No Yesterday Coffee

This morning was the morning after a night of whiskey on the rocks with a few tokes thrown in just because. It has been awhile since I tipped a flask over a small glass of ice. I will say, the best way to conserve a bottle of high end sour mash is to not drink it very often. When I do, it only takes a couple ounces on ice to cheer me up and only 6 ounces and a joint to kick my ass.........

This morning I woke up hard. My ass had been thoroughly kicked. I wasn't really hung over. I was dazed and confused. The first thing on my mind was:

"Where is the coffee and do I have any left from yesterday?"

I had no "yesterday coffee". Damn. I will have to brew some. I turned on the TV while the coffee press did what coffee presses do. 

While I waited, I decided the best way to turn off the after effects of too much alcohol was to spark up some doob to go with my morning brew. So I fired up some of my self made "Mutant Hash" and while the coffee released its magic into those freshly ground beans: in a few minutes I was baked and really Jonesing for that first cup.

"Morning Joe" of the newly formed, MS-NOW was all about the latest stupidity dreamed up by "Donald Von Head Up His Ass". A follow up of sorts , or maybe just a continuation of another stupidity of his regarding his Venezuela vendatta against President Maduro. I stopped paying attention a few days ago when I heard American troops invaded Maduro's country, killed 32 Cuban soldiers and kidnapped Maduro to face charges in the US justice system.

I was about to pay more attention again when I took my first sip of the coffee I had brewed only a few minutes previous. Any notion of whining and complaining about another stupid Trump moment I have no control over flew out the window once I swallowed that first sip.

It was a perfect cup of coffee. It was the cup of coffee my taste buds always yearn for, but are so often left disappointed. I brew decent coffee, but the perfect brew only comes around once a decade or so. Well, maybe 10-12 times a year, but shit, who cares anyway? My point has been made. I brewed a perfect cup of coffee this morning. Anything I encounter for the rest of the day will pale in comparison. 

I came to loving coffee the hard way. My parents ran through many pots a day of the stuff. They would never allow me to drink it as a child; they were convinced that little boys needed no such artificial stimulations to add more crazy to their mad hatter ways. Both drank it black, which made it an easy choice for me to not complain. I detested black coffee then and still detest black coffee now. If God had meant for coffee to be consumed black, God would not have invented cows.

It wasn't until I began driving trucks over the road that I developed a taste for coffee. When go fast pills were unavailable or I was out of them, I began drinking coffee with a copious amount of cream and sugar. Eventually I became hooked. It was desperate measures while a truck driver that led me to coffee. It was the first perfect cup that sealed the deal. I have been pursuing that same cup ever since.

Brewing decent coffee is not hard. Brewing perfect coffee is being lucky. But brewing perfect coffee to go with an early morning bake is heaven.

Keep it 'tween the ditches. ................................

______________________

Once again the Google Gods and their offspring, YouTube somehow found the perfect tune to go along with that perdfect cup of coffee. Here is Little Stranger with their wake and bake song, "Coffee & a Joint". Enjoy.

The Light Weight

Not sure how this post will end up, finish, shit the bed, meet its demise. 

I spent this last weekend prepping for another colonoscopy procedure that went down yesterday at 12:20 PM at Southern Maine Med in Biddeford, Maine. Like most folks I guess, I hate the prep worse than the procedure. 

With my third colonoscopy under my belt now, I can say I have more than a passing aquaintence with the tubular TV camera they shove up.... Well, running that image through my mind conjures up all sorts of horror scenarios and unfounded concerns; but they knocked me out and when I woke up, I did not care about anything. My only question was, how did I end up back in the recovery room with a wonderful buzz I wish had been more awake for?

The rest of my post-op day was spent prone on the couch, falling in and out of the sleep I wish I had gotten 24 hours earlier. I was exhausted and very hungry. As a good ole boy somewhere, sometime must have once said:

"I was hungry enough to eat the ass out of a dead skunk." 

So, between my moments of slumber, I cleaned out the refrigerator. 

Today was the first normal day I have had since this butt peek gig started last week. I was busy today. I was uncharacteristically productive even if I did it in Low Low gear. 5 loads of laundry; then some puttering, laundry folding, and some more puttering. About 5:30-6:00, while I cooked dinner, I starting hitting the bottle of Skrewball that has been sitting on a shelf in the kitchen the last 3 or 4 months quietly waiting for some attention. I don't usually tolerate falvored whiskey of any kind. My one exception is Skrewball. It is unique and quite tasty, especially on ice.

