Here it is. Let me open up to you, give you a taste of my reality burger, let me spice that taco with some MAT SAUCE. . .
Six years ago, I lived in Oakland. My first place out of college was at Geroge Chen's 'Club Short', a blink of an eye from MacAruthr BART. I was rollin' in an early 90s Chevy Celebrity station wagon and feelin good (just graduated and sitting on a $9000 settlement from my house burning down).
One evening, my homie Kaya and I went to see a movie out in the Sunset, her boyfriend at the time was a programmer at 4 Star. The movie was fun or whatever, but afterwards, we wanted a drink. We went out to the Phone Booth and met up with our old friend from the janitor days, James. SERIOUSLY, we had two drinks, nothing fancy or over the top, just two drinks.
I gave James a ride home and headed on my way back to Oakland. On the Bay Bridge, there was some lame construction that funneled all the lanes into one, and I was down. Making the motions, doing my thing, I was getting into the one lane and this crazy asian cut me off from 2 lanes over, causing me to swerve outside the orange cones restricting us from the rest of the bridge. I stopped, took a breath and was ready to go. Unfortunately, there was a cop there and he stopped me. We talked for a while and I thought everything was cool, until he asked me if I'd had anything to drink. Like a fucking mama's boy, waste of flesh, I said 'yes'.
He gave me a breathalizer and it read '.08' - the minimum, the point of inebriation that is 'cop talk' borderline dividing benign from malignant. They thought I was a threat. ME! So, I went to the drunk tank, holding cell, crazy hell of a character builder shit hole story maker down the block from 850 Bryant.
I'm going to spare y'all the details, but I ignored that noise for 6 years, flying so low that I wouldn't even pee in public, and only started dealing with it knowing I was moving to the great state of Kentucky.
Nobody had frets, they were nice and compliant, and agreed to let me do my DUI class here in Louisville.
Well, in Louisville, one has to undergo an assesment, a gauge of ones dedication to, or interdependency to any paticular controlled substance.
My counseller was a pleasantly plump 50-somthing woman with a healthy obsession for the color purple (not the movie, the actual color). We talked for a long time, got along and I thought nothing of it. Then, in a flash, without thinking, I told her that I like smoking weed. In that moment, she didn't bat an eye, but at the end of our meeting, she told me I have to go to marijuana class, on top of drunk driving class.
I finished my DUI class and it was never worth blogging about, but last night, I had my first GRASS CLASS
The teacher had an intense 6'3" frame sporting a fuckable face and a sorry excuse for 'cowboy' look (cowboys wear jeans right!, they have ass and legs, there's never a dumpy inch, crotch to feet). HUMPH!
When the class started he asked us to give 3 reasons for smoking weed. I said, "taste, feeling cozy and entertainment." He went on to tell me that it's all emotional and I've sacrificed the reality of pain by using this crutch to curb the pain from everyday life, and that I feel discomfortable (sic) in my skin. I said, "that's not a word."
He got mad.
I still wanted to fuck his mouth.
After a while, he asked, "when was the last time you smoked?"
I said, "Friday."
He mindlessly asked, "So, what happened Friday after you smoked? Did you wake up the next morning with some burly Mexican?
I was like,"I wouldn't call him burly. . ."
He moved his eyes to the girl and asked when the last time she smoked was.
She said,"Today. I woke up and cried for 3 hours, for no reason, and I had to smoke before work."
I was all, "WHOA"
The teacher kind of rubbed his cumcatcher lower lip thing and swung his leg on the table. I didn't want to recognize that he was displaying his crotch with an unconscious, reckless motive. I think I gasped out loud.
Grass Class Cowboy went on to preach the word of dealing with life as we were given, taking responsibility for ourselves and living in big houses. . . for real.
The whole time I wanted his mouth. We went through sooo much lame shit and the centerpiece realization I came out with was the ever-present motivation to stuff his mouth with my modest penis.
