It’s a snowy day and I am bored. Shouldn’t be, mind you,
because I am sitting here at my desk at work. I am looking out the window at the
falling snow and I am filled with nostalgia for other, less snowy, times.
It’s easy to want to sit and surf the web on the last day of the work week. Today I stumbled on an article about Chicano Park in San Diego. Found out
that the park was recently elevated to National Historical Monument status. How
cool is that? Chicano Park was right down the way from 32nd Street,
where the USS Blueridge, my home away from home as a young man, was moored.
Thinking about that ship made me think of liberty call and the weekends I would
spend back at my mom’s house. Those days were rare but when they came around they
were always blessed with freedoms we never experienced on board ship. Ah, late sleep ins, no bunk racks, no navy chow! Now, grant it,
going home had its hardships. too. I gave up my room to my younger brother when
I went off to join the fleet, something that was to be expected. So, if I wanted
any kind of privacy or peace went I went home I had to banish myself to the
attic. Not as bad as it sound, no indeed. And it was especially fine after my first WESTPAC and the arrival of all my
PI stereo gear. And the best thing about those weekend getaways? The paranoia
free use of cannabis.
My mom was a 30’s era LA Chicana, an old school mota head.
By the time I made my way into the service she knew better than to tell me not to
smoke dope. But she still had to draw a line somewhere as far as use of it in the house
was concerned. Hence the attic. Besides the privacy it did have a few, if limited,
attractions. The floor was solid oak, leftover from the days when the attic was
not any attic but the actual second story of the house. It was dark, musty and riddled with old iron
pipe jutting up through the floor. It was eerie at times, playing up there on cold
winter nights as a boy, knowing that there was an open chimney hole to fall
into. The space had no windows, only vents, which added to a funky sweat lodge
feel during those hot SoCal summers.
I come from a long line of pack rats. My mom was a collector of antiques and such and used the
attic space as a secondary storage space for all her swap meet stock. It turned the
place into a strange, wacky and moody kind of carnival funhouse. An old Persian
carpet, an assortment of tiffany lamps, a handful of wicker furniture and a
smattering of old prints gave the place a very bohemian touch and added a certain San
Francisco Haight Ashbury flair to the joint. A young guy couldn’t get much
luckier than that. I had tried my hand at renting rooms on the weekends, and
had spent many a day kicking around San Diego in search of fun and mischief,
but going home was one step closer to a form of sanity I understood and I embraced it.
What truly made it a refuge was knowing I could bring home
cannabis and not have to worry about hiding it. Sure, I had a locked stash box. And
no, I wasn’t just going to leave it lying around when I headed back down south
(as noted my mom liked her dope, too). But I didn’t have to stash my dope under
a railway bridge or stuff it into someone’s hedge to have it in my life. I loved the comfort of
having a stash of weed to come home to, but more, knowing I could add to it and build
it up a bit over time. So, before too long buying weed became a routine: work the week away on board ship,
line up a dealer for the weekend, make the score and then thumb my way home for
a couple days of r and r.
Once I became the sultan of my space I had to have the
proper accessories for enjoying my grass. I had a few glass and wood one-hitters,
plenty of Zig Zag and Reezla rolling papers, but what I needed for long term pleasure
and enjoyment was a proper bong. We had access to plenty of headshops along the coast
and I took my time finding the right piece. I had always fancied a bamboo bong
but couldn’t find one those. There were towering glass pieces, ones made from
PVC, but my funky artsy sensibilities took over the search. Finally, at The
Black in Ocean Beach, I found the bong of my dreams: The Wizard, designed and sculpted by Jim
Rumph. It was about 8 inches tall,
cleverly done, solid, heavy and functional as all get out. I took it up north
and proceeded to put it to work and it soon became the mainstay of my weekend
soirees.
I had that wonderful bong for a number of years and kept it
smoking through the early nineties. I have to think that Just Say No, pee tests
and a less than enthusiastic wife put a stop to the fun. In the end, what happened
to that guy is a mystery. I know for certain that he is long gone but
apparently not forgotten, not by me or all the other folks out there who
happened to get lucky and find a Rumph Wizard for themselves. What I love about
the ‘net is that nothing stays hidden for long. I did a quick Google search
this afternoon, typed wizard bong and up popped an image of my old joy. What
was really crazy is that I was a collector of Jim Rumph’s work for a long time
and didn’t know it. I had plenty of his whimsical tankards around, found them
at second hands and swap meets, gave them away to all my friends for Christmas
gifts and birthdays. Had no idea that those strange and sweet sculptures were from
the same artist that gave me years of joy out of that bong.
It’s still snowing outside. The day is just about at a wrap.
I may have a bit of a nostalgic thing going on right now for that old bong of mine but I know that swapping
out of the gear is what we heads do, it just goes on and on. This coming week Green Supplies is having
a Black Friday sale for the Firefly 2 vaporizer. Two hundred and seventy bucks, quite a nice savings. Things change. It may
not be my old Rumph Wizard but I think I can squeeze a good ten years out of it. And it’s
good looking, too!
Salud!
The Black lives!
https://www.yelp.com/biz/the-black-san-diego
https://www.yelp.com/biz/the-black-san-diego
Jim Rumph's The Wizard!
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