Month: August 2008

I.B. Puffnstuff

Seems there’s been a little bit of controversy surrounding the latest stoner film “Pineapple Express.” The question has been posed: Are movies like “Pineapple Express,” “How High,” and “Half Baked” encouraging kids to embrace the mari-ju-wanna?

I’d like to answer this with a resounding “What the #&%@ are you parents doing sending your kids to see these movies in the first place?”

That said, I’ll admit I haven’t seen any of the movies listed above, at least not in their entirety. I did, in my younger days, watch a few Cheech and Chong movies without managing to turn myself into a pothead.

I’ve never been stoned. I tried once and although I did inhale, any beneficial effects must have been lost on me. I can’t even get high correctly, which means my short lived pothead days are over. That’s a good thing. Studies show that most people who overdose are drug users.

I’m just gonna let that one sink in a bit before moving on. Everyone ready? Okay.

At the very heart of it, folks who are high or hopped up are just funny, and that’s all there is to it. I’ve got some vivid memories from college, but one of the most bizarre was from one night walking home from a party at the fraternity house. My roommate and fraternity brother had taken a hit of acid and as we turned onto one of the residential streets that led back to campus, he was suddenly taken with the notion that the trees were going to eat him.

And the kicker is that he was legally blind. Yeah. Helluva punchline, ain’t it.

You couldn’t make this stuff up. If he’d just done it more often (around me anyway), I’d be able to string a screenplay together from the experiences.

Just so there’s no mistake, drugs are bad. Mm-kay? But high people are a good source of comedy, and pretty much are a walking anti-drug commercial. I think they deliver the message a lot better than “From you, Dad! I learned it from watching you!”

So, please America, lighten up.

P.S.

Don’t you think a good name for the stoner set at Hogwarts would be the Harry Pott-Heads?

Another travesty

When I can no longer be served a double latte pretentia mokachino by a bikini-clad barista, then the terrorists have won.

Actually, I don’t even drink coffee. Frankly, there are vices out there that are a lot more fun. I’m not going into detail; just use your imagination.

You have to admit, though, that crossing the pretension of Starbucks with the cultured nuance of Hooters is a novel concept that could definitely have reached an untapped niche market: awkward teenage boys who want their first experience with frothy milk to be special. Because that’s what every hormonally-charged adolescent male needs—a quadruple shot of caffeine. Hopped up and horny is where it’s at.

This place could also have been a great boon to the Belfair local economy, but I doubt it’s the kind of economic stimulation that President Bush had in mind.

One wonders what kind of health plan the owners of Espresso Gone Wild offered its employees. The combination of exposed skin surface area and the use of products that spout scalding hot steam must have made for some high premiums.

Alas, unless the idea of barista babes catches on in more progressive areas of America like….well….oh, gee…let me get back to you on that.

Another welcome

Please welcome Rachel to the blogroll.

True story: Rachel student taught my high school band during my senior year. She is the first person I ever met who was a composer (Wes was the second), thus putting to death the notion for me that composers were mainly dead people whose corpses were being robbed of the royalties they so richly deserved.

She is now a Presbyterian minister, and has made allusions to blogging about what it was that led her to the ministry. I look forward to reading that post.

No pressure, Rachel. 🙂

So I give you, my former student teacher and fellow feline enthusiast, Rachel.

What’s in a name?

I was listening to a story on Marketplace the other day and heard what is probably one of the coolest names ever.

Rusty Gillette.

With a name like that, this guy could have been a 1930s or 40s era private investigator. With a secretary named Trixie and a third-floor walkup with only a desk fan to keep cool in the summer, and a drafty window in the winter.

Rusty Gillette….private eye.