The Tool Trilogy, Part II: The Pot

I can’t believe I’ve been hedging on whether or not to post this.  Such foolishness.  I’m totally jumping in — cannonball! 

Please don’t make me regret it.

First, “The Pot” lyrics:

Who are you to wave your finger?
You must have been out your head
Eyehole deep in muddy waters
You practically raised the dead

Rob the grave to snow the cradle
Then burn the evidence down
Soapbox house of cards and glass so
Don’t go tossin’ your stones around

You must have been high

Foot in mouth and head up ass
So whatcha talkin’ ’bout?
Difficult to dance ’round this one
’til you pull it out, boy

You must have been so high

Steal, borrow, refer, save your shady inference
Kangaroo done hung the jury with the innocent.

Now you’re weeping shades of cozened indigo
(Musta) got lemon juice up in your eye
When you pissed all over my black kettle

You must have been high!

So are you to wave your finger?
So full of it
Eyeballs deep in muddy waters
Fuckin’ hypocrite

Liar, lawyer, mirror, show me.  What’s the difference?
Kangaroo done hung the guilty with the innocent.

Now you’re weeping shades of cozened indigo
(Musta) got lemon juice up in your eye
When you pissed all over my black kettle.

You must’ve been…

So who are you to wave your finger?
Who are you to wave your fatty fingers at me?
You must have been out your mind

Weepin’ shades of indigo
Shed without a reason
Weepin’ shades of indigo

Liar, lawyer, mirror, for you.  What’s the difference?
Kangaroo be stoned.  He’s guilty as the government.

Now you’re weeping shades of cozened indigo
(Musta) got lemon juice up in your eye
Now when you pissed all over my black kettle.

You must’ve been high!

Eyeballs deep in muddy waters
Eyeballs deep in muddy waters
Ganja?  P-lease!

You must have been out your mind.

* * * * *

Just days prior to last year’s Tool concert, a wicked thought entered my mind:

I bet it would be awesome to get a little bit stoned.

I dropped a faux-jesting hint to the one friend who I thought might be able to hook me up.  She didn’t bite.  It was too close to the day of the concert, anyway.

This year, that same wicked thought swirled in my head.  I had time to plan, but still no resources.  Except the friend, Jeannie.  This time, she came through, with some nudging from sister Leah.

The real source:  Jeannie’s and Leah’s cousin’s best friend’s boyfriend.  I believe his name is Mike, if you want to narc me out.  Now, this four degrees of separation isn’t as lame as it sounds.  I know Jeannie’s and Leah’s cousin, and I’ve even met the cousin’s best friend.  Just don’t know the boyfriend, although now I guess I can call him my dealer.  Or can I?  He didn’t charge me anything.  At least that’s what Jeannie said when we made the transaction two days before the concert.

So, that night, two nights before the concert, I decided to sample the goods, just to make sure there wasn’t anything weird in it.  An hour before going to bed, home alone, in my jammies, sipping some decaf Earl Grey at the breakfast bar.  (No ill effects, although Olivia roared at this scenario when I relayed it to her.)

Now, before anyone gets overly judgmental, just lower those eyebrows back to their customary level, please.  It has been at least 12 years since I have partaken, and it certainly has never been a habit.  Far from it.  I am not, nor have I ever been, a stoner chick.

Don’t make me regret being completely open here.

Don’t judge me.  Don’t piss me off, like those yuppie Republican frat types in my younger days who just ASSUMED I did all kinds of drugs because of my “interesting” clothes or my “interesting” hair or the crazy music I listened to or the clubs I hung out at (in said “interesting” clothing and hair to listen to said crazy music).  Assholes.  Sure, just disregard (or never even bother to learn) that the clothes and the hair and the music were all part of the same person who earned her bachelor’s degree, summa cum laude, 4.0, straight A’s, in three and a half years.  While maintaining a part-time job.  As a bank teller.  All of which require a higher level of mental acuity than any stoner chick can handle.  AND I have lived totally on my own and worked full-time, without any employment gaps, since age 21.  And I have ALWAYS paid my monthly credit card bill in full (and no, I don’t have a trust fund, nor have I ever borrowed from family or friends or sponged off boyfriends).  My piddly student loans were paid off within one year of graduation (I worked my ass off applying for scholarships and grants), and the only debt I have had since is the occasional car loan and my mortgage.  Obviously, not the makings a flighty, irresponsible, drugged out stoner chick.  So let’s not pass any stupid judgments, okay?

End of rant.  Sorry.  I guess I still have a chip on my shoulder about that stuff.

Anyway, I smoked some weed at a rock concert.  Get over it, man.

And not to point fingers (ha!), but I think Neil smoked a little more than I did, AND he’s a year older than I am.  He should know better.  Heh.  Tim, of course, steered clear.  Random drug tests are conducted at his place of employment.  ‘Nuff said.  I think the family man would have bowed out, regardless.  Attention narcs:  the remainder of that big, fat doobie is in the guest bedroom, in the middle desk drawer.  (Just legalize it, already.)

Considering the alternative, seven dollars for a shitty draft that would have resulted in my having to wait in long lines to use nasty restrooms, we definitely had the better way to enjoy a little a concert buzz.

Lastly, I didn’t drive, I wasn’t responsible for any children, and I had the following day off from work.  So no harm done (except potentially to myself, if you want to be a hardass, and it was by my own choice).

No regrets at all.  In fact, I enjoyed it immensely.

And now, the stage is set for Part III…

=^..^=