Archives for May 2010

I am not the most athletic person. I’m not the least athletic person either. I run occasionally, and I’ve been known to kick a soccer ball properly (top/side of the foot, not the toe). However, there are specific skills to certain games that I just don’t possess. I cannot hit a fastball. I can’t dribble without staring at the basketball. I cannot hackey-sack at all (although, I don’t wear patchouli oil, dreadlocks or a goatee, so that may be part of it).

Don’t get me wrong, I want to be good at sports. I like playing sports, and I can safely say that I was one of the few band kids that actually liked gym class. But we’ll get to more of that later.

In high school, my best friend Blads shared my enthusiasm for sport, as well as my lack of skill (Although he was a bowling pro. He was on the bowling team, and his nickname was “Flintstone” because he bowled as well as the cartoon caveman, which was actually quite good. Though on The Flintstones, Fred’s bowling nickname was “Twinkle Toes”, so maybe the nickname was more in reference to his closeted sexuality than his bowling prowess. Nah, we’ll go with bowling acumen).

Blads and I wanted to be more athletic not only because we wanted to have our enthusiasm match our abilities, but at the time, it wouldn’t have hurt us to lose a few pouns. So in an attempt to embrace physical activity, we tried jogging to get in shape. Niagara Falls, or to be more precise, Goat Island, is a prime location for taking a run. It’s a little less than two miles around, fairly well paved, and has plenty to look at. For our first run, we decided to take a spin around. We drove down, parked the car, got out, stretched (because you always must stretch), and began to run. After twenty yards or so, enthusiasm fell by the wayside as we began to die from lack of oxygen, so headed back to the car to crank up the AC and suck down Gatorade. This ended the jogging experiment.

We next tried tennis, with a bit more success. We could hit the ball fairly consistently, and aside from referencing the handball court as the “play with yourself wall”, we had fun. But again, after 20-30 minutes of aerobic exercise, we hurried back to Doug’s car to crank up the AC and suck down Gatorade. Clearly we lost no weight and gained no athletic ability. And we were really straining Blads’s AC in his Monte Carlo (man, I miss that car).

But of all the sports we tried, quite possibly the saddest attempt at athletic expertise was seen during basketball drills in gym class. Now, as I said earlier, I thoroughly enjoyed the gym class experience. For whatever reason, our gym class consisted of honors students mixed in with a handful of students who had recently returned to finish high school after having finished giving birth to their 2nd or 3rd child. So in essence, gym class provided me with dinner and a show.

Like every other high school class, each week or so provided a new topic or sport to learn. And with each sport came a series of drills, which consisted of a day for learning/practicing, and a day of testing your skills. Larger sports would require more time; volleyball consisted of two days for serving practice & tests, two days for bump practice & tests, and two days for trash talk (this may not be true, but I do remember a LOT of trash talking when we played volleyball in gym class).

For basketball, we had to learn lay-ups. For those that don’t know, lay-ups are quite possibly the simplest of basketball shots there are. You basically approach the net, jump, and let the ball roll off your hand (or rather lay-up) and into the net. We learned how to get the roll of the ball right so that it rolled properly into the net. We also learned how to dribble and approach the net to get your momentum right for proper jump height. Some students even used the opportunity to dunk–but for Blads and I we felt we should crawl before we walked. When it came time to practice, I swear to you, Blads and I were like the Harlem Globetrotters. Each ball rolled perfectly into the net. Our height, speed and direction were all exactly right. I’m not saying we could have signed with the NBA there and then, but possibly an Italian league or somewhere in Turkey. We had skills and come test time, we would show them off.

The testing day was just a few days later. The gym teacher gave us 5 attempts to score 5 lay-ups. Armed with only our confidence, Blads and I began our tests.

I have seen war footage that looked better than what the two of us did in that gymnasium. We only had to sink 5 lay-ups, and each attempt was worse than the previous. Blads accidentally kicked the ball on one attempt. I actually got the ball in from under the net up through (which didn’t count apparently). Blads dribbled the ball with his face at one point. And I think I may have even slammed into the wall behind the net; the wall being 10 feet behind the net. It was a disgrace in athleticism if there ever was one. We both got a pity “C” for the test, mostly I think because the gym teacher was so entertained by our performance. One of the baby mamas in our class offered to hug me. It was not a pretty sight.

We never went back to basketball after that day. Nor did we focus much effort on any other sport really. But we did learn a valuable lesson that day. We learned that we were meant for a greater calling — air hockey.

One of my closest and dearest friends in the world texted me the other day. It was one of those, “Hey remember [blank]” texts, and instantly a flurry of memories came rushing to the surface. The text was also sent at 1:30am, so I can imagine it came about because of a few too many Vodka Tonics. It wasn’t the first late night text from this friend, and likely (hopefully) it will not be the last.

My friend wasn’t always this prone to partying. In fact, for the first few years of our friendship, he was moderately flamboyant but he was no where near the wild texter that I know and love. It was after one fateful night however that a monster was born, and there’s a strong possibility that I was the guy that flipped the switch.

Before I begin this story, you should be warned. It involves illegal substances, and a complete disregard for parental authority. Well, a modest disregard. The people in this story are real, but their names have been changed to protect themselves, their parents, and in certain cases, their own children.

It was the summer of 1995, and I was living at home after my freshman year at college. Summers during college were great because I could escape my college persona and return to the high school/college hybrid personality that I truly enjoyed (read: I could discuss musicals and high school band memories without looking over my shoulder). And that meant I could have a lot of fun with my best friend.

My best friend, Blads (for those that know, not a tough code to crack) and I had taken up drinking beer the year before, after having shied away from any sort of situations where alcohol consumption may arise. And now that we’d sort of begun down the primrose path, the subject of further intoxicants arose. Namely, marijuana.

Now friends of ours had partaken, as had our family, our role models, and most of the staff at the diner we frequented (How can you serve Frisco Melts to teens that tip 3% and not be high?). In fact, the subject came up because we felt like we were slowly becoming the minority, and we were curious to know if we were missing out.

“Actually,” I told Blads, “I’ve tried it. It’s kind of cool.” I had sampled weed the previous semester with very little fanfare. Blads was understandably surprised considering I staged my own “Very Special Blossom” at a party two years earlier when I berated a dozen friends for passing around half a joint.

That cinched it for Blads. He wanted to see what all the hubbub was about, and who was I to stop him? In fact, as his best friend, wasn’t it really my responsibility to help him achieve his goals? It would almost be a disservice to my oldest and dearest friend to not get him high. This is the logic I would tell myself as I tried to figure out a way to get us some weed.

The next day or so, almost by chance, we (along with a female friend who shall be named for Rayna for the purposes of this story) bumped into a high school friend (who for the purposes of this story, shall be named Batgirl) that we hadn’t seen in some time, who was a known pothead (and by our description, a pothead was anyone in high school who declared that they’d been high at least twice and owned at least one Phish CD). We told her of our situation, and asked if she would be willing to help get Blads stoned for the first time. Of course she agreed, because as anyone who smokes pot will tell you, it’s a highly communal affair. In fact, she was excited to bring another smoker into the fold.

Blads, Rayna and I arrived at her house just after dark. Batgirl told us that she’d make Blads’s first time a gentile and safe one, by having us all smoke in her backyard (Retroactive apologies to Batgirl’s parents), and she’d make the experience a pleasant, calming one. We moved to her backyard and sat in a small circle (Retroactive apology rescinded–how could Batgirl’s parents NOT know what we were up to? We were one degree below bringing out a hackey-sack and listening to the Grateful Dead). As soon as we were settled, Batgirl packed the bowl, and the ritual began.

Batgirl promised to make our experience a calming one, and she did so swimmingly. She gave a brief  lesson on where to hold the bowl so as not to burn your fingers, and how to inhale. As she passed the bowl and we begin to smoke, she would say things like, “Imagine yourself as a bubble, floating aimlessly through the air. Not too high, not too low, not too fast, not too slow”. It was like getting high while being held by Santa Claus in a beanbag chair made of love. I thought it was awesome, and so did Jimi Hendrix who suddenly showed up next to me.

As pot smokers may know, the first time you smoke you don’t get high right away (if at all). So to help Blads along, we kept passing, and passing, and passing, and passing, hoping upon hope that eventually he would stop because the bubble I was now imagining myself as was floating somewhere between Valhalla and the MIR Space Station. It was even too much for Jimi who left my side after the 10th puff puff pass. It was at this point I felt that Blads needed a little more coaching.

“C’mon Blads! Get high for America. Do it for baseball. Do it for great prime time television.” I now felt that Blads’s getting stoned was greater than the both of us. This was going to be on the scale of Live Aid, We Are the World and The Jerry Lewis Telethon. Blads needed to be stoned, and it was going to require a higher power to do so.

As I kept belting him with reason after reason as to who his inebriation affected, I landed on (for reasons unknown) upon the Cosby Show.

“Do it for the Huxtables! Do it for Theo and Claire and Cliff. C’MON! DO IT FOR RUDY!”

Now, I don’t know why, but for whatever reason, that set off the switch that took Blads from sober band nerd to high as a kite slacker. Because out of nowhere, he put the pipe down and declared,

“Root toot TOOTIE!” and began to laugh like a hyena at a Louis CK show. And while Tootie was actually on the Facts of Life, Blads was now officially stoned, so who was I to correct him on his unintentional racism.

To my surprise, I had awakened a monster from deep within Blads’s soul. While most stoners like to relax, talk about the deeper meaning behind the shapes of Chicken McNuggets and stare at paint for hours, Blads’s inner self decide to use his body as the medium from which to share an improvised musical about the lack of feeling in his tongue. (Lyrics consisted of “My tongue! My tongue! My tongue, tongue tongue!” and included a choreographed number reminiscent of early Fosse). His singing and dancing had clearly been lying dormant inside him, just waiting for substance-induced exorcism. The power of weed compelled him, and he was now a Born-Again Stoner.

And while I’m happy that Blads found enlightenment that night, I must confess that his performance went on for what felt like hours. After a rousing rendition of, “Hey what’s that?” and “Why isn’t Luke looking at me? Why is he only staring at Scooby Doo?”, Batgirl requested that we leave before the 2nd encore. Rayna and I were more than happy to oblige (Blads decided it was ok to leave as well, but made notes for what he deemed to be script troubles in the beginning of the chorus of “My Tongue”).

We all changed a little that night. Trying to avoid Blads made me focus my attention on Cartoon Network’s “Scooby Doo” marathon, and I learned that I enjoyed smoking pot while watching cartoons. Batgirl never invited pot newbies over to her backyard again. Rayna, well, Rayna doesn’t play a whole lot into this story, but I’d feel bad if I left her out. And Blads, well, what can you say about a man who can blurt out a musical number about his tongue at the drop of a hat (or rather, a bong)? Blads became a little more infatuated with pot, and emerged a little further out of the closet that night. Oh, did I forget to mention he was gay?

I’d like to think that it was me, rather than the weed that helped him become the man he is today. But the truth is that he would have become who he is without me—I just pushed him a little faster.