Don’t Bogart That Joint

little feat/fat man in the bathtub
Put my money in your meter baby so it won’t run down But you caught me in the squeeze play on the cheesy side of town

First and foremost, no I was not, am not, a true participant of the 70’s!  Perhaps, the late 70’s…but certainly not Watergate and Deep Throat.  I did however, grow up with older half siblings that felt the need to engage me in all the Polka Dot, macrame rage!

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How well does anyone really know the history of slang?  Our vernaculars, 2019…deeply set in the language of Soul Train and American Bandstand!

Are you going bootin’?

I went bootin’!  I went bootin’ at ‘Funspot’ roller rink!  Boogying down to Donna Summer’s ‘Love to Love You Baby!’

Course, I had been spazzing out to the strobe lights that were dancing off the disco ball.  The ‘Man’ had been keeping my catholic school ass since 1972!  And, fool that I was…I had disappointingly been looking for jive ass religion at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.

Just another Generation X queer looking to Lay Down Sally or Judy in Disguise!

I don’t want to boast but I had been ‘wicked’ cool in my cut off Toughskins and Halter Top!  Riding ’round the all-white city of Concord in my ten speed from Sears.  Avoiding Smokey with some bitchin’ studded tires!

At the end of the era I had learned two significant things!

Never Bogart a joint!

AND

Never get busted with burnouts who are trippin’ for the Bay City Rollers!

70's Slang

 

A Monkey, A Lizard, A Crocodile

Richard Neville

A monkey is sitting in a tree, smoking a joint, when a lizard walks past.

The lizard looks up and says, “Hey!  What are you doing?’

The monkey says, “Smoking a joint, come and join me.”

So the lizard climbs up and sits next to the monkey and they smoke another joint.

After a while the lizard says his mouth is ‘dry’, and that he’s going to get a

drink from the river.

At the riverbank, the lizard is so stoned that he leans too far over and falls in.

A crocodile see this and swims over to the stoned lizard, helping him to the side.

Then he ask the lizard, “Whats up with you?”  The lizard explains to the crocodile

that he was sitting in a tree, smoking a joint with the monkey and his mouth

got dry, and that he was so wasted…that when he got a drink from the river…

he fell in.

The inquisitive crocodile says he has to check this out.  He walks into the jungle

and finds the tree where the monkey fell from.  The monkey is sitting there finishing

the joint.

He looks up and says, “Hey monkey!”

The monkey looks down and says,

“Dude, how much water did you drink?”

 

 

Pot and Prohibition

Beginning’s of Prohibition-

After 112 holiday revelers are hospitalized or killed by poisoned alcohol, New York City’s first scientifically trained medical examiner, Charles Norris issues a harshly-worded public statement on Dec. 28, 1926 denouncing the government:
“The government knows it is not stopping drinking by putting poison in alcohol… The United States government must be charged with the moral responsibility for the deaths that poisoned liquor causes…

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Charles Norris/1926

1966?…

One of the consequences of the marijuana laws is that an unknown number of Americans, estimated variously from 12 to 20 million people are, by law, felons. Those felons include not only the young, but an increasing number of business and professional people who other wise lead conventionally productive, crime‐free lives. Even the forces of “law and order”— perhaps that group especially— might wonder, as John Kaplan does, whether a second crime is easier to commit than the first:

“The wisdom of a law should be determined in pragmatic terms by weighing the costs It imposes upon society against the benefits it brings. The purpose of this book is to apply this principle to the laws criminalizing marijuana.”

…one frequently finds those opposing changes in the marijuana laws connecting use of that drug with a life style emphasizing immediate experience, non-competitiveness, disinterest in wealth and dis regard for traditional conventions. Alcohol and marijuana prohibition have in common then the widespread and in creasing use of an illegal drug, association of the drug with a definite life style, and an era of unprecedented lawlessness.

 

‘My lifestyle consist of wanting a Domino’s pizza, taking a toke off the pipe to alleviate severe arthritis, binge watching, Ozark…And, eventually forgetting what it was I wanted for dinner.’

The big winners?  Big Pharma and in due course, our corrupt government.

2017?…

Arrests for possessing small amounts of marijuana exceeded those for all violent crimes.

…a disproportionate number of those arrested are African-Americans!

Once a Deadhead…Always a Deadhead

Grateful_Dead_28197029
In the attics of my life, full of cloudy dreams unreal.
Full of tastes no tongue can know, and lights no eyes can see.
When there was no ear to hear, you sang to me.I have spent my life seeking all that’s still unsung.
Bent my ear to hear the tune, and closed my eyes to see.
When there was no strings to play, you played to me.In the book of love’s own dream, where all the print is blood.
Where all the pages are my days, and all the lights grow old.
When I had no wings to fly, you flew to me, you flew to me.In the secret space of dreams, where I dreaming lay amazed.
When the secrets all are told, and the petals all unfold.
When there was no dream of mine, you dreamed of me.
_Jerry Garcia
Deadhead: are the large group of devoted fans of the Grateful Dead. Mainly Hippies the Deadheads have created a counterculture that exists at any Grateful Dead or Dead.  Many Deadheads recreation-ally use marijuana and LSD especially during the concerts though this is not the case for all Deadheads. Many types of people are Deadheads, even some politicians such as Bill Clinton have called themselves Deadheads. Deadheads generally don tie-dyed clothes, the trade mark Birkenstock sandals, and many have dreadlocks. They are laid-back and fun-loving, as well as non-judging and accepting of all types of people.

