Sunday, June 12, 2011

Lost in Time

There was a point n time I was writing my biography. If someone offered me $1million dollars to tell you where in my story, chronologically, I would be, the only thing I would be is lost. Did that sentence make any sense, at all? I have to admit it is hard to write when I have Working Man, by Rush, blasting in my ear drums. It is weird that the sound does not come from either ear, rather, it is in the middle of my brain. How is that possible? I mean the sound is exactly coming from the middle of my brain. No, I am not smoking any dope. Do they still call it dope, these days? When I first started smoking I was 16 years old, sitting in a '49 Plymouth up on blocks. The interior was covered with black light posters and my buddy had a kick-ass sound system, coupled with a blue light to enhance the posters. The car had a huge interior that would hold 6 to 8 people inside. We spent many hours sitting in that car, getting stoned, jamming to some of the best music ever recorded. I was fortunate to be a teen during the height of rock music. I wonder what the neighbors thought about us spending hours sitting in that old car? When the door opened it would look like that scene from Cheech & Chong's movie, Up In Smoke. Hell, he lived in a rather crowded neighborhood and we never got the law called on us. This music is flashing me back to some old memories like the time Zak, my best friend, and I were sitting at the end of a dirt road out by fireman's island smoking some of that imported red bud. That shit was so sticky it was hard to roll a joint. We were getting plastered when Zak asked, yelled would be a better word, "Did you hear that?" punching me on my arm at the same time. It sorta pissed me off cause I was in the middle of one of Neil Peart's drum solos. I turned down the music. "What, are you tripping?" I asked him. We sat there a few minutes and did not hear anything. I was reaching for the cassette player when two loud knocks came from the window. It scared the living shit out of the both of us. We had been there long enough to smoke a couple doobies and I know the car was filled with smoke. We looked at each other, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do. We were just praying it would be some of our buddies that knew about fireman's island. Zak rolled the front window down about an inch and asked if someone was out there. We heard a booming voice. This is the Glencoe Police, I want you to turn your inside light on and roll the window down all the way. Don't worry about the pot smell getting out, I smelled you when I stepped out of my car. Zak turned the light on and I had a bag of red bud sitting in my lap, opened, with a pack of papers sitting on my leg. The officer said, "Hey Spot. You know I am gonna have to make ya'll follow me to the Hall to talk to the Chief." Shit, everybody knew me. I was born with black hair with a white spot in the front. Everybody called me Spot. Being popular is not all good. He took our weed and we followed him to the City Hall. The officer sat us in front of Chief Rutledge's desk while he went back to his apartment and woke him up. Yeah, I know. It was a small town. I looked over at Zak and he was about to cry. A few minutes later the Chief walked in and sat down at his desk, throwing the sack of weed in front of him. It was about 2am and the Chief was still in his PJ's. He looked at me and said, "Spot, what would your Dad say if he knew you had this stuff?" I told him that he would kill me. "Well, we better not tell him. He put the pot back in the baggie and rolled it like a sandwich. "You boys go home and I better not ever catch you with this stuff, again. We could not believe what just happened. Not a word was said until we got to my house. "Later." "Yeah."    theblogmeister

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