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Marijuana cookies, $2

The house reeks of poison, but I love the smell of napalm in the morning. It means no more fleas, I hope.

I slept fine on the sidewalk overnight, then came inside only long enough to shower and get dressed and cough a lot, and then I went to work.

♦ ♦ ♦ 

On Saturdays I usually set up the fish cart on the fourth block of Telegraph, near Cody's and near all the free speech vendors — the unlicensed sellers, selling politically-themed stuff without anyone's permission, because the First Amendment is a good idea.

The other blocks are always jam-packed on the weekends, and even though our cart has a license, it's easier to find some open inches of pavement by Haste Street. And anyway, the free speech vendors are more fun to be around, than the artsy craftsy vendors.

A nutty free speecher was working two stalls to my south. Most vendors sit, but he was standing, delivering a speech to nobody listening. It seemed to be pro-Clinton but anti-Gore, pro-civil rights but anti-gay, pro-war in Bosnia but anti-military. You figure it out; I gave up.

His funniest bit was when he wandered over to my table, glanced at the anti-Christian fish, and said, "I don't think this should qualify as a free speech stand."

"Well," I said, "guess I'm lucky you're not in charge of deciding who gets free speech." Then I pointed to our license, again obediently posted on the table like it's supposed to be. It's not a free speech table, not yet anyway, but it ought to be.

I did not explain to him our fishy backstory about bickering with the city bureaucracy, and as a kindness, I won't explain it again to you, either, at least not today.

♦ ♦ ♦

Up the street there were two medical marijuana booths, handing out literature and selling stickers calling for pot to be legalized as a prescription drug.

Half-ass horse manure, if you ask me.

Of course marijuana is good for you — it fights nausea, eases pain, holds glaucoma in check, etc. Everyone knows that, or ought to. And hemp also makes better paper, better rope, does less damage to the environment than the crops current law encourages. And so on and so on and scooby dooby doo. All such talk bores me.

Marijuana should be legalized, not for medical purposes or to keep the planet green, but simply because it's nobody's dang business what you grow or what you smoke. Period.

My body, my choice: Legalize dope and legalize freedom.

Being me, when the guys at one of the medical marijuana tables gave their spiel to someone, I walked over to (politely) tell them what I think of their candy-ass arguments for semi-legalizing a harmless weed but only as medicine.

Before I could call them spineless cowards, though, something on their table caught my eye. Next to their hemp-aware literature, there were cellophane-wrapped cookies and brownies, and that's kinda gutsy, even for Berkeley. Pot's illegal. Possession isn't much, but possession with intent to sell — they were marked $2 each — man, that's a felony. I wouldn't be brave or dumb enough to do what they're doing, selling pot cookies at a pot booth under a pot banner on the Ave, where cops are always on cycle patrol.

So the guys in that booth were not spineless cowards, and also, $2 is a good price for doped-up treats. I bought two oatmeal pot cookies. They were delicious, with perhaps a slight marijuana aftertaste, and I devoured both instantly, but felt no effects all afternoon, damn it. 

♦ ♦ ♦

Later, a pretty brunette came by my stand, trying to drum up business for her massage booth across the street. "The first minute is free," she told me.

"There'll never be a second minute," I told her, because I have a few bucks for pot cookies but nothing budgeted for backrubs. I am poor.

She insisted, though, and then came around behind me, and gave me sixty seconds that felt very good indeed. Where's Sarah-Katherine when I need her?

♦ ♦ ♦ 

Dear Abby says to write thank you notes immediately, but I rarely follow good advice. Someone sent me an underarm rock that works like deodorant, and it really works and I love it, but not only did I not say thanks, I can't even remember who sent it.

And thanks too, to the zine reader who left a voice mail about collecting quotes, and whoever sent the pine pillow, and whoever sent the brandy, and all the macaroni and cheese, and the GCC passes, and the paperback novels. Grazi all over the place, sincerely, to each of you. 

Some of you, I'm so dang grateful I'd like to tack a few freebie issues onto your subscriptions, but I seriously don't remember who you are, so please remind me.

♦ ♦ ♦

And that'll be my last word before going to sleep, here in my room that smells like Bhopal but lacks any living fleas.

From Pathetic Life #17
Saturday, October 28, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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