If you watched the video, you can start...
I went to a bachelor party this weekend. Things were great. All the laid back macho awesome you could handle. And then I kinda took it a step further. We were all standing around planning our next move when capsule of drugs was passed my way. Now to call these "drugs" in the same hard sense as heroin or crack is a little bit of a strain.* These were psychedelic mushrooms. And they were crushed into a concentrated form. No big wad of fungus to negotiate down (I hate mushrooms) your throat, but an easy-to-use powder.
I was handed this small capsule of organic plant life. It was so small I was under the assumption it was all mine. But then the guy who brought the psychedelics clapped his hands and said, "OK, let's do shrooms!"
I replied that I was pretty sure that I had done all of them.
He responded with a little "Oh?" which I now realize is just the tip of a larger body of concern.
Another guy confirmed that, "Yeah, he ate them all."
He said he'd never seen anybody take that much.
There are a few issues here. For one, if it's your mom who thinks you're doing too many drugs, that may not be a problem. She's upset about your Dr. Pepper habit. But this guy--and I mean to cast no aspersion because he's super cool--is an artist who doesn't wear shoes. If an artist who doesn't wear shoes is worried about your drug intake, maybe have a look at your life.
Secondly, I'm terrible at drugs. You may have read the incident when I ate half a pan of weed brownies and cried for three days. That was purely accidental. I swear. But in life I've been that rookie drug guy who takes a hit off a joint and says, "I don't think it's working." And then I tolk and tolk and suck and inhale like a guy who just emerged from the bottom of a lake and an hour later someone's trying to coax me out from under the neighbor's porch.
...here.
Thirdly. On this warm fall day in 2017, the guys decided to go go-kart racing.
It was scary. It felt like the car was going to leave the ground. And the helmet made my head feel huge, like cartoon big. I screamed inside my facemask and wound around the course like an agitated Macy's Day float. I thought about getting out of the car; pulling over and calling it quits. But I needed an alibi. Injury? What would a guy in a go-kart suffer from? I pondered hemorrhoids.
I finished the race and gave a big Whooo! as I shed my helmet. A young attendee came to see if I needed assistance. "Damn, that is fast!" I declared.
He gave me that side eye, the one that's curious with concern. He added words to his face by explaining that I had actually been going pretty slow.
"Yeah, but not like really slow," I argued.
He said he wanted to show me something. It was the results to the race. I was not surprised I finished last. But what he really wanted to point out is that of 88,000 people who had raced at the track, I'd come in 87,521st.
So I wasn't last. And for that I was rewarded with the best part of the night. It ends in a very interesting way: with strippers. But first we needed to see one of the guy's kids in a state championship soccer game. And it was fantastic. The evening was cool but there was a warm rain. That was kind of distracting as I kept thinking I was naked. But any fear of public nudity at a high school event was warmed over by the soft grass and the pleasant wind. It was as if a rainbow could breathe. That grass lifted and sank with my feet. I felt as if I was part of the ground. I was immersed in a oneness that would only be severed by my sudden fear of the opposing team's soccer fans.
I'd been told to fit in as well as I could. And while the constant patting of my pants to ensure their existence might have been a problem, the big reveal might have been my telling anyone near me that the rowdy fans were too angry and liable to become violent. And it wasn't just a local disturbance about which I was concerned, but a rippling of anger shredding my rainbow breeze and blasting far across the universe. It was weird how angry they were, I kept telling the soon-to-be bride. She'd nod, probably more concerned about my concern.
Now the strip club would come much later. We'd have a meal. A wonderful meal, the shrooms mostly subsiding but every now again finding me struggling with he absurdity of everything. I mean even naked boobs made me giggle. And I love naked boobs. But the women sauntering around with their life-giving glands leading her scantily clad way gave me this crazy and poorly timed insight into how ridiculous the whole system is. How the Hell did this happen? Were we never properly weaned? Do we need a national family sit-down where we discuss why it is that these particular parts are so damned intriguing? Is it the strip club lobby keeping them taboo and banning their appearance at the beach or in a local sand volleyball games?
I sought dark places to hide, but on one occasion a young, an enhanced woman sat on my lap and asked if I wanted a lap dance. I recommended she go to the groom. She stood up, and in a move that demonstrated her overall dexterity and dominance, streaked her left nipple across my face whilst speaking to the guys around the table. Normally this would have been pretty exciting, but on this occasion I was convinced that she'd just drawn on my forehead. Yes, like a flesh crayon had just marked me. Most guys worry about stripper glitter and I was dabbing at my head with a napkin of Red Bull and vodka trying to remove what my mind was certain was a long streak over my eyes. I tried to keep it cool and, for the most part I think I managed to hide my fastidious facial rubbing. If anything, I told myself, it would be a pretty cool souvenir from such an amazing day.
*After some mockery I've found that you don't 'do' marijauna. You only do illegal drugs. Like, you don't do alcohol. The only legal drug you do do is Mountain Dew. That's the law.