Cycle of Abuse: 15 in 1982

I have read many, many, despondent writers, poets, etc.  Persons who, now in adulthood, have come through some depressing, harrowing, childhood situations.  On occasion, I have run across documentaries, news item, etc.  About pre-teen, teen, and young adult suicide.  All due to having lived at the violent hands and words of parents that outwardly appeared ‘normal.’  That inwardly, were the devil’s hand puppets.

Back in or around the early 80’s: Our house had burned down.  Down to the ground.  Standing stoic were the scant charred…2 by 4’s, abandoned ashen table ware and counters.  For all intensive purposes, my fifteen year old eyes witnessed nothing but a shell.

As I have said before, some memories blare at me such like the horn of an irritated driver.  Loud, clear, vibrant.  Other memories, due to my need to persevere, are faded and clouded.  Such like a watercolor painting you once adored but can, now, barely remember.

My siblings had long since been kicked out of the house.  It seemed to be a rite of passage.

You’re eighteen.  You did something to piss me off.  You are now no longer allowed on the land of misfits.”

Generally speaking, both, Bud and Sybil,  were conversatinally gone…Way before being physically excommunicated.  My sister enjoyed the company of questionable boyfriends.  A habit I firmly believe was thrown upon her by my father’s physical abuse.  And, my mother’s lack of emotional attachment.

My brother had his friends.  He partied.  He defied.  He had tired of protecting his mother.  And, at one point or another, during a physical altercation with my father.  There had been threats of guns and severe violence.  Best guess would be that was the point of no return.

After our house became a  photo source for neighbors.  After the smoke cleared, clothes of creosote were tossed and generations of knick knacks were tossed into the trash.  After the chaos of destruction became nothing more than local gossip…I was assigned the task of cleaning pennies, dimes, nickels and quarters.

In other words, our small but precious gallon jug of empty Riunite…that had been filled to the max with change; had succumbed to being spare change among broken glass.  And, it had been my assigned duty to clean each and every piece of  current currency…metal.  imageedit_8_8297636672

“Scrub it clean!  Here’s the toothbrush!  Now get at it.”

Had been the order barked out by both my father and my mother.

Sitting there between the lilac bushes and partially singed grass,  a stool, a toothbrush and pounds of  spare change… lay an endless fall.

With September sun beaming down.  I can still recall how sweat would douse the corners of my mouth and then, splash upon the tainted dime or penny.

My depression ran deep.  And, I had been fully aware of it.  Not knowing at the time about my father’s thirst for killing or psychosis.  Not being fully aware of the how and why of my mother’s terminal sadness.  Not being aware of much.  I knew that life in the Bowley household was not like the pretty white houses with laughter…that dotted the rest of the street.

My brother had since joined the Air Force.  And, my sister had married.  Still there had not been much connection between us.  It seems to me, that had been a scenario my parent had derived.  Either consciously or not.

Indeed, I had been my father’s favorite.  Which meant sports, sports and more sports.  Which meant teaching CCD, being active in youth group and singing in the church folk group.  Which meant I received far more than my share of…

“You can do better than that!  Are you stupid?  I don’t give a flying fuck what other parents do!”imageedit_4_3845432106

Either way, I was a lost budding young adult woman.  In a lost land.  With a bit of house insurance money left over.  My mother begged my father to take her to visit her favorite child, Bud!  Bud, my half-brother, had begun the pursuit of his second marriage in two years.  He had, also been affluent in the use of cocaine.  He had joined the Air-force!

Bud had been stationed in Florida.  And, my parents believed they deserved a break.  A break from the hustle and bustle of rebuilding life after a house fire.

Therefore, it was only reasonable that I should remain behind.  Only reasonable to think my best friend, Michael and, most importantly, his mother, would take me in.

This is where Black Beauties, booze, bad behavior and LSD come into play.  I had indulged at a very young age in Yukon Jack.  But my current course of plaid catholic school skirts, smoke and dope and sex…was in over drive.

Mimi, Michael’s mother, had seen this.  She had known what was about to come.  My intention had been death by over indulgence.  Dropping blotter, smoking weed, playing both sides of addiction against each other.

Mimi in her own hippie way, felt the only need for a deep, profound, change in my behavior…Would be therapy!

It had worked.  I met a wonderful woman named, Eileen.  We met once a week on the second floor above S n W sports.  Her office was filled with Buddha, warm thoughts and reflective flowing waters from an over sized fish tank.

My renewal was instant.  The remorse, guilt and shame that was felt became something talked about in open conversation.  I had not started the house fire.  But my intention on that fateful weekend…was to stay home.

Could I have stopped it?imageedit_11_5911877311

A kind woman in pastel flowing skirt…told me…

“No!”

My relief and new-found comfort within my own skin…Quickly dissipated.  For as soon as my parents returned.  And, even with Mimi’s glowing recommendation.  It was apparent that I would not longer be allowed to see Eileen.

My father ranted and raved over and over again…

“No daughter of mine is going to see a shrink…”

And, my mother…

“You heard your father!”

Funny, I was conceived in the tunnels underneath the New Hampshire State Hospital.  Or, that my father was once deemed insane.  And, my mother a manic-depressive with suicidal tendencies.  Yet, snipping possible self harm in the buttocks, while I was still young.  Seemed out of the question.

Looking back on my vivid with gray strands of depression, as a child and teen.  I think how fortunate I am to have survived.  To be able to function.

Course, there is much more to my parent’s love story.  Much more to the dysfunction.  Starting a few years before my birth and flourishing years after…My disowning the ‘family.’imageedit_14_9427699938