Over the years, I have become a casual, moderate, almost teetotaling loser. I can still hold my liquor if I stop at 3 or 4 drinks. My championship drunks are many many years behind me now. By the third tumbler of Skrewball on ice, I was borderlined shitfaced. 

To my credit, the spaghetti and meatball dinner turned out fine. The mess I left, well, not so fine. I guess I should be thankful I did not have to clean the floor.

With a full belly and more than several Skrewballs on ice mingling with the pasta, meatballs and sauce, I came in here to my office, my man cave, the small room I waste time in; and I sparked up some doob. I had no goal in mind, just riding the buzz for all it was worth I guess. As it turns out, the doob might have been one or two tokes over the line. I ended up on the couch with the Whirlies. ........ I'm better now and trying to make some sense of this day that got away from me and the previous week that still haunts me.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ......................................

_______________________

It'd be so easy to pick one of my go to tunes that glorify the Demon Rum. Before I use a fall back choice though, I will spend some time looking for music I have never used before.

My search did not last long. I remembered a tune from my favorite Bluegrass and Blues artist in the 1970s. Here is David Bromberg with "Sloppy Drunk". Definitely a great whiskey sippin song.

How Does One Learn to Write Well?

I was exposed to the basics of writing in Grade School. By the time I left High School, I had a working knowledge of the nuts and bolts found in the discipline. It took years of intermittent scribbling before I began to notice I was becoming a better writer than I used to be.

I started a blog, "Lost in the BoZone" in 2004. At the time I considered the blog a passing fancy. After 20 years, it is apparent it not just something I just did for awhile. I am committed now. I give my attention to my blog all the credit for the major strides in improving my writing. Through the act of repetition, words began to come easier and often fell together in line just as I imagined they could.

I call writing a discipline because, if I have learned one thing, having a modicum of discipline and tenacity is what  helped me find a voice that could on occasion. make some sense.

But that was not the question, was it? 

How to write well hints are in short supply in my brain. I have come a long way since those clumsy essays, book reports, and the rambling bullshit I used in my blue book tests. If I couldn't dazzle them with my knowledge, I would beat them down with my bullshit.

There are a Gajillion Internet hook ups to find so called experts. For a small or not so small fee, they will turn you into the Stephen King you always wished, hoped, prayed you could be.

( Um, I have to interrupt this ever so fascinating opinion forming before your very eyes, but just the other day, I wanted to use the word "Gajillion" in a post. I have been trying to rein in my free range writing style so to produce a more acceptable, often boring style of writing that might please 7th grade English teacher, Ms Stanton. So. I punched up "Gajillion" and there on the screen, Gajillion was now an accepted almost real word which one definition claimed - "means more than a few". ....... So, there you have it. ...... In your face Ms Stanton. ............... Never mind...... Now, back to the points of the post I hope)

Earlier this AM, I watched Maggie go through her after breakfast rituals. She peed in one area, then moved deeper into the pucker to poop and finally it was time to check out the compost pile. Maggie is nothing if not predictable. As I sat on the compost bench out back, I caught a few tokes, sipped coffee, watched Maggie and thought about Writing Well.

The idea of  "Writing Well" is a fuzzy question with a fuzzy answer. Writing Well is really two things. There is the accepted grammatical conditions some might consider the barometer of good writing. But Grammatically correct writing only gets you in the ballpark. Good writing, in my opinion, is when someone reads something you wrote says, "Wow, that was awesome". 

When many people read your writing;  I guess that is what all of us who struggle along as so much pack fodder yearn for. I do not consider commercial success as a writer in this scenario. Much of what is printed is not "Well Written". It is "Adequately Written". 

I have to conclude then that the idea of "Writing Well" is in the eye of the person writing, while at the same time, also in the eyes of those who read those written words. I have no clue as to how well written my words are. I am fairly sure I am average and that's okay. I definitely write for my own satisfaction first and foremost. That some folks might find my words occasionally interesting is but icing on my cake.

I cannot advise anyone how to write like Steinbeck, Asimov or Mark Twain. What I do know is, anyone willing to be tenacious, patient, and self critical; they will most likely become better writers. So, stick with it. 

