Tag Archives: marijuana

Lame Adventure 271: Mood Altering Substance

Thus far, this has been an irritating week commute-wise.  Although it is part of my charm to come into work twenty minutes late every morning, this week I have had extra assistance in the Department of Tardiness from the MTA due to signal problems plaguing the downtown 2 and 3 express subway trains.  Usually, I hop onto the express train at 72nd Street, and ride it to 14th Street where I transfer to a waiting 1 local to take me the rest of the way to The Grind.  Yet, this week, every time I have done my trademark hop onto the express, it’s been crawling like a constipated snail from one stop to the next.  It has been moving so anemically, local trains that arrived after I boarded the express have not only passed my train like it was standing still – and indeed my train had been standing still, but my moving-in-inches express train failed to catch up to the local trains that have bypassed my train.

This activates my ire as well as my gastritis.  Logically, I know it would benefit my overall health and well-being if I were not inclined to not “sweat the small stuff” .   It would also behoove me  to make a genuine effort to leave earlier, but I don’t have a choice in this matter.  If I recall correctly, my astrological sign is Disgruntled.

Furthermore, on Terrible Tuesday, as my practically paralyzed express train was doing the equivalent of Tai Chi moves from one station to the next, it dawned on me that in my haste to get out the door, I forgot to bring the quart of skim milk I pour on the bowl of organic, lightly sweetened tree bark-flavored cereal I had planned to eat at my desk.  Inside my head, I used the Lord’s name in vain — such a convenient time to be an atheist.

When I finally arrived at my place of employ, We’re Not Happy Until You’re Unhappy, a full half hour late, the first person I encounter is my musician sidekick, Greg. He’s looking cheerful.  I announce:

Me:  Signal problems!

Greg:  Sure, that’s what they all say.

I growl at him.

Greg:  I got you something.

Me:  I hope it’s a quart of watery skim milk!

I approach my desk and see this welcome sight.

Herbal essence?

My foul mood instantly evaporates.  Greg is looking at me, smiling slyly.

Greg:  You know, it’s that tea I told you about last week, Assam Hazelbank.

Me:  Oh, yes, that tea … my second guess!

Lame Adventure 85: Naked and Dangerous

Although I am inclined to call this post CSI: Freezer, it’s been suggested that I think of more provocative titles to elicit more page views beyond my usual seven, so anyone logging onto this site in search of a debonair bon vivant hung like Mr. Ed so whip-smart, he effortlessly quotes Marx, “Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend.  Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read,” will be sorely disappointed.

As a consolation prize, I can offer a tale featuring my anything-but-a-wimp sidekick, Greg, and although he did not agree to appear naked in Lame Adventures, I am partly at fault for this since it never occurred to me to ask.  This tale does come equipped with an element of danger.

Only Greg, Under Ling, and I were still at work as we were closing in on five o’clock in our place of employ, Always a Dull Moment, when Greg enters wielding two one pound bags of Peet’s Coffee beans, French Roast and Major Dickason.  Since he and Under Ling are the java drinkers, he asks her which one she prefers they drink first.  Under Ling votes French Roast.  Greg decides that he will freeze the second bag of beans in our refrigerator’s freezer compartment that was last used so long ago, that slab of frozen tabloid tundra, Levi Johnston, had yet to begin being fruitful and multiplying.

After going unused for so many years, the freezer compartment is heavily frost-filled.  Greg studies the site and says to me as I sit at my desk indifferent:

Greg:  There’s something in here.

Me (staring at a floor tile document while yawning audibly):  The Tofutti Cuties we didn’t finish in 2006?

Greg:  No, it’s something in a plastic baggy.

I instantly regain complete consciousness and nearly suffer whiplash as I turn towards Greg showering him with my full attention.

Me (hopeful):  Could it be herbal essence someone forgot about?

Under Ling:  What’s ‘herbal essence’?  What are you guys talking about?

Greg knows exactly what I’m talking about.  He gets a glint in his eye, leaves and returns with a ball-peen hammer.  He proceeds to smash the block of frozen frost to smithereens with such vigor the hammer head starts to loosen.  Under Ling stands near watching him, fascinated.  I am hearing Peter, Paul and Mary sing If I Had a Hammer on my internal iPod.  Since Greg and I share the same wavelength, or possibly because my loud off-key humming is so infectious, he’s compelled to hammer out a warning, not so much all over this la-a-and; just confined to our o-o-office.

Greg:   Under Ling, you might want to stand back.  This hammer’s getting loose. I don’t want it to fly off into you.

Under Ling moves the equivalent of a football field away from Greg.

Hammer in action.

Greg (muttering while continuing to pound):  But if it goes anywhere first, it’s gonna be right into my forehead.

Me (donning my supervisory hat):  Try to avoid doing that.  Can you tell what it is yet?

Greg (through gritted teeth):  Almost there!

Me:  You have your rolling papers on you?

Greg:  Yeah. [He does one final he-man smash.]  Okay, here we go!

I have visions of scarfing an entire container of dark pretzel balls to stave off the munchies I’m anticipating.


I lean forward in my chair and Under Ling sprints back over to Greg as he reaches inside the freezer and pulls out …

Sound effect: down beat

A bag of ice.

Greg:  It’s a bag of ice!

Under Ling:  Why do we have a bag of ice in there?

Me:  A ‘bag of ice’?  That’s it?

Greg reaches in and pulls out a frost covered tray of ice cubes.

Big whoop.

Greg:  Someone froze a bag of ice in the freezer all these years!

Me:  Throw it out.  If anyone claims it, they waited too long.

As Greg cleans the mess from his manual defrosting he sniffs.

Greg:  I think I smell a dead mouse.  Come over here.  Check it out.

Under Ling (horrified):  No!

Since my D-cup proboscis has the olfactory properties of a search and rescue dog, I rise from my chair and conduct second opinion sniffing.  I deeply inhale the entire area including an errant coffee bean Greg inadvertently  spilled two months earlier.

Me:  No.  That smell is from all that vintage frost you smashed.

I return to my desk.  Under Ling follows.

Under Ling:  Are you sure there’s not a dead mouse in our freezer?

Me (definitive):  I’m sure we didn’t freeze a mouse corpse.

Satisfied, Under Ling returns to her desk and goes back to work.  Greg and I exchange sidelong glances, still sharing disappointment in the finding.

Notes about WordPress adding some doodads to this site, there is now a “star” button for you to click if you like what you read.  Since WordPress is eternally optimistic, sorry to say that for those of you that would prefer a garbage pail button you’re out of luck.  WordPress has also added a Tweet button if you’d like to share the Lame in the Twittersphere.