There’s no shame in it, really.
Some folks out there are really dexterous, have nimble
fingers, do the fine hand arts, like weaving, knitting or crochet work,
skillfully, easily, with grace and a sense of play that many of us, no matter
how hard we try, will just never have. Some folks have hands that play
beautiful music as their fingers fly over piano keys or guitar strings, other
concoct fantastic foods and beautiful pottery through hand work that is
result of years of patient, agonizing and repetitive practice. Some skills just
require dedication, hard work and a mastery that only comes through years and
years of toil and humility.
So dry your eyes, newbie. No one ever said that rolling a beautiful,
functional, well-crafted joint was going to happen overnight.
When I first started out smoking mota I was lucky to have a school chum
sell me weed that was all shake. I have no idea what kind of strain it was for sure but I have to assume
it was Mexican. Good stuff, no stems, no seeds, all clean and ready to smoke. I
was too dumb to take a stroll across the street to the local record store where
they had row after row of pipes and paraphernalia for sale and pick myself up a
pipe. I could have walked into the Alpha Beta supermarket and got a corn cob
pipe off the rack, or even better, made off with one of my old man’s surplus, discarded
pipes packed away up in the attic.
No, instead I went crawling to one of my hip buddies who,
for a price, would roll me numbers. I don’t think it ever got to the “I’ll roll
you one, I get one” phase but at first I am sure that kind of deal wasn’t too far
off. I was too much into instant gratification at that point when it came to
pot. I was too lazy, didn’t want to build the skill set or muster up the
responsibility to roll a number all on my own. Instead I chose contract work and like all good
businessmen had to figure in the cost of labor in order to enjoy my products and selfish pursuits.
Finally, though, my pal drew a line in the sand or just got
tired of my lame ass attitude towards rolling. He sat me down one
spring afternoon and told me in no uncertain terms that his rolling days for me
were over. We had the house to ourselves that day, mom and baby brother were
off shopping and the old man off working. He broke out a bag of schwag, a pack
of Zig Zag papers and then proceeded to show me, for the millionth time, the fine art of
putting together a joint.
Well, I finally tried my hand at it and of course what I got, first
time out of the chute, was a lumpy, soggy, sorry looking mess of a joint. I ripped that
one apart and proceeded to roll another. And another. And another. And as time
went on I started to get better. The glue held, the paper didn’t rip and the
cylinder of pot goodness I held in my fingers looked like something we could possibly
smoke together without having it blow up in our faces. I felt proud, happy and liberated.
But, the consumer in me was not all the way pleased. Those early joints still
looked all too lumpen, too much like a kindergartners version of what art i supposed to look like. I wanted
perfection, I wanted mass production and I wanted product that would smoke
right the first time and every time.
Enter the saving grace of my early pot smoking days, the
Bugler Rolling Machine.
I have no idea where I stumbled upon it. I am sure that I
couldn’t have bought it by myself as the boxed set t I bought that day long ago not only
had papers but a packet of Bugler tobacco contained in it, too. I was no longer
intrigued by cigarettes, my cigar days behind me. No, what I wanted to do was
put that machine to work to roll out quality doobies. Knowing there was no way I could do it at home my pal DB and I went over to
his girlfriend’s house, and, as always, her mother Aunt Betty was more than kind enough to let her wayward kids goof at home when they should have been hard at work
at school.
With signed sick notes in our pockets we got to work and
knocked out an ounce worth of good rolled weed in no time. The Bugler was, and still is, an efficient machine. Paper goes in one end with a bit of weed and, once cranked, out comes a beautifully rolled product on the other end. Professional, package worthy and ready to fire up. So, with a baggie full of mota sticks in
the truck of my car we said good bye to our enabler and took off for an afternoon
of smoke headed fun at the beach. There is nothing so rich and powerful as an
afternoon of stolen time. That day the beach was gorgeous, the waves refreshing and the
mota, so commercial looking, so seamless, so perfect, well, became a perfect accompaniment
to a perfect day.
I went on to learn the fine art of hand rolling. I had to.
There was no way that cigarette machine was going to find its way into my sea bag. It came down to the simple
art of repetition, to endlessly grinding it out, to fingers gummy sticky with resin, to eyes bleary from sampling too much product. Along the way I’ve picked up my
share of bongs and pipes, learned to build bats from US government issued pens
and crumpled many a good empty beer can for an emergency smoke. But in the
end it is the fine art of rolling a joint that has saved many a day, that has allowed me
and my friends to partake and enjoy dope over and over again.
Yes, after all these years I am perfectly happy and content with my
less than perfect skill set. I will never go off and be a doobie roller for the
stars nor will I ever build airplanes, tree limbs or other such stuff to smoke
and impress. No, I am happy with, will always be happy with my goofy looking
pinners, with my lumpy, unimpressive fatties. They will never be the joyous,
machine rolled wonders I got out of my Bugler machine in days of yore but when pressed into service
those journeyman looking joints I roll these days will still get me high as a kite, thanks!
Salud!
A rolling machine sale description:
http://coinsandmoreonline.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=36
History of rolling papers:
http://www.collectorsweekly.com/articles/the-unfiltered-history-of-rolling-papers-plus-tommy-chong/
No comments:
Post a Comment