To all who have visited me here these past 20 plus years............. Thank You.

___________________________

The musical choice today will not have any purposeful connection to the post. I am going to begin listening to ............... Wait! 

The first song I played will most likely blow anything I might have had in mind out of the water. Here is, uh, not sure if this is the band or the tune, but here is "Penguins Groove in the Dark". It is the longest piece of music I have ever included with a blog post. The claim is, this 3 hour playlist of Jazz will increase "Creative Focus & Productivity".

All I know is, I am jumping in my chair, tapping my feet and listening to the sweet sounds of horns, drums and pianos, all rockin hard to burn down the joint. ......... My dad would love this. 

Just excellent! What a great find! ...........You are welcome.

Answering Pipe's Pot Question

I opened my big mouth in a previous post, "Licking the Spoon" and one of my good Internet friends jumped on it and innocently asked in the comment section:

"So, you say each (pot) smoking method is a bit different. Tell me what you find different when smoking marijuana in a pipe compared to other routes."

"Pipe" is a college professor who has been a good internet friend for twenty or so years. He has often voiced an interest in my pot consumption as he has never personally tried pot. Being a college professor, his inquisitive mind has always asked some difficult questions for me to answer. This is one. Maybe it shouldn't be, but it is.

Instead of answering him with a more comprehensive answer in the comments section, I will answer him in today's post

The Pot Culture of the America I grew up in had its beginnings in private social settings. They were private because, well, Pot was illegal and in some states getting busted could mean serious jail time. Right out of the gate, my favorite way to consume Pot was and still is with friends, enemies, strangers on the street. I love the passing of the pipe, the joint, the bong. Many times, getting high is not even the point. It is the group sharing time that pleases me.

But that does not answer Pipe's question. .... Not really.

The first time I smoked pot, it was out of a tobacco pipe Snake's Uncle Charlie had thrown away. The years old tobacco taste ruined any thought of getting high. Plus the pot turned out to not be pot, just some leaves from the woods we dried in an oven. We thought it was pot. It was not. All we got for all that effort were severe headaches.

That first experience was quickly forgotten when Snake and I bought some joints from a local kid in Bethesda. He was a Senior in high school, we were punk-ass junior high schoolers. We went over to the NIH campus across Old Georgetown road and hid in some bushes near the Chimp building to smoke. We hung out there sometimes in the summer because the Chimps were often in cages outside or rather inside with their garage doors open. They were a hoot to watch.

So my first bake was from smoking a joint. To this day, it remains my favorite. Properly rolled joints are the most convenient package to carry pot in, I only need a lighter or a book of matches to make the magic happen. There is no extraneous equipment to carry to possibly lose or break. The downside of a joint though is it is the least efficient means to get high.

Then there are pipes. Hands down, a more efficient and potentially frugal way to smoke pot. Depending on the pipe system, a small amount can hit way above its weight when compared to the same hit off a joint. There are so many variations of the pipe systems, I will just say my favorites are a simple pipe that has never had tobacco in it. 

I still have quite a collection of pipes dating back to the 1960s. My favorites are the ones pictured to the right. The wooden one was given to me by a girlfriend in college. The metal one I bought at a Head Shop. Both are well over 50 years old and intended for smoking Hash, I like them because besides smoking hash with them, they are great for small pulls of pot. They are not pipes that pass around a circle well. Not enough capacity. On those occasions a joint is much better. Using a larger capacity pipe invites packing like a tobacco pipe is packed. Too much doob being burned can become less pleasant as the bowl burns down. Even if using a larger pipe, a screen inside closer to the top is advised. The taste and quality of the smoke improves dramatically.

Moving on now. 

Bongs came on the scene 60 plus years ago. My first bong, I made for myself. It worked well for awhile but then I dropped it and the base plate cracked. It began to leak. There is not a much better way to deliver a lung busting hit than with a bong, if punishing your lungs seems an attractive idea. I can take or leave them; but mostly leave them. They have a level of maintenance I just cannot abide. Bong water left unchanged is the nastiest liquid on the planet. They break easily and are a bitch to clean. I still have one I bought at a head shop in Towson, Maryland back in the day. I broke it and repaired it and then put it away somewhere. I haven't been able to find it for over 30 years now. I would like to find it because it is ceramic and shaped like a dragon.

