What does it feel like to be stoned?

I used to be a bit of a stoner. Aside from being a major booze bag to boot, I usually had a nifty little satchel of the green wax tucked away somewhere next to my pocket pipe. If I didn't have a beer in my hand, I was usually baked and enjoying life. Aside from the accompanying nasty habit of choking back Camel Lights all the time, being stoned was pretty fun.


Now I find myself falling into this orbit around a "job." I'm watching the clock instead watching the weather channel. I'm looking at my bank account instead of at my forward lean. I'm dressing like a complete doid instead of not giving a fuck about anything other than cold beer, big jumps and pussy.

I'm not sure when it happened, but the switch went off in my head that perhaps it was time to settle down, find a "real job" and build a future for myself. This notion is chewing away at me a bit today, as I always lived like each day was my last. Pound that fucking beer, take another bong hit and grind that corner before you pass out. I still can't remember most of the 90's, and the whole cluster of the early part of 2000's is a bit hazy as well. Shit, I can't remember last week let alone last year.

My point is that while I'm being handed easy money every other Friday for "marketing," I still yearn for the balls to the wall full on assault of guerrilla tactics which included throwing a contest, throwing a party and throwing up. It isn't all about getting fucked up and being wasted. That was secondary. The primary purpose was the revelry, the rambunctiousness, the noise, the shit talk and the comaraderie. We only only do nice things here at this job. I used to only do nice things when I absolutely had to.

So this program, this plan, this current rotation around my pension, 457 and so called light at the end of the tunnel feels hallow. If I yell I can hear it echo, devoid of any passion and slowing wearing away my drive to be innovative and outspoken. I guess than keep beating me down with boredom, meetings and the mundane with more money. It seems my spirit has gotten fat enough on the easy pickens to resist resisting. I am slowly becoming the douchebag I hate.

So what now? Do I dive back into action sports and learn how to sell, design or market things I love, toys of excitement, planks of pleasure or funsticks? No. I've been down that road. Reducing your fun to a priced producable product may have it perks, but you see how it's made, where it's made, how much it costs and how it all works. That takes away a bit of the shine.

No, I think I need something weird like a marketing job for an Alaskan fish hatchery or to move to Europe and follow the World Gran Prix motocross circuit in a camper. Either way it would be a good mix of the new with the totally strange. That might be just what I need.