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Daily Archive for November 6th, 2007

Going Green

Piggybacking off of Matt’s idea to share with us his account of his first teeth-raking, sub-par blowjob, Id like to contribute a “Fabulous First” of my own.

The first time I got high.

Yes, everyone, there was a first time. I wasn’t born with a bag of Doritos in my hand.  I realize this story will beg obvious questions such as, “Palermo, didn’t you convert your mothers womb into a hookah in the first trimester?” and “Palermo, how can you spark the lighter with such greasy hands?” Neither accusation is true, and the event that made me the stoner I am today wasn’t that long ago….

It was the winter of my 16th year.  The place, central Florida.  The location, my friend Rhyders’ cabin in the woods.  All the leaves had turned beautiful shades of orange, red, and sweet, sweet Ocala Brown.  $25 US, Ziploc bag included.  Save the Gainesville Green for the college students, we would always say. Support the local drug economy.  With Funions in hand we set out to the forest, and I was the only one carrying virgin lungs.  Though unaware of the effects of smoking at the time, my peers offered sound advice and a calm hand on the shoulder.

“Hey Wop”, they would say, “we are going to get you so fucking baked you aren’t going to be able to see straight.”

Thanks, fellas. Its times like that you realize who your true friends are.  One big unified bad influence.  Giddy-up.

We arrived shortly after dusk.  There was an electricity in the air; a certain calming feeling all around assuring me when I emerged from the edge of the forest I would be at last a man.

The stage was set.  We 6 assumed our positions around a picnic table, and that’s when I saw it.  The plastic bag glistened off in the moonlight like shrubbery wet with a morning’s fresh dew.

“Hey Guinea, start breaking this shit up.”

Sure thing, Rhyder, whatever you say.  My only question was how does one separate this magical brown oregano?  Surely these stems and seeds must have some value, better save them.  Back to the business at hand, I told myself, now how much should I take out?

“All of it, asshole, its go time.”

Very well.  An hour and a half later, I had in front of my eyes a sizeable pile of grass clippings, but now what?

That’s when I was introduced to my dear friend of 9 years now, Peach Philly.  ‘Twas unfurled before mine eyes the finest Dominican papers available.  The obviously high-quality tobacco was cast away, only to be replaced by forest-grown schwag.  Like cocoon turns to pupa turns to butterfly, I watched Peach Philly reemerge as a fat nasty blizunt.

Time to get down to business.

Ryders cabin was configured in such a way that the bottom floor was open to the elements and the top floor sealed up with walls and windows, creating the aforementioned cabin.

“Alright Greaseball, lets hotbox this shit.”

Hotbox?  I didn’t know I was supposed to bring a container with me, and it was quite chilly outside.  Confused as ever, I walked upstairs to see what all this hotboxing was about.  Once inside, I saw the people with whom I was about to form a lifelong bond with.  Rhyder Smith, Matt Hagger, Danny Brooke, TJ Baldwin, and Rhyders dog, Cowboy.  Our pact was sealed with the first spark set to the baby-arm sized Philadelphia Peach Blunt.

Inhale. Exhale. Repeat.

Nothing.  Silence.  I am awash in sobriety, and as confused Mikey with a Rubik’s Cube.  What was supposed to happen, exactly.  Needless to say, I wasn’t impressed.  But as the room got cloudier and cloudier, the tide began to turn.

“Palermo, time for a shotgun.”

“I didn’t know we were deer-hunting tonight fellas, its kind of dark outside.”

“No, jackass, cup your hands around your mouth.”

Now at the time I didn’t know that TJ had a mouth constructed of aviation-grade aluminum, but when I saw him put the lit end of that Philly into his mouth, my world was turned upside-down.  Out came the most overwhelming plume of smoke I had ever seen.  Deeper and deeper into my lungs it went, filling me with sensations I had never experienced.  I started to laugh, started to cough, and at once it all made sense.

My stoner education had begun, and mother f-ing class was in session.  Shotgun, pass, inhale, cough, pass, shotgun, laugh, Funion, cough.  Repeat.  Cloudier and cloudier the cabin became, until I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face; the sounds of 311 and Blink 182 growing ever fainter, until there was silence.

I awoke the next morning, realizing that everyone including the dog had passed out in that smoke-infested room.  Breakfast at Waffle House allowed me to reconstruct the events of the previous evening.  What did it all mean?  Why are my hands tinted Dorito orange? Where do I go from here?

Jump to a few days later.  Between classes I ran into the man responsible for my blunted genesis, Rhyder Smith.

“Cowboy is dead.”

“Excuse me?” I said “The dog?”

“Yeah, man” he replied. “He started coughing after everyone left the cabin and just didn’t wake up this morning.”

In our defense, Cowboy was quite old, so we are only partially responsible for killing him.  I decided then and there that every time I would smoke I would do so in a way that would honor that mangy mutt.  I visited Cowboys grave shortly after I received the grim news.  After a short prayer and a ceremonial sprinkling of Funions crumbs over his plot, I knew the dog had finally found peace.

So, my friends, as Philly turns to blunt, and virgin smoker turns to professional stoner, so did Cowboy cross over, gone from us into that big hot boxed cabin in the sky.  I think back often to that night.  The laughter we shared, the fraternal bond forged in bong resin.  That life-changing evening in the winter of my 16th year…