Then I guess I should mention waterpipes, or hookahs, as the hash smoking ones of the Middle East are called. Absolutely the smoothest smoking, but the least portable. I once built a 4 chamber water pipe. Why would I do that, you might ask? Well, because I could and at the time I was all about finding new ways to ingest my favorite substance. My infatuation lasted an even shorter period of time than my use of bongs.

The absolute most efficient bang for the buck ingestion of Cannabis is eating it. Not eating the buds, but the processed THC that can be extracted from it. No smoke in the lungs, no THC loss because of smoke not ingested. Hands down the healthiest way to use it, if anyone would call ingesting cannabis healthy. My wife loves the edibles I make. She gets her helping dose without any coughing. But for me, smoking a joint is the best.

It is time I buttoned this post up. I could definitely go on ... and on ... and on. If Pipe has any questions now, I will answer them in private.

Ya'll have a good day now, hear .........................

_____________________________

There are a gajillion songs about smoking Cannabis. The earliest song I know of  and like is Cab Calloway's "Reefer Man" recorded in 1932. But my absolute favorite song about pot is "Don't Bogart that Joint", originally recorded by Fraternity of Man that was used in the movie, "Easy Rider".

Best pot song ever.

Pot Brownies & A Reminder

I got a slow start this morning. Maggie finally got me to wake up after more than a few snout-shoves into my open mouth. Usually, it only takes one snout into the mouth for me to instantly wake up. But I ate Pot Brownies yesterday and well, it was definitely a case of one brownie over the line. Memories of yesterday was lost in a THC infused fog and any plans I have for today are now suspect. It's a Helluva thing to be that stoned for almost 24 hours. But hey, I'm retired, and at least I didn't mix alcohol into my day.

Moving on now .............................

My wife and I have been doing all we can to not let the current political stupidity overwhelm us. It is a hard chore indeed as both of us are political junkies. 

I came by my interest from all those kid years listening to my family raise Hell over the current status of Ike, Kennedy, Johnson and Tricky Dick. Being Republicans, it might have been a lock that I ended up a card carrying member of the GOP also. But then, my parents also permitted me and encouraged me to be my own person. After flirting with the Right, I am sure it was a disappointment when I joined the enemies on the other side of the aisle. 

My wife becoming a political junkie has always puzzled me. Her family life was not a hot bed of political commentary. Her family was normal in that respect I think. Yet, here she is now, just as fired up as I am. Maybe I am the bad influence, maybe I am not. Of course I know I am not the bad influence. She is her own person and has been as long as I have known her. She may not allow herself to foam at the mouth as I sometimes do, but she is every bit as invested in the well being of our country as I am.

Politics aside, or rather maybe it's just a coincidence that this post was at the beginning, was a response to Facebook cutting off political ads on October 29 through to and including November 5, I will use my page to post daily, at least one image to remind folks just what kind of stupidity and evil will result should the Orange Shit Gibbon be allowed to once again squat in the Oval Office and shit all over us as he did in the past.

Vote Blue all the way through.

 Don't let the GOP get a stronger hold on our balls than they already do.

Later ................................

_______________________________

I was never a huge fan of Brewer & Shipley, a Pop hippy duo from the 1970's. But I did enjoy this song, "One Toke Over the Line"; only because well, it had that one lyric that was a bold public move back in those days when the powers that were, promised us and frightened many of us into believing that Marijuana was indeed the Devil's Weed and consuming it was sure to put us on the Train to Hell when it was time for us to leave this mortal coil.

Besides, one of the lyrics mentions "Sittin in a railroad station one toke over the line." That line always made me smile because once when I was sitting in a Bus Station in Baltimore, Maryland and I was approached by a hippy couple. They needed some coin to buy tickets to Los Angeles, 2800 miles away. All they had was a bunch of LSD, and no money.

Well, how could I resist? I had money, but no LSD. It became a logical and as it turned out, a comical trip north to Maine. I bought 10 hits, ate 1 and got on my bus. I laughed all the way to Boston where I ended up sleeping in a field and then the next day, finished the trip by hitchhiking the final 100 miles to my parents house in Acton, Maine.. 

Apparently, laughing to yourself is creepier or more disturbing than talking to yourself.  I was the target of some very strange looks during the trip, or should I say trips. I didn't care, I was having a blast.

