Pot? Yeah, I’ve smoked it. I was lying in bed the other night thinking over the years, I’ve probably smoked a 39-gallon Hefty bag’s worth of pot. The next day, while skiing, I floated the grim concept out to a lung-hardened group of ski-bum stoners in the Silver Queen “Ganjala,” where literally tons of pot has been smoked, and I listened with amusement as they all heartily boasted they’d easily surpassed that dubious (pun intended) milestone.
Now that both my parents are dead, I can finally write candidly, relatively guilt-free about my colorful career of smoking pot. I can hear them now, rolling over in their vault up at the Aspen Grove Cemetery, breathing deep belly sighs of disappointment. My mom and dad were appropriately distraught about their little darling smoking weed.
I took my first “hit” in sixth grade at a lavish residence in Starwood on Carroll Drive. As the THC slowly swept over my fragile eggshell of a mind, I remember laughing hysterically over a bowl of Fruit Loops in the kitchen. A mere year later, I got suspended from Aspen Country Day School for smoking pot in one of the Music Associates of Aspen practice rooms.
Another kid narked on us. If you think sixth grade is young for getting high, keep in mind I smoked my first cigarette in Mexico in 1972, at age 5 with the gardener's son on the roof of our rented house just outside of Ajijic. I really got my groove on smoking pot while attending boarding school in Hebron, Maine.
Doing bong hits thr.
