The Search for Spliff

One of you people has officially requested a new GayBoy story (via email-- see how appeasing I can be?). So, then, here you go.

But I have a favour to ask. I'm going to be doing a photo show soon, if my luck pans out, and if so, I need to start a collection. Can you tell me which of the photos in the grouping below this most strikes you? Just post a comment saying which one you like, and if you want, why. And coming soon is a new site for my photography. The link will be posted this week, when I complete the project.

* * *

It was the summer of ‘98, and I’d taken my car off the road with the intention of cycling everywhere that season.

Once in a while, I’d borrow my mother’s car, an Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra.

This was one of those nights. GayBoy and I were planning to take in a movie, There’s Something About Mary, and if there’s anything the Farrelly Brothers should require when you’re watching their flicks, it’s that you be high, high, high, like the clouds.

Enter Mary Jane.

That night, GayBoy and I headed down and we parked on Hornby Street, next to Robson Square. I posted photos of the Square last week, and this one reminded GayBoy of this night.



We rolling a little dope (making joints) in the car, instead of smoking my trusty old stone pipe given to me in ‘95 by my big brother.

What you probably don’t know about GayBoy is that his alterego is Butterfingers. The dude’s a screaming klutz. He breaks shit left, right, and center at my place. He’ll knock plants off the table, drop wine glasses, spill milk, leave a mountain of crumbs in his wake. The boy is a portable natural disaster is what he is. I love him regardless, but this is what you need to know: I have house insurance for a reason.

So, naturally, boasting about and displaying his now-perfectly-rolled joint, GayBoy drops the fucking doobage. It bounces off his knee, and falls into the Crevasse of Things You Don’t Want to Touch between the seat and the car’s console.

“Jesus Christ!” shouts GayBoy.

Next thing you know, we’re on our knees in the gutter and on the street, trying to find the damn spliff. After about five minutes of pawing through the car, trying to find this nondescript piece of rolled white paper in amongst a plethora of nondescript shreds of white paper, we finally meet with some luck.

But not before GayBoy has a near-breakdown. “Your mother hates me! She thinks I’m a bad influence! Oh, my God, if she finds this-- Shit, shit, shit, motherfucker! Fuckety fuck-fuck!”

So, I found it, naturally, while the drama queen was off on a rant. Shaking my head, I suggest we tackle a Plan B so we’re not scuffing up our kneeds worse than they already are.

Naturally, we took it to the Square, right next door.

Sitting at the bottom of the stairs you see above, if you’re on the left side of the bottom, you’re actually on the very edge of the rooftop pool/fountain that cascades over the roof, dropping down three-storeys of terraced ledges. This is the bottom.

We took our seats, were joking around, smoking our dope, enjoying the warm fragrant summer’s night, when a security guard approached. With lightning-quick reflexes I always display when trouble’s about to find me, I hid the joint under my ass, just as the guard stopped beside us.

This is probably a good time to mention that I have never, ever been caught smoking dope, except if you want to include this event. I think it’s partly that I feel absolutely no shame about my habit. It’s not like I’m killing kittens, beating kids, or robbing the blind. I’m smoking herb, dude. That’s it.

But I’ve got incredibly good peripheral vision and know how to get away with things, and if I was caught? I’d probably charm myself out of it. But I always note positions of security guards in concerts, for instance, where I’ve smoked up at probably well over 150 events over the years, all without ever getting caught. Once in a blue moon, I’ll catch a guard looking at me quizzically, as if “Did she just do what I think she did?” but they’ll shake their head and move on.

Hell, I’ve been in concerts where I’m standing next to friends (right, WhippedBoy?) where I’ll suck in a monster drag off my pipe, having lit my lighter to do so, and even they don’t notice I smoked a toke until I exhale my drag some 20 or so seconds later.

I owe it all to Nixon: “Don’t get caught.” Absolutely, Dick. It worked so well for you.

I am the dope-smokin’ ghost of the Pacific coast, my friends. I could be a spy, man, I’m just that good.

“Um, good evening,” the guard ventured.

“Yeah, nice one, huh?” Says GayBoy.

“Oh, very,” says the guard. “Nice night to be hanging out in the square, which brings me to my question. You wouldn’t happen to be smoking mary-wanna, now, wouldja?”

GayBoy and I exchange glances.

“Why, no, sir-- Well, hypothetically now, if we were smoking marijuana, what would you be forced to do?” I asked.

“Well, I’d have to ask you very kindly to leave the premises is what I’d have to do.”

So, GayBoy and I grin at each other.

“Now, we weren’t smoking the evil weed, but were were feeling oddly ready to leave.”

“Now that you mention it...” said GayBoy.

We dusted off our asses as we got to our feet and the security guard just sort of grinned, and let us swagger off, which would’ve been awsome all by itself, except for one thing-- the stashed joint I had under my ass?

I dropped it halfway across the courtyard. I casually picked it up, smiled back at the guard, who mock saluted me, and let us carry on.

The night was young, yet, and there’d be more trouble we’d find (including dining-n-dashing, tripping over a group of junkies shooting heroin in an alley, and more), but it’s hazy and I’ve lost most of the details, including the email record of it, the only recipient of which was WhippedBoy, years ago. Sigh.

[Feel free to refresh my memory over some drinks later this week, GayBoy. Perhaps a Soho? And it leaves me thinking I should tell these poor schlepps about the Bitter Moon/MC Hammer gum/stormchasing night.]