28 February 2007

Here's Your Chance to Smoke with Chong!

If you're around Piedmont, California and have an extra $125 to spare, you could hang out with Tommy Chong and at the same time help out Ed Rosenthal, one of the leading experts on marijuana cultivation and a major advocate for medicinal marijuana. Rosenthal is scheduled to go to federal court on March 19th for growing weed, laundering money and falsifying tax returns. Rosenthal figures the trial could set him back $300,000. Green-Aid is hosting a benefit party on Sunday to "celebrate how far we've come in legalizing medical marijuana," and help fund Rosenthal's trial.

Also, Cheech is on LOST tonight.

27 February 2007

Halleluja!

Without knowing them, i seriously question the sincerity of his congregation:

A self-described Reagan Republican from Los Angeles who has founded a religion that makes marijuana a part of its ritual must defend his beliefs in court.

"I'm a Jewish kid from Beverly Hills who went to UCLA," Craig Rubin told the Los Angeles Daily News. "I could have been a lawyer making $250 an hour like the rest of my friends, or a TV producer. Instead, I'm teaching the Bible, selling weed on Hollywood Boulevard, facing seven years in jail -- of course I'm crazy."

Prosecutors charge that Rubin's Temple 420 is simply a front for a marijuana-distribution operation.

Rubin, who describes himself as a Republican admirer of President Ronald Reagan and preaches in front of a U.S. flag, says his beliefs are sincere. He has Friday night services where smoking marijuana is part of the ritual and preaches twice more on the weekends, using texts from Old Testament on Saturday and the New Testament on Sunday, the newspaper said. (UPI)

I could be born again.

26 February 2007

Where You Place Your Attention.

Every time a great, shared tragedy occurs, like the Staten Island Ferry Crash in 2003, i'm struck by the importance of mindfulness and what can happen when our focus strays from its necessary object.

On the afternoon of Oct. 15, 2003, the ferry slammed into a pier at top speed after the assistant captain operating it, Richard J. Smith, blacked out during the last half mile of the trip from Manhattan to Staten Island. The accident, one of the worst mass transit disasters in the city’s history, ripped the side of the 3,300-ton boat open like a sardine can. People were crushed, mangled and decapitated.

A city rule requiring that two captains be in the pilot house in the front of the ferry while it is in motion was not followed. The captain, Michael J. Gansas, was on board at the time of the crash, but in the pilot house that faced Manhattan, not the one that faced Staten Island, as he should have been. (NYT)


The danger of self-absorption slices my ego wide open. Don't mistake me: i'm not talking about arrogant self-absorption only. The time spent fretting over "my" looks, "my" youth, "my" skin, "my" money, "my" relationships is as wasted as time rhapsodizing to myself over "my" looks, "my" youth, "my" skin, "my" money, "my" relationships. Depressed self-absorption draws us in and in and in till we thoroughly and mistakenly believe that what we do doesn't matter. More precisely, we fail to believe that everything we do matters.

We have to turn that inside out. However we do it - meditation, prayer, volunteering, art, science, family - let's clearly see the impact we have on everyone around us. Trust me: cast your net wide when you consider how many people you touch. If this is hard for you, try this technique. On any given day, from when you wake up till you fall asleep, count the number of people you notice. The deli guy, the girl with the same shoes as Bev, your roommate, the guy you would not have noticed had it not been for his U of M hat. You're gonna lose count, especially if you live in New York City. You can safely assume that the number of people who notice you is just as high. (And probably higher as cute as you are.) And to some degree, those people saw you, acknowledged you, and probably had some sort of opinion about you.

The "big" relationships provide the foundation and skeleton of this self we develop. But the throngs, the masses, the millions? They chisel in detail, character, the just-soness that make us who we are. If we don't pay attention to these mini-relationships, we may find ourselves shaped into a "tower of me-ness" that we neither like nor understand.

I didn't make the shift from thinking only of myself, to considering others because i wanted to be good and altruistic and Zen and whatever other buzzwords are used to describe what happens to you when you cultivate compassion. I made this shift because i saw how much i thought about myself and it made me sick. And then, it made me bored.

Thank God we get away with being self-absorbed so often. And since it cost so many unique lives, let's hope those involved in the ferry crash are learning the appropriate lessons. And let's avoid having to learn such extreme lessons ourselves.

21 February 2007

Philip-Morris, Where Are You When I Need You?

The video below is of Dr. Claudia Jensen. She advocates the use of marijuana as a better alternative to Ritalin for kids who have ADD and ADHD. It's fantastic and inspiring and i hope you enjoy it, but please let me rant a little first.

