actually knew how to smoke, and therefore was high) we ran around from door to door, only to be faced with a giant “Emergency Exit Only” sign on every last one of them. What were we to do? We laughed, and it was great. Eventually, the garage door opened as a car came in and we hoofed it. Though to this day we like to believe it was providence that opened that door for us.

Fast forward 8 years or so, there I was, chronic. Evenings and weekends only chronic. One night, getting ready to go out and drink a magnum of Nero with my regular crew, I smoked a joint and surfed the net for a while. Fuelled by the sounds of Jeff Buckley coming from iTunes, I decided to look him up. My god, epiphany. The mixture of the weed and Jeff Buckley’s eyes shook up my brain. At that moment, I knew, without a doubt, that Jeff Buckley and I had been together in another life. He was absolutely my long lost lover, and we had vowed to find each other again as he lay dying on the fields in my arms, after a battle in 1783.

That night, walking down Queen west in a haze, I searched for him in all the faces of strangers on the street, and it was magical. “I will find you again” I whispered to myself, as I maneuvered the crowds, creepily staring down every poor dude I passed. I never did find him, and unfortunately it will prove impossible in this lifetime. This is what smoking pot can do to you, it can let you live in a wonderful (albeit crazy) walking dream, or it can bring forth the paranoia, which is why I eventually stopped. But that night, smoking cigarettes, leaning out the window, it made for a pretty damn funny story, and sometimes, I suppose that’s what counts.

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