University of Virginia Library

Fourteenth Annual Grass-Tasting Party

By RICHARD LAURENT

"They really got all the boo
you can smoke?" asked my
date Roxanne as I parked the
car and turned off the
anti-gravity. "I heard they
bring it in from all over."

"Yeah," I said. "Hope we
get there in time to find a
seat."

We walked across the
brightly-lit Lambeth Field
parking lot, trying to see the
stars. A cute little number in a
chartreuse muumuu slinked by,
and I stared.

"I think that new style is
simply blasted," said Roxanne.

"What?"

"Girls who shave their
heads hald."

"Mmmmmm'"

Roxanne lit up a
two-hundred-millimeter
Virginia Slim.

"No, don't do that," I said.
"It destroys your ability to
distinguish between fine grades
of hemp." She obediently
dropped the cigarette on the
polysnow.

"I read in the papers how
they're gonna ban tobacco in
California cause of the air
p'lution," she said.

"Did you know Puerto
Rican baby fat sells for $4.95 a
pound in New York?" I said.

We walked on to the
Rotunda in silence. A crowd of
foul druggies was pressing
against the doors there, and,
just as I'd thought, it was
standing room only inside. I
handed over the two $10
tickets and hustled Roxanne
into a secluded spot behind
one of the columns.

"You didn't tell me it
would be like this," she said,
waving her hand vaguely to
encompass the crowd.

"Listen: you want to get
sparked, don't you?"

"Yes..."

"Be quiet, then. This is the
New U."

The crowd quieted too, as a
middle-aged man in
ambisextrous curls strode to
the speaker's podium.

"Sorry we haven't got
enough chairs for everyone,"
he said, "but last year
everybody stumbled over them
when they got blitzed." Polite
laughter from the audience.
"I'm here tonight to give you
all some of the fundamentals
of marijuana-sniffing, or, as it
is more vulgarly known,
boo-blowing." The laughter
was less polite this time.

"Tonight we have six
varieties of cannabis:
Michoacan Red, Jamaican
Gold, Domestic or table dope,
Cambodian Green,

Brycelonikan Red, and Congo
Red."

"Where's Barcelonia?"
murmurred Roxane.

Somewhere on the
Adriatic, I said, and then,
seeing her expression, "in
Europe."

"Marijuana production falls
into five major steps," the
speaker was saying. "The first
of these is obtaining the
correct seeds, preferably of a
pure strain, although, unless
the seeds you buy are stamped
with "The Mark of the Cat",
one runs a risk of being, uh,
ripped off."

"Groovy fab gear trendy
mod," shouted a young
member of the audience. "Lay
off the history and give us a
taste."

"The second of these
is the soil. As you know,
clayey soil as here in Virginia
produces a brown variety of
the weed whereas the sandy
loam of California brings forth
a greenish strain." I was
making the man's face go in
and out of focus. "Climate also
has much to do with the
result..."

"Roxanne," I whispered,
"give me some money for
cigarettes. I'll be back in a
minute."

She flipped me a two-dollar
piece; I went down to the
machine on the lower level and
bought a pack of Camel
straights. When I came back to
the party, the speaker was
saying:

"...now ready for grinding."
He demonstrated this action
with a mortar and pestle,
expertly wrapped a Zig Zag
wheat-straw paper around the
hemp, and lit up.

"This variety, as you are no
doubtless aware..."

"What is this?" hissed
Roxanne. "How long is the
bleeder gonna take? My feet're
asleep."

I turned on my invisibility
rig, walked to the Jamaican
table and poured some gold
leaf into the pipe's deep bowl.
Whoever was watching saw a
pipe float around spectators till
I handed it to Roxanne, lit her
a match, and watched her face
turn ecstatic.

"Ernie," she breathed, "it's
all I've ever dreamed of, and
more." I snapped off the
invisibility. Heads were turning
our way as blue smoke drifted
across the room.

"Yeah," I said, taking the
pipe and drawing deep. My
head exploded. "Yeah!" I
looked around at the
characters moving around us.

"You never heard of the
seven stages of stonedety?" I
asked with amazement in my
voice. She shook her head. It's
times like that I love her.

"The first stage is when
you're not sure if you're off or
not," I said. She nodded. "The
second stage is when your
head tingles and breathing gets
good; the third, when time gets
slow and distances get far..."

"That's where I am," said
Roxanne quickly, smiling.

"Yeah. The fourth is when
you see stars with your eyes
closed and when you open
them the wall changes color.
The fifth is when you spin
around or see movies unrolling
in your mind. The sixth is
when you understand little or
nothing of what's going on
around you and you can hear
and see what you're thinking."

"And the seventh?"

"That's the last stage, when
you scream the Nazis are
putting you in the oven, and
you can watch Bormann's
grinning face as you burn to
death."

"Wow. But what about the
stage when you're so incredibly
aware of everything? I mean–"

"Right. That'll be stage
six-and-a-half, because the
strain of knowing the cosmos
sends you straight into stage
seven."

A few people were
wandering around bumping
into columns, talking about
their octophonic systems,
comparing notes on the strains.

"Listen," I said: "I know a
little room up on the top floor
of this place, all musty and
cobwebby and dark. Let's go."

"I don't know..." Roxanne
started to say, but I gave her
one of my if-you-really-love-me
looks and led her across the
marble floor towards the
stairs-door behind some plastic
plants. My student I.D. card
did the trick with the lock,
and we slipped through to the
first flight of dank stone steps.

"Wow," said Roxanne.
"Just like some castle on the
Rhone."

"Rhine. Watch your head."

The steps ended and we
were on the uppermost
balcony. Roxanne, enchanted,
stared at the ground-floor
boo-blowers and made the
walls ring with shouts,
inaudible below, while I
walked around trying doors.

Then I heard footsteps
coming up the stairs. "Quick,
in here," I whispered, pushing
her up four shallow steps into
the dark, foul-smelling room.

"Ernie," she moaned. "I
can't see a–"

"Don't you worry. There're
candles up here we can use." I