If you're asking yourself, "How could anyone justify giving weed to a kid?" please don't let that be a rhetorical question. Most of the lawmakers in this country seem to have a double standard for what kinds of drugs get utilized. We need to acknowledge the fact that many prescriptions drugs' side effects are worse than marijuana's and that abuse of prescription drugs is becoming just as prevalent as the abuse of any illegal drug. If we deem it safe for kids to take a drug whose long-term side effects include vision problems, skin rash, insomnia, loss of appetite, anxiety, weight loss, (if you're lucky) uneven heartbeats, light-headedness, and increased blood pressure (if you're not),* then it is reasonable that we could acknowledge and take advantage of the benefits of weed.

But law reformers have been making this same argument in favor of the legalization of weed for years; doesn't seem to work. Doesn't the government know how much money it could be making? And what about Philip-Morris? I heard a rumor in high school that, in anticipation for the eventual legalization, they made a design for Marlboro Greens, their first marijuana cigarette. Why aren't the big, evil tobacco companies using their lobbying power? I don't want them to make anymore money than they already have, but if they can help me get high on the up and up, i'd do a little soul-selling.

Anyway, enjoy the video.


*This information was found on drugs.com.

Escape/Return

It's difficult to write about people on the train because i never know when they're getting off. Strangely enough, as i was contemplating the impermanent relationship i have with my fellow subway travelers, the little boy sitting cross-legged by the window woke from his nap and said, "One more stop?" "3 more," came the reply from his mother.

She's got another child in a stroller facing her. And a cold. She keeps sucking the snot up into her nose. That's about all i can see of her without being obvious (note: i don't know why i insist on being subtle.) The cross-legged boy is leaning up against his mother and falling asleep again. I wanna be asleep. How did these days get so long?

An older white guy in the opposite seat by the window. He's leaning on the glass instead of his mother. His mother is probably dead, but that's my personal projection based on the fact that old age doesn't run in my family. He looks completely present, but not for the moment that's happening now. His eyes are alert, but not scattered. His facial muscles move just so or he tilts his head slightly in one direction and then the other, rehearsing his next important conversation. The look on his face is painfully familiar, but i'm not quite sure i can name it.

My nomenclature is interrupted -- Apparently, the mom with the cold and two children lost track of the stops. When the doors open at Bay Ridge Avenue, she jumps up and yells, "C'mon!" At her cry, another child emerges from the seat behind her. She quickly shoves the sleepyhead into awakening and takes hold of the stroller. Turning the wheels on the stroller slows her down and i think, i should probably be helping her instead of writing about her. Fortunately, the woman sitting next to the door is more useful than i am and holds the door open. The walking boys are doing their best to gather their sleepy confusion into enough order to move in a straight line. Their lines keep converging and they, along with the mom pushing the stroller, arrive at the door at the same time. They bump back and forth into each other like they and the closing subway doors were forming a mini-moshpit. "GO!" the mom says, although she knows that's exactly what they were attempting to do and that's exactly the problem. The doors rebound open and they tumble out, like toys spilling from an overstuffed closet. Mom smiles and says, "Thank you," to the woman who held the door for them. I feel like i just watched Houdini.

As he leaves, the suitcase he rolls behind him provides me with thie final clue i need to solve the mystery of his expression: the look of someone returning home after a long time. He was thinking, They've stayed here and i left. Will they be different? I'm different- will they notice?

They'll be different, but he'll think they're all the same because they're in the same house and have shopped at the same grocery store and taken the same train and eaten at the same restaurants, but they've changed, too. Despite the fact that they don't know it. Fine-toothed changes, hairline differences that go unnoticed until...

And they'll wait for the first signs that he has changed. Does he still like American coffee? I thought he used to put salt on his eggs. Should we have more wine in the house?

And the first time there's a disagreement, someone will finally get to say, "You've changed." Or maybe, "I've changed." But it will be the same argument as ever. Where are the keys? You had them last. So help me look. Did you take the garbage out? After dinner. So the whole place smells while we eat. You've done this and i don't like it. You won't do this and i want you to do it. You don't like this thing i do and i won't do that thing you want me to do. Why can't you be what i want when i want it and why won't you let me do what i want when i want to do it? Things would be easier that way.

19 February 2007

It's Just Unfortunate that Your Last Name Rhymes with "Shears."

I've shaved my head a few times; i look fucking hot. If you're a woman, it's one of the bad-assiest things you can do. So, fuck 'em all, Britney. Hope you keep remembering that you're a human being.

15 February 2007

The Prodigal Daughter Would Like to Return.

Dear Mom,

I miss you. The last time i saw you in Michigan, you said you remembered the fun we had when i was little and that you thought, based on my toddling years, that we were going to be best friends. I don't remember; i'm sorry. I wish i could because streams of nostalgia are working their way around my circulatory system lately- and i don't know where they come from. I am reaching backwards blindfolded for memories i don't have.

