Ed Driscoll

Naked Lunch

“If you can’t handle MiGs, don’t fly in MiG alley.”
Dan Aykroyd’s nonchalant response when a fashion-model keeled over from too many drugs backstage after an early episode of Saturday Night Live.

“It’s the rare occasion when a Maureen Dowd column is worth a look, but today’s entry is providing a lot of amusement. Why? Dowd recounts her encounter in Colorado with a pot candy bar. Apparently the recommended serving size for a marijuana novice was one-sixteenth of a bar — something she learned after chomping down the whole thing,” Twitchy notes. (And click over for the hysterical response from Twitter, an entirely safe overdose of schadenfreude.) Instead, Dowd slammed down the whole bar, like John Belushi devouring an entire stash in one go — resulting in her tiny little mind being blownnnn, maaaaaