Sidenote: My weekend starts on Thursdays, so by 4:30 on most Thursday afternoons, I find myself with a cold beer in my hand. Today, I was at Oscar’s, probably the best dive bar in the city, and the underdog winner for my favorite cheesesteak in Philadelphia (doesn’t hurt that they give you a cheesesteak-and-a-half during happy hour).
I Have Never Been to Oscar’s Without a Stranger Chatting Me Up at the Bar. Usually it’s a very drunk middle-aged man who is drinking before his overnight shift at a labor job in center city. Today, while I was waiting for my happy hour companion, I got roped into a conversation with Ray the Painter, and I was not disappointed.
Ray was straight out of the second season of The Wire. He had paint speckled all over his clothing, and a splattering of beer was mixing in with the paint as he spoke. He told me in great detail about his plans to go fishing overnight in Atlantic City, how to get there via train, what specific spot he fished, and how many tourists wandering by at 4 AM after losing all their money gambling who he planned on smoking up.
That was the subject that Ray the Painter could wax poetry on—his love of smoking weed. He described his methods of packing a bowl. He told me specifically where his favorite spot to smoke during work is (along Rittenhouse Square, on the corner that has the "newspaper bins for the gay newspaper"). He told me how he gets his weed (you see, his daughter has leukemia(!?), so he gives her money so she can go to New Jersey and get medical marijuana for him). And he all but begged me to come outside and smoke with him, right this second.
Sidenote’s sidenote: I Have Never Smoked Weed. My reasons are known well to those who've discussed the subject with me. Bottom line is, I don’t smoke, but I have exactly zero problems with people smoking weed themselves. I don’t mind the smell, people that are high don’t annoy me, and the shit is practically legal, even if it isn’t quite. I don’t care. People should be able to smoke what they wanna smoke.
I decided at the beginning of the summer that I won’t be adding marijuana to the list of New Things. The Summer of New is important to me, but there are just some things that wouldn’t be worth it, in my opinion. (Yes, I read a story about Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy violently fucking but refuse to smoke some innocent reefer. Sue me.)
But sitting there in good spirits, the weekend in front of me in all its glory, during that brief moment I came really, really close to just saying fuck it and smoking weed. Do it for the story, right?
Cooler heads prevailed. I ordered a cheesesteak-and-a-half instead while Ray went out front to blow marijuana smoke down Sansom St., my buddy showed up and we drank way too many beers (the only way Joey approves of losing sobriety), and Ray found some other poor souls and talked their ear off instead while I caught up with an old friend. And then I rode my bike to get some pho...
Shit, yea, so I ate some pho. Here’s a picture.
Love,
Joey
No comments:
Post a Comment