Anyway, here is "One Toke Over the Line" by Brewer & Shipley.

Mysterious Ways

Recently, the term "God Works in Mysterious Ways" caught my eye. That term has always bothered me. It is the final, end of the conversation rationale used to excuse God from any blame. Along with the idea of "Free Will", both conveniently wash away any sins God may have had a hand in during his day to day interactions with Humanity.

It's like saying:

"Yeah well, this might be some bad shit, some ugly and brutal shit that I am sending your way; ....but you gotta go with it because it's all part of my plan, the workings of which you will never understand because you are mere mortals and I am Omnipotent.  .........

Besides, I gave you free will. You have to shoulder at least part of the blame. Right? ....... No? Well Nyah, nyah, nyah. I make the rules. Suck on it.  ...... I cannot be blamed for what I do in  your name."

Hmm .........................

Well now;... That was some odd Bullshit to spill out of my brain this morning. Seems I have not had enough coffee yet. Or is it that I have had too much? 

Back to Mysterious Ways and the original point I wanted to make. Seems my original point has gone AWOL. I am sure it was about God and the tendency of the righteously faithful to fall back on God to cover and excuse the assholery they might inflict on their fellow Man. ....... That moment has passed. The point was driven home somewhat; but without the necessary inflections, invictions, and potential resurrections to comprise a well rounded post. 

No, I fuckin dropped the ball this AM, which only points up another kind of mysterious ways. On a post I should have squelched, choked out, or set fire to before I ever wrote a word, I still insisted on wasting your valuable time and my less valuable time with inconsequential dribble than I ruthlessly unleashed on the innocent and unsuspecting Public. Why I insisted is one of my mysterious ways I will wonder about but never take the time to understand.

Some people and some shit were never meant to make sense. Today's post is a perfect example.

At least I had some fun.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ..........................................

___________________

Back in the days when I could be silly without embarrassment, my brothers turned me onto the Doo Wah Ditty, Purple People Eater pop tunes that saturated AM radio. I loved them. But then what 7 year old wouldn't?

In keeping with the silliness of the above post, here is "Purple People Eater", by Sheb Wooley. I was six years old when this song came out. It instantly hit #1 with a bullet. It was everywhere. You can imagine my six year old response. That might have been the first time I remember my mom insisting that, "I take it outside, ferchrisakes."

And because it is October after all; the month when monsters crawl out of every crib all around town. Creatures will stir and set up in front yards under lights. They might even wave their hands.

Here is another a silly song from the same period that pays homage to Halloween and all that it stands for, please enjoy "Monster Mash", recorded by Bobby Picket & the Crypt Kickers in 1962.  My favorite stanza:

From my laboratory in the castle east

To the master bedroom where the vampires feast

The ghouls all came from their humble abodes

To get a jolt from my electrodes

________________

Feast or Famine

I sometimes think, that as a writer, there is nothing worse than experiencing prolonged periods of writer's block. But then coming out of it and in usually an unexpected, yeah always an unexpected moment, my manic side kicks in and suddenly, I have too many things to write about and the 100 differing ways to write them. Sensory overload usually brought on by a few tokes over the line on the morning walk.

Too many ideas at one time can be very frustrating also and often bring with them an inability to focus on just one. 

Feast or Famine.

This morning I awoke with my first writing idea in mind. I know I did because the last thing I remembered before forgetting it,was when I came up with a new idea to replace it with. All morning long it has been a barrage of notions, tales and lies to write down. My brain has decided the best way to leave writer's block in the rear view mirror, is to take a shotgun approach to firing up my creative juices.

Feast or Famine

So far, as of 9:13 AM, I have conjured up a flash story idea about a dude being tortured and laughing at his tormentors. I watched Arnold Schwarzenegger being interviewed on MSNBC. Immediately I thought:

"Hey, Arnold has really surprised me over the years, I should write about him."

Thoughts of an "Ah-nold" post were lost as soon as I sat down to write and noticed that the normal pigsty that is my office and especially my desk seemed different. Instead, there was a kind of erratic calm, messy order, and involuntary sanity in what was before, the usual chaotic disorder and mayhem.

Other notions replaced previous notions steadily for 4 hours. And because I was blinded by the light and wealth of strange schemes, I became overwhelmed and useless. I can only write about what I might have, could have, in the future probably will have written about. 