I spent most of my childhood years waiting wishing working to get out of Jackson as soon as i could. If i wasn't noticing how much fun we were having, it was becuase i was too busy hoping i was adopted and making plans to drop out of my family's sight as soon as i turned 18. Lo, my plans worked! -- I didn't go to Gramma's funeral or Uncle Juney's. I haven't spoken to Aunt Linda or Uncle Kenny in a decade. Aunt Del was the cool aunt; i'd like to talk to her - i just don't. I think about calling and then i think about the first conversation i had with my father as an adult. Do you remember when he got in touch after i moved here for college? He called me in October of that year. He said: "It's been a long time." "A long time" = 12 years. So when i think about calling the family, i think about stupid, trite jokes i could make to disguise the fact that i've been ignoring all of you for 10 years. I don't wanna be trite; i just don't know who any of you are. And i don't know how to ask who you are because you're my family and so much is simply assumed, as opposed to understood.

And i want you guys to know me, in particular, i want you to know me. But i don't think you'd like me very much. I mean, what if i told you about a friend of mine who smokes pot several times a day, indulges in a couple packs of cigarettes a month, hasn't paid her taxes in 3 years, is close to defaulting on her student loans and who is so scared of being left alone and knocked up that she makes excuses any time someone asks her out? What if i told you that that friend was me? Is that the kind of stuff you're talking about when you say i can tell you anything?

I'm practically a figment of your imagination. When you call, i stick to answering your questions about what i've eaten and how warm or cold it is compared to where you are. Thus, for 10 years, your daughter has told you as much information as you get from a waiter and a meteorologist and you still declare, "You're my daughter. I know you."

You knew me at a time i can't remember, before i knew myself. You still think i'm that memory. It's ok; i think of you in memory, too. And choose not to think about obesity, high blood pressure, diabetes, sore knees, achy back. I try not to think about how you didn't understand why breathing was important. Instead, i think about a story you once told me: You were nine, the only year you can remember celebrating Christmas. You got a Trina doll. You "loved that thing" so much that you brought it to school. On the way home, you dropped it while crossing the street. The doll broke; you were "so sad."

Instead of imagining who you are now, how you are now, i imagine you at nine, in the middle of the crosswalk, right before you drop Trina and i wish and wish and wish for you to catch it before it hits the ground. But it's useless- you drop your doll and 14 years later, you have a daughter who ends up dropping you. (I think, is karma that subtle? Would i be here if that doll had stayed in tact?)

Jim's father just had a stroke. Margaret's dad has been diagnosed with alcohol-related dementia. I know about impermanence; i don't wanna waste the time we have left missing you. I'll save that for when you're gone. Or maybe you'll save that for when i'm gone. We don't know how it's gonna end up.

I love you,

[the name you gave me.]

14 February 2007

Medical Marijuana Article from Rolling Stone

Great. Although, the subject of the article compares the raids on medical marijuana dispensaries to pogroms, which suggests to me that he might be taking himself a little too seriously. All in all, though, i'm sure that if you read this blog, you'll find something of interest in the article. It's my Valentine's Day present to you. Enjoy.

Mindfulness.

Across the aisle from me on the R train, a father and son sit, the father being about my age, the little boy around Lane's age or Sam's. The father is playing a portable video game, which is sounding lots of bells and whistles. The kid says, "Daddy, let me play," and reaches out his hand. The dad monotones, "No," and slumps into the game like a teenager.

The kid rests his head on his dad's lap, kicking his little feet back and forth methodically, as if he were playing piano. He's wearing a camo down jacket; his face is encompassed by the fake fur trim of his hood. The crests of his lips are perfectly rounded, bottom lip inflated. He looks like a wolf puppy.

The dad is using his son's back as an armrest.

12 February 2007

I Am Not the Same Person: a beginning

I have been hanging out at Target; and
sneaking lunches of hot artichoke-spinach dip at the Olive Garden.
Is there a Chi-Chi's around here?
10 years in and i'm finally getting homesick.

I thought i might get lost in Target today and forget that i was in Brooklyn, but the differences were too many and too manifest. For a moment, almost, considering the purchase of boys' A-line t-shirts, but i turned them down because of their color. I could have completed a circle; instead i may have begun a new pattern.

Assuring myself i am not the same person, i proceeded to check-out.

Who knows how nostalgia turns up? And beauty?

I reminisce about those who reminisce tired old towns, red slop and sagging courthouses, teacakes frosted with sweat and sweet talcum. For me, it is shiny white floors, embedded with flat, gray stones reflecting fluorescent lights, rows of right angles and smooth round corners, eyes sore from seeing so much.

I want to throw my arms around shopping malls and strip malls!

O, JC Penney's! Waldenbooks! O, Spencers!

10 February 2007

I Don't Think Anna Nicole Smith Is Really Dead.

I want that rumor to start here. Is that disrespectful?
 

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