Does it smell like pot in here?
When I stepped off the elevator at the Egypt, I was hit by the scent of Arcata. If you don't know what that means, why are you reading this? Are you secretly hoping I might still turn out to be the swimsuit model with the same name which is why the search term you used to find me was "marisa miller sitting toilet"? You are a creepy pervert.
What I mean is that I smelled weed. Not the kind I was used to getting on the corner of 9th and Union that you spend an hour picking stems out of. Pine trees and skunk spray. That's what heaven smells like. It was a strong enough odor that I wanted to linger, wallowing in the waft I had missed so much, but didn't want to seem like a total tard in front of Kris. I already wore enough chambray to make me questionable. Hey. Gap Rebirth. Whatever. The girls here were rocking Courtney. I didn't know who Courtney was, so I rocked Melissa Etheridge. I had a lot to learn about being straight in Seattle.
Kris proceeded down the hall and the smell grew stronger with every step. She stopped at the very last apartment and knocked. The door was opened by a pointy-bearded boy in a wool hat. Inside were three or four fellers in various homage to Bilbo Baggins. Basketball was on the TV. And oh. There was also a cloud of pot smoke the size of the Icelandic volcano choking up the room.
Introductions are in the form of Kris pointing out who's who. "That's Sean Clay. He lives off girls" is the one that will forever stand out in my mind and it is to him that I dedicate this blog post.
Then Kris asks if I wanted a bong hit. Does a bear drive a bicycle in the woods on Christmas?
If you are a chef and a connoisseur of the cannabis, the difference between, say, a crisp, clean Snowcap and schwag is the difference between CAFO burger and Wagyu rib-eye, the miles that separate Toll-House from Callebaut. I would happily and easily trade sex for the rest of my life for a greenhouse full of Jack Herer . Sorry. Just keepin' it real.
One long-haired shiftless boy leads to another and next thing you know, I'm agreeing to jobs at the bakery! jobs for all my new friends! Except the two residents of the apt. who had their own gig growing the weed I was smoking. In one of those houses you've read about. With a hundred pot plants. Working for the Lord I say.
I stumbled back to the hill and, like Dorothy, woke up to the Emerald City.