I accomplished only slightly more than a normal screwin the pooch day here on Sam Page Rd. Without question, writing about what I am not writing about but could if I only focused for a nanosecond or two is as close to not quite screwin the pooch as I can get and still claim I had a productive day.

I hope the rest of the day ends making more sense.

Keep it 'tween the ditches .......................................

____________________________

Focusing on one song to share was actually easier than I thought it might be given the scattered brain I am utilizing at the moment. Well, the stars that line up for us potheads must be near or close by to some kind of conjunction, intersectional crossroad. I went right to Sublime and their cover of "Smoke Two Joints". I dare you to not tap your feet.

First Legal Doob

The other day I bought my first legal joint from a cannabis store in Lebanon, Maine. And though pot has been legal in Maine since the election in November of 2016, it felt very odd to walk into a store and come out with weed. .............. Really odd.

Since I have grown my own Doob for years, I seldom had need to try commercial weed. I wanted to check out how buying Doob over the counter would go. I brought a friend along who was well versed in most of the pot shops within a 40 mile radius. As it turned out he was less than useless other than being able to put pins in the atlas. But we had some fun when we got back to his place.

The shop I picked was on the border with New Hampshire. I walked in the front door, which in any other building would have been the side door. It opened into what looked like a very small waiting room one might find at any doctor or dentist's office. There was a window over a counter with a slot under it. Behind the glass sat a gregarious young man who asked me first:

"Is this your first time visiting us here at East Coast Cannabis?"

How did he know? I smiled though and told him it was. He asked for some ID. I slid my license through the slot. He took a picture of it and slid it back through the slot. He then gave me a well worn spiel of how this visit would go down. 

He pushed a button that released the next door and I proceeded into the main store. The showroom was small, maybe 100 sq feet. It was new, cool, and hip people waited behind a counter to sell me whatever I could want in the way of Cannabis products. Well, as it turned out, they did not sell seeds. Mentally, I scratched them off my list of future visits. There was absolutely no bud, or as they refer to it at the store, no flower anywhere to be seen. I was directed to two flat screens hanging on a wall. A multitude of pot strains were listed with their price per quarter ounce, eighth ounce, and rolled joints, blunts and regular. Prices seem to be based on THC content. I looked the choices over, picked a pre-rolled blunt with a claimed THC content of 34% and proceeded to the cash register.

Before I could tell the neo hippie behind the counter what I wanted, he immediately began what was a another well worn spiel he had to give before selling. It went something like:

"We only accept cash, so if you need an ATM, there is one outside at the far end of the building. We do allow you to inspect any product we sell, just let us know what to fetch from the back. There is no removing the flower from the sealed containers for a sniff or a squeeze. All sales are final .......... Now, how can I help you."

All business and professional to this point until I told him my choice, "White Truffle Avalanche".

"You know sir, the Avalanche has a 34% THC level. It is fortified with kief. Maybe for your first visit you might want to pick, oh, maybe the "Pure Durban" or "Blue Gelatti". 

I stopped him before he could name any other strains available. And because he called me "Sir" with hint of condescension, I said:

"Son, how old are you?'

He looked startled. 

"Uh what? How old am I, uh well if it matters, I'm 29."

"Well, I've been smoking pot twice as long as you have been alive. I began growing it in college and then  grew it off and on until this year. I long ago learned to school myself regarding the drugs I ingested. I doubt seriously the "Avalanche" is going to make me cry for my momma or send me to the ER."

He said nothing. His face hardened and he stepped back. "I will be right back with your pre-roll."

He came back with the pre-roll inisde a little glass tube with a cork stuffed in it. My first thought was, "No wonder this joint costs $15.45."

He slipped the pre-roll into a black zip lock bag. I gave him a twenty, got my change and I left.

All in all, if this first experience is any indication of what I can expect if I ever visit another Recreational retail pot shop, I will not be visiting many of them again and actually spending money unless they have seeds to sell. That is my next quest; to find seeds produced in Maine. It would be wonderful to not be paying some outfit in the Netherlands each year.

The verdict on the kief enhanced "White Truffle Avalanche" was a big ho hum, underwhelmed reaction from both my friend and myself. It was certainly good pot. No doubt about that. But neither my friend nor I found it to be worth $15.45. That's okay. I threw some support to a local pot shop and later enjoyed a nice buzz. 

