Weed blogs are the best. Not only do you often get quality writing about the thing you love and admire, but you also know you and the author are on the same page about that thing you love and admire. That type of transference is, well, priceless.
Eaze Chronicle has such a blog (I figure if you can’t beat them, well, promote them, since we’re all infatuated with the same thing anyway), about something I personally love to do, and that’s getting high, err, medicated, in different parts of San Francisco.
Don’t get me wrong, even after countless escapades I can still remember quite clearly the first time I got REALLY lit out here.
It was shortly after I graduated high school and was in my first year of college. My parents lived in Diamond Heights, a part of San Francisco that at night might as well be Manchester England. I was visiting them for the summer, new to smoking but feigning for weed, feigning for this groovy new sensation I had recently touched on. I walked around scanning bushes for marijuana because I honestly thought the shit grew wild out here in San Francisco.
One week a family friend came to visit with their daughter in tow. At that time we were both professing to be weed heads even though we were both fronting, having only smoked that Midwest nonsense many of us didn’t even know we were smoking on in the late 90’s.
One day we walked over to a nearby park down the street from Safeway that offered the most spectacular panoramic view of the city I have ever seen. Next to the park was an apartment complex that hung precariously over a steep cliff. Some industrious stoners had somehow placed a sofa within an alcove that overlooked the entire bay area. The setup was you smoke, you get drunk, you make one misstep, you’re gone.
Approaching the stairway leading down into the park I noticed a small plastic oval container sitting innocently on a wooden post attached to the wooden railing.
And inside that container was…..well the best way I can describe it is it looked like a pearl. It looked like a damned pearl. In all my years smoking weed I still have not to this day seen such a nug that looked so shiny, so sugary, so heaven-sent. And I’m fairly certain I don’t even believe in your god.
For some reason I had bought a bowl with me I had purchased about a month a half earlier and which was still clean as a whistle, like I was just waiting for that moment.
When I took that first hit of that pearl the trees in front of us began to undulate likes waves in an ocean. The sky seemed to turn purple. I panicked because I had never, ever been that fucking high before.
I begged my friend to let us stay there for awhile. And since she hadn’t smoked she soon got bored and told me to “man up”. But It wasn’t the man I was afraid of yall, it was my moms.
My name is Petey Wheatstraw, also known as Charles Stevens. I’m an avid marijuana smoker, writer, devoted father and non-profit minion– not necessarily in that order. A Chicago native I’ve lived off and on in the Bay Area since 1996. Seven years ago I finally settled here to capture the changing face of our communities.