Some of my trip to Seattle consisted of me sitting around watching - or waiting for - other people getting stoned. Selected events that fall under this description include:

The first afternoon I was there: when I went to Mollie's boyfriend Steve's place to pick her up for the day. They are both social workers - she with recovering addict teens and he with prisoners - and have scheduled their weekends on Fridays and Saturdays. So on that Friday that I arrived, they were just waking up for their morning toke, even though it was well past two in the afternoon.

The first night I was there: when I went out with the Mollie and Kelly, John, and Pierre to Al's Tavern to drink beer. I found myself, around 12:30 AM, alone at the table, as they all had gone for a walk around the block to smoke some weed.

When I went camping on Saturday: Mollie and Kelly and Steve and Doug, all three active participants in the String Cheese Incident stoner lifestyle, pretty much smoked pot consistently the entire trip.

At the barbecue Pierre threw for me on Sunday: early on there were kids, and such, but later, when the families and the girls left, it was just me and Pierre and Mark and John and some other guy I didn't know, and they all smoked, and then we all went and listened to music.

You see what I'm saying, don't you?

In the past year, I think I've dragged on a joint a handful of times, and always just a brief hit, nothing that could do any major damage to me. In Europe I had some hash, and goddamn did it fuck me up. I'm useless with things like that. It makes me quiet and paranoid, and I'm certainly not committed enough to any sort of lifestyle to attempt to work through that paranoia.

Lately I've been hanging out with a cute boy - one I met before I left town - who smokes pot. He's as sweet as can be when he's on it, so I don't mind at all, just like I don't mind when my Seattle friends - or any of my New York friends for that matter, though they are far and few between - get down with that drug. But he asked me why I don't smoke anymore, and the folks in Seattle asked me why I don't smoke anymore, and the best answer I can give them is with a story, because the best answer I can ever give is always with a story.

When we were camping near Mt. Index two weekends ago, I sat near the fire and ate pistachio nuts. Eventually I began to throw the shells into the fire, and quickly noticed how the shells burst into flames. These incendiary devices fascinated me. I decided to set up a row of the shells on the log, a little fireworks display of sorts. I figured if I lit one, the other shells would light in a row, one hitting the other like dominoes.

As I arranged them, concentrated energy, furrowed brow, Steve watched me. He was the first and most interested.

Finally he said to me, "So...I'm stoned. What's your excuse?"

"I don't need to be stoned. I'm just this way anyway, all the time."

And then suddenly everyone understood. Me, sober, is more than enough.

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