Back To Myself

 No, I don't mean let's get back to "me" as the topic. I mean, I am starting to feel more like myself the past day, and I thank God.

I had gone something like two weeks without weed.

I used to get regular weed from a skinny older black man named Keith. 

Older black men with "normal" names like Keith are a breed apart from the rest of humanity.

He reminds me of James, another skinny 72 year old black man with a normal name*, referred to in this blog as "the guy in the white truck." He usually parks his truck in the same territory that Keith seems to patrol.

*as opposed to LaVontyreese

The prototype for both of those older black guys would have to be David the waterjug player, whom I used to hang out with in the French Quarter and, you guessed it, smoke weed with, and even busk some.

David was homeless and spent 99% of his life within a 2 block squared area. This always reminded me of a kingsnake, which would spend its entire life within 20 feet of wherever it hatched from an egg.

He slept on the bench of a trolley stop which was a stones throw away from The Unique Grocery, to where he regularly ventured for vodka and blunt cigar wraps.

If you were looking for David, all you had to do was circle one block -up to Bourbon Street, make a right and go past Kristal's, glance through the window and scan for him, and then proceed to the next corner, where he might have walked a tourist to, in order to facilitate some kind of drug deal, and then to the next corner, where he would like to eat his dinner, placing his food on top of, one of the newspaper vending things.

James used to have the same type of weed; good ol' "stony" bud that smells like pot, and not like girl scout cookies sprayed by a skunk, or like Bazooka™bubble gum, but like a fragrance that can't be faked.

Buying weed on the street was always about just holding the little plastic bag to your nose. More trustworthy than the eye balls, one sniff and it is either undeniably that kind of bud, or it was too peppery or fennel-like, or undeniably oregano.

Bobby in building C used to give me weed all the time, back in the busking days, and that had been a mixed blessing because his stuff was supposedly from Colorado from an old buddy of Bobby's. Bobby's buddy's bud, if you will.*

But the mixed blessing came for me in the guise of, if I smoked any before setting out to busk, then I might become insecure and paranoid and not go out to play, or not to go out until after having laid on my bed for an hour and forty-five minutes, trying to astral project and have contact with a girl I met in Mobile, type of thing...

But Bobby hasn't had any weed in his house for something like three weeks now. Three weeks over which a lot of things have disappeared from C 207. 

This is fallout from a crack epidemic which Bobby has, I guess, attempted to manage the curve of, by quarantining himself in the place and sterilizing his mouth regularly with a hot glass pipe.

We are very worried about Bobby, those of us who do so. He doesn't answer his door lately, as of almost a week now...

That's about it for this lousy post.

*How does pot make you feel after you smoke it? Well, for instance a thing like "Bobby's buddy's bud" would seem clever enough to you to write it down; but when you read the post the next day if might not be that funny.