Keep it tween the ditches ......................................

___________________

I thought of the song for this post before I wrote it. This song was an anthem for a small group of heads I often shared joints with back in the day we had all our teeth and all our hair (well except from Tommy, he was bald at age 18 before he even went to college).

Here is "Don't Bogart Me", by Fraternity of Man from the 1969 movie "Easy Rider".

D. Hard Swallow

Last Saturday, I went to the 8th Annual "Jeezum Crow Festival" at the Stateside Amphitheater located at Jay Peak Ski Resort up yonder in northern Vermont. It was quite a road trip for me as I have made it my goal to not wander far from my home toilet in recent years.

All I had to do was make it to my daughter's house and the rest of day and night I was allowed to be as loose as I wanted. Mr. Man and Lis took over and baby sat. It was great. They were great, I was grateful. The Day was one of the best of my life in recent memory.

We arrived around 2:00 PM. The first act, "Soulshine Revival" were into the back half of their set. We found our spots to set up the chairs. We sat down and enjoyed 8 hours of truly fine Bluegrass-ish, Country-ish, and Blues-ish picking and grinning. There was not a band I did not enjoy. 

While the second band, Sicard Hollow was setting up, my daughter turned to me. Because of the ambient noise that is part and parcel of events such as this, combined with my old fart ears failing to clearly hear, what I heard actually shocked me for a moment.  My daughter is no prude and has an expert grip on the complete range of obscenities that float through and around the American lexicon. But when I heard her say "Dick Hard Swallow", well, that rudely brought me out of my Pot edible/alcohol haze. 

I asked her, "Did you just say 'Dick Hard Swallow' "? 

She busted out laughing. And maybe she was also a little surprised that I also said those words. She was just telling me the name of the band that was setting up at that moment. Their name is "Sicard Hollow", but from now on until the end of time, they will be "Dick Hard Swallow" whenever I think of them. They are very good and don't deserve such a name, but well, sometimes its a cross a band has to swallow.

It was a great time. Once I sat down around 2:00 PM, I didn't move for 8 hours. I was hoping to not have to hit the head and I almost made it. But around 10:00 PM, I knew I had to hit the toilets ASAP.

My growing insistent call of nature had finally turned into an ugly inner turmoil of panic and promises from within that should I forego use of a toilet, things would most definitely get ugly. I stood up, stepped around my chair and almost fell backward down the hill. People jumped to save me and I imagine some jumped to escape. But as it turned out, my body was only fooling. With a smile and a "I got this"gesture, I stumbled up the hill to the ski lodge where the toilets were. I am sure the folks downstream from me had they known of the horror show of what might have been, would share my relief that I did not become a boulder with arms and legs gathering steam as I crushed and left them in my wake. .... You're welcome.

Damn, getting old sucks.

______________________________

Because I had fun mangling their name, I figured I should hi-lite "Sicard Hollow" with a musical number of theirs. Here is their tune live in Nashville, "Grass is Greener"

These dudes rock! ............ But to me, they forever will be "Dick Hard Swallow".

Sorry dudes. 

Indictment Day

Tuesday was Indictment Day. Thousands of media types, newscaster types, and hordes of talking heads from both sides of the aisle were sporting woodies over what was to happen when the orange asshole walked into a courtroom down in Miami.

As it turned out, all the frenzied what ifs, what might happens and general alarmist bullshit the media came up with was a tempest in a teacup. Donald pled not guilty to 30 plus counts of being extremely stupid and extremely sleazy. His supporters whined a bunch and are still whining. 

Donald then got on a plane and flew back north and started whining about the same tired shit he and his boot licking fans have complaining about since 2016; Hillary's emails and Hunter's laptop.

SSDD. If Trump sees the inside of a jail cell, if only for a moment, I will be ecstatic. I won't hold my breath though.

Tuesday was also Pot Brownie Bake day. I bake up medicinal brownies to help my wife deal with her sleep related issues since her fight with cancer in 2017-2018. 

I'll admit the drudgery of baking is ameliorated by the fact that I get to lick the spoons, the bowl,  and the mixing blades. Once licked, it takes about 45 minutes for the mixer leavings to kick in. And then it becomes time to think about the couch and how comfortable it will be for the remainder of the day.

I have the process down now. From pan to brownie, the 2+ hour effort ends up with approximately 120 ten gram brownies that supply BA for about 3- 3 1/2 months. The brownies are excellent with no cannabis aftertaste or grit because I use hash oil I distill from my own crop.

These two "highlights" of a perfect day got even better when I learned that the vote I cast in the morning at the Town Hall helped put a new friend on the Select Board. 

For me it was a Super Tuesday.

__________________________

For this post I am offering up a song I have been looking for almost any excuse to post. It is a duet by Billy Strings and Willy Nelson. It is called "California Sober". 

Enthusiastically Useless

Ok. ....... I had a busy morning yesterday and now this morning I don't. Good thing too. Yesterday I wore myself out. Certainly happens faster now days than it used to. Of course, whenever I become Enthusiastically Useless, on the next day there are always prices to pay. ..... Always. 

Sometimes the cost comes in pounds of flesh, sometimes losses of memory I will never be able to recover. No matter the cost, the next day is a guaranteed wash as Enthusiastic Uselessness is almost always a two day event. 

It's all my darling wife's fault. She ran out of brownies which have become a mainstay in her life now that she is post cancer.

I did not appreciate how totally life changing even a drive by hit of cancer can be until I witnessed my before cancer wife become my post cancer wife. I considered the brownies I baked up for her during her treatment as a temporary aid to help her sleep and ease pain and potential nausea. The cancer however changed her biorhythms so drastically and permanently,  the brownies are here to stay. 

Well. ..... I knew I was probably in for it once the pot brownies hit the oven and I had licked up all that excess batter that had conveniently seemed too hard to get out of the mixing bowl. Most times, there's more than enough batter to make whatever hours left in my day waste away in wonderful uselessness. It matters little whether I am in an animated state with my eyes open or my peeps are slits and I have collapsed into a THC infused couch lock while streaming 50 year old "McHale's Navy" re-runs.  Useless is useless whether dead or alive.

Once the brownies have gone into the oven and the bowls and spoons have been licked,  there is a small window of time, say an hour, in which to remain somewhat unstoned. How high I get is directly related to how much batter was left to consume. I got a little heavy handed yesterday and well, I became over the top Enthusiastically Useless; but not so useless that I was comatose. 

I got shit done yesterday. There was no rhyme or reason for the scattered bits of honey do stuff I did, but  when I collapsed last night, I knew I had been productive contrary to the current tendencies I now champion. 

Yeah, yesterday was a good day. Muscles hurt and my brain feels like an empty old barn looks. Cobwebs floating gently in the dust  lighting up as it passes the grimy windows in the early morning Sun.

Keep it "tween the ditches ....................................

__________________

Now we come to the music. I googled "useless music" and it appears the idea of useless is on many musicians's minds. There are countless tunes about useless. I considered going with my first choice, Lovin Spoonful's, "Day Dream". Then I spotted "Gorillaz", a virtual band that has been making music for twenty years at the least. 

Discovering new music has been one of the perks of retirement I did not consider. All this extra time on my hands has been filled with what I used to consider most days a waste of time. Now no day is wasted, just experienced without any considerable tolls, like earning a living. Now I can flow wherever the butterfly floats and not feel too guilty.

To that end, finding new music has become a top shelf interest.So I am including the old favorite, Lovin Spoonful's "Daydream" along with a two-fer from Gorillaz;  "Clint Eastwood" and "Feel Good Inc."

Enjoy.

Arguing With Myself

Earlier today I was mousing my way down Facebook Lane and not paying much attention to the meme's that passed by.  I must  have been distracted or just deep into my FB Daze earlier than usual.  Suddenly I stopped my scrolling.  It dawned on me that it was nothing but muscle memory that had me wandering aimlessly around Facebook at 5:30 in the morning.

I began to internalize and an argument with myself broke out about me always being sucked into useless endeavors that had no real importance in the scheme that was my life.  Yeah, I began to give myself Hell. Then, totally out of character for me, I stopped arguing with myself.  I realized, not only was I deep into another round of useless mental masturbation, now I wanted to argue with myself the merits of said useless endeavor.

"Screw this, I'm taking Maggie over to Mary's Woods, sparkin up a doob while I stretch our legs and forget Facebook even exists, if only for a brief moment or two."

Smart choice.  Wake n Bake to the rescue again.