Have you heard the one about the drug-prevention activist who went to the reggae show and was outraged to learn that people were smoking marijuana there?
The San Diego Union-Tribune reported recently that Lisa Silverman, of the North Inland County Prevention Program, went undercover to a Ziggy Marley concert at the Del Mar Racetrack. Silverman was surprised to discover that almost everyone at the concert was smoking weed.
“I was offered a couple of doobies myself,” Silverman said.
Reading that story, I was shocked. People still use the word “doobies!”? I thought.
After her reconnaissance mission, Silverman and a group of concerned parents—alarmed and disturbed that people were lighting up at outdoor reggae concerts—urged fairgrounds operators to clamp down. Fairgrounds manager Tim Fennel seemed to be leaning in that direction. In a message to music fans, he said, “Don't jeopardize the music you like by doing something improper.”
Meaning, if you derelicts keep it up, we won't book bands that appeal to pot smokers anymore.
Meaning, goodbye Ziggy Marley. Hello Hannah Montana.
Meaning, goodbye Snoop Dog and Willie Nelson. Hello Jordin Sparks. Goodbye Method Man, Radiohead, Cypress Hill, George Clinton, Ben Harper and Steel Pulse. Bring on Celtic Thunder!
How out of touch with reality do you have to be to think pot smoking is “improper” at an outdoor reggae concert? That's like saying partner-swapping is improper at an orgy. Pot smoking isn't only proper at a reggae concert, Mr. Fennel, it's the point. Silverman said it best when she reported, “There were very few attendees who were not smoking marijuana.”
That's right, Lisa. You were the minority; this was not your crowd, not your culture. It's reggae, lady. Marijuana isn't a peripheral. It's the message. If you don't like reggae music's message, well, lance my chancres, don't go to a goddamn reggae-music show.
When people like Silverman, Fennel, the parents' groups and all these other morally superior prohibitches embark on one of their anti-fun crusades, I can't help but wonder: How does one become that way? How does one witness a sea of people dancing and smiling—sweet, pungent smoke rising to the air—and feel outrage? Is it nature or nurture? Was Lisa Silverman born an uptight, nosey, self-important, morally superior, culturally intolerant funwitch, or did her parents raise her that way?
Just once, I would love to take that shrew on a date and show her exactly what it means to behave appropriately at an outdoor concert.
We now bring you now to the Silverman / Decker date already in progress…“Lisa, my love, can I get you a beer or something?”
“No thanks. I'll take a Diet Coke.”
“Sorry, googy-bear, I don't approve of Diet Coke? That stuff is loaded with aspartame. Don't get me started on the evils of aspartame.”
“I'm just kidding, lover-pie. You can have whatever you like. Because it's your body, darling, and I want you to be happy.”Lights go down, band comes on, joints light up.“Look at all those marijuana smokers,” she says. “It's an outrage!”
“It's OK, honeyknuckles. They're just having a good time. You should try it.”
“I don't need to get high to have fun,” she snorts.
“Yes, my sweet, sweet potato face, I am aware of that. But you don't need to ride a rollercoaster to have fun, either.
You don't have to vacation in Rome, or go parasailing, or sit on the couch all day drinking gin Rickeys and watching Reno 9-11 episodes. If you were lounging on La Costa Blanca beach and Antonio Banderas pulled up in a jet ski and cooed, ‘Hop aboard, mi amor,' would you snub your nose and say, ‘Sorry, A.B., I don't need to ride jet skis with gorgeous Latino men off the shores of exotic Spanish beaches to have a good time'?”
Deep inside Lisa Silverman's lizard brain, a tiny light flickers on, awareness seeps in and she gazes at the joint in my hand. I spark it up and pass it over. She takes a drag and coughs. Then another. And another.
Before long, she is in the moment, smug gushing from her pores like sour milk from the nose of a stand-up comedian's wife. She smiles at me dreamily and begins gyrating to the gorgeous music massaging her ears.
I step behind her, slip my arms around her waist, pull her body against mind and roam my hands along her hips as we sway together. I take the, um, doobie, from her fingers and pull a long and deep hit.
Lisa turns to face me, and her aspartame-bloated lips find mine. Our mouths open and I exhale a cocktail of cannabis and saliva into her smughole, swirling it around with my tongue like a swizzle stick in the Collins glass of our passion.
After the show, we retire to her place, where we snort Vicodin, drink gin Rickeys and entangle ourselves on her living room floor to the flickering images of Reno 911 on TV.
Write to firstname.lastname@example.org and email@example.com. To view the registry for the Decker / Silverman wedding, visit www.edwindecker.com.