One Toke Over the Line

Sweet Jesus

Weed was the theme around here this past weekend.

It all started when my close friend Sandra and her friend Niki flew from LA to Austin to stay with us for a couple of nights and go to a concert.

Sandra’s visited Austin many, many times over the years, so she’s well aware that marijuana is illegal in Texas. It’ll always be illegal in Texas. Mostly so our lawmakers can feel like big boys after arresting Willie Nelson and Snoop Dogg for possession. That’s some crackerjack DEA work right there. Even the drug sniffing dogs are like, “Seriously? Those two? Maybe put some actual effort into this, guys. I’m taking a nap.”

So for that reason Sandra prepared, and paid to have her weekend supply shipped to our house. Easy peasy. She’d have it on hand and could take a few puffs before bedtime. Only, the shipping company didn’t overnight it as requested, and instead told her it’d arrive in Austin after she’d gone back to California. This snafu, or weedfu, caused a couple of problems.

First, I don’t smoke and weirdly, I don’t know anyone that does. What would I do with the stash after it arrived? Burn it in the fireplace? I’d be immediately reported to the HOA by the narc next door. I guess I could drive my Volvo over to the high school and try to sell a few bags under the bleachers, like some middle-aged tunic-wearing dealer, but I might get caught. Jail I could handle, but what if the punishment is volunteer hours with the PTO?

I could probably take it over to Willie’s ranch in Luck, Texas. It’s only 13 miles from my house. But that’s kind of like bringing ice to Iceland or poop to a dog park.

Proof: Here’s a couple of photos from Luck when I was out there last year. You may notice a theme, even though they don’t actually sell it. At least not to me because I definitely look like I’m an undercover agent from Minnesota ready to bust ya.

Besides knowing what to do with the weed I didn’t want, our more urgent problem was finding a local stash for Sandra. That’s not an issue in the many states where it’s legal and you can just breeze into the local Bud-a-Torium and buy your supply, but we need to be a little more stealth here in Just Say No Land.

I decided to text the few people in my phone that I thought might be holding. “Janice’s husband really likes reggae,” was the sort of stoner criteria I used. And, because I’m such a rule follower and because Texas is so draconian, I didn’t want to use actual drug nomenclature in case the authorities were reading my messages. Like I always say, it’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you.

But maybe I was a little too obscure.

“I’ve texted three people and everyone’s confused by what I’m asking,” I told Sandra, holding out my phone. “I don’t understand why.”

“Well maybe,” she said, looking at the screen. “It’s because you’re calling it Wacky Tobakky. It’s like you’re a character straight out of Reefer Madness. Ask for the Devil’s Lettuce next. See if that works, Pablo Escobar.”

Frustrated, I then told her that maybe she could score some weed when she got to the concert in downtown Austin.

“AT THE EAGLES? WHO WOULD HAVE WEED AT THE EAGLES?”

Uh, everybody with a grey ponytail? The two guys next to us at the Doobie Brothers smelled like they’d spent the past four decades making tie-dye shirts in Jeff Spicoli’s van. Seems pretty obvious to me that any Boomer at a 70’s rock show is no stranger to the Cuervo Gold and the fine Colombian.

Speaking of concert weed, last April Sandra and I went to Willie Nelson’s 90th birthday show at the Hollywood Bowl. Everyone there was smoking except me and maybe a couple of toddlers. I didn’t smoke because I didn’t want to, but I also didn’t need to because it was like sitting in a pot cloud forest. The contact high was enough to make me super relaxed. I even turned down the joint the annoying freaky guy behind us offered. I sort of regret saying, “No, thanks, I don’t want your hepatitis A, B, C or D, man” but I’m sure he doesn’t remember.

In the midst of the weekend’s weed dilemma, I happened to see my friend Molly, and she told me a hilarious story about when she ate a pot brownie her neighbor gave her. She didn’t know you’re not supposed to down the whole thing, even if you’re hungry, so she became super stoned and unable to function. She still had the faculties to call her yoga studio to cancel the next morning’s class, however, and in her mind she left a very professional voicemail.

Alas, the next time she went to the yoga studio, they played her that voicemail and it sounded less like, “Hello, I will not make tomorrow’s class” and more like, “AUGHI KEILAHE EI;AKEI ‘EJ=FE!!! DANK EWE!!” The delighted studio people then told her that they’d played her voicemail about 100x and she’s now a total legend.

Back to Sandra. After striking out with all of my texts, including one to a friend who’s friends with Willie’s wife, and another to a friend who recently told me that she “moves gummy product from Maine to Austin on the regular because I need it for my knees”, I gave up.

“I’m sorry, Sandra,” I said. “I’ll work on being better connected for your next visit. Start hanging out more downtown. Meet more college kids. Maybe I’ll even grow a few plants in my backyard.”

ATTENTION AUTHORITIES: I AM NOT GROWING A FEW PLANTS IN MY BACKYARD.

Sandra managed to sleep fine during her stay, she and Niki loved the concert, and best news of all, she was able to redirect her shipment so it’ll be at her house by the time she gets home.

Which I now admit I’m a little disappointed to hear because my grey ponytail is really coming along.

Thanks for reading!

—Wendi