Well I originally had this under the node heading: Stoner Moment of the Week, but apparently the MAN didn't like it too much and so here is in it's new residence, me bitter? naw.

Stoner Moment of the Week

Here at the University of Puget Sound a group of students have started unofficially pointing out some of the most ridicululous moments remembered while smoking the ganga. But, of coarse, being the supreme group of potheads that they are, it comes as no suprise that the rating system doesn't make sense and usually doesn't even come close to being "weekly" by any means. Basically it's just for our entertainment and can be found documented on a select few whiteboards throughout the dorms.

And now, some Truly Stoner Moments:

So a group of about seven of us embarked upon a quest to smoke and in doing so walked about six blocks off campus into a relatively deserted alleyway. As we sat down in a little circle of goodness we all started either supplying the bud or packing the bowls, and when it was all finished the quesiton finally arose, "whose got the lighter?" long pause...... "anybody?!" another pause....and a collective thinking of the work "shit" circulated about, but just then I realized that I had remembered seeing a pack of matches in my backpack, that happened to actually be on my back. "Oh well" I thought, "we can make this work". So I reach in my bag and there it is, so out it comes and as I open it up, inside I find..... two joints. So here we were with our pipes and our bubblers, and me with two Js on top of it all, with absolutely no way of smoking any of it. So I took one for the team and ran back to campus and got us a lighter and all was well in the end, but still, what a bunch of potheads we were (and I guess still are).

Alright so this was a few days before we'd all be leaving for winter break and my friends and I had recently thrown down for about an eighth of an ounce, but had only managed to smoke a tiny portion of it. So I made the executive decision to use the rest in a batch of brownies. Now, if you've ever prepared brownies before you probably know that the only part that really smells anything like weed is the first step in which you simmer the crushed up buds in the butter]. So the question was, where would we simmer some butter where we wouldn't tip anyone off as to our endeavor? The most obvious solution to our conundrum was the local park, at midnight. So I grabbed my roommate's camping stove, got a few of the ol' smoking buddies together and we set off for the park. The stove took a little while to set up, and the park was by no means the safest place to conduct this little project, but we made do. So the simmering was all finished and we realized that we didn't just want a pan filled with butter in our return trip to the dorm kitchen, hence I thought it might be a good idea to add the eggs and brownie mix so that at least we could pass it off as one of the other dorm's oven being broken...or something. So anyways I took the pan off the flame and cracked an egg and tossed it in, and as I was doing so I could hear a collective "ohhhh no" as the raw egg made contact with the still smoking frying pan, and instantly fried itself. Needless to say I got shit for that little fuck up for nearly an hour straight, as we took the mixed batter back to the dorm with it's little chunks of fried egg within. And of coarse later it was realized that it would have made for one absolutely classic anti-drug commercial, "This is your brain- this is your brain, on drugs".

I’m a bookworm. So was my father. It runs in the family. There’s a story about my grandfather who would sit down in his rocker after supper with a book, a bowl of apples, and a bottle of whiskey. He would not go to bed until all three were finished.

I inherited all of these tastes. The Webbie definition (bookworm: a reader without appreciation) can happen when appetites are not balanced. I have a Program friend who often says that after he sobered up he rediscovered his entire home library.

I’m more of a balanced reader these days. I have other diversions. When I was a child we lived in a remote area with poor TV reception; books were my only diversion. Obsessive/compulsive is my middle name. Once I learned to read, that is all that I did. Whenever I could find reading material, I read.

I read street signs and billboards, women’s magazines in hairdresser shops while waiting for my mother, the ingredients list on the ketchup bottle, my father’s woodworking manuals, and recipes on the backs of Campbell’s soup cans. I tackled the family Bible until my father locked it up: he thought all those begats were too adult for my innocence.

My first adult book, Jack London’s “Call of the Wild”, was a Christmas present from my father when I was seven. I dropped out of the carol singing or gift opening or whatever it was the rest of the family was doing around the Christmas tree. I read my book. To the very end. And then I read it again. And again.

By the time I was nine or ten my parents were worried about this behavior. That was the year when I was not allowed to read anything during summer vacation. No books. No reading. Go outside and play. See your friends.

I became more devious in my quest for something to read. We lived in a small town and my mother often sent me to the grocery store to buy one or two items. I spent hours there, reading the backs of cereal boxes until the store proprietor told me to go home. I read all the comic books in the dime store until I was told to go home. I discovered a box in the attic that contained bundles of old letters. My father was a romantic when courting my mother; she burned the letters when she caught me reading them. No matter. I know how that one turned out   :   me.

When I was eleven I entered Junior High. Now I had access to the library. I checked out as many books as allowed, smuggled them into my bedroom disguised as homework. I hid them between the mattress and the box spring on my bed, read them late at night under the covers with a flashlight. I had the perfect solution. Finally.

This went on for months until the Sunday morning when I went to church without making my bed. My mother, who for some reason had gone to an earlier Mass, decided to make my bed for me and found my stash. Returning from church, I was met at the door by my father, who escorted me to my bedroom. There, on the bed, was a stack of library books.

I was amazed at the sheer number of books I had hidden. My father explained that the books themselves were not bad (i.e. nothing there to corrupt me), but it just wasn’t healthy for me to read so much.

I don’t remember what happened after that. As I said earlier, I’m more of a balanced reader these days. I have other diversions: E2 and E2 and E2. Obsessive? Me? Naw.

Almost 3 years ago, the world suffered a terrible loss. A great man died around Christmastime.

What made him great? Not what you might think. He wasn't famous, he didn't play sports, or have a hit record (although that may have been a dream of his). He never appeared on television, or had his name in the paper.

He wasn't rich, not in the usual sense. But I think that if you asked him, he'd probably tell you he was rich in the things that mattered - friends and family.

He had a love of music that was almost frightening. His knowledge of antique fountain pens and old watches was practically encyclopedic. He loved what he did, and did what he loved.

So why was he great? Why is the world less complete without him? What did he do that makes him worth remembering? He was a father, a husband, a son, a brother, an uncle. He was a physician, and helped many people. He loved his family, and he knew what was really important in life. He was great in a small, quiet way.

Who was this great man? This man was Dr. Jeffrey Ash - my Dad. And while the things that I have said may be an exaggeration, the loss I feel is not.

I love you Daddy. And I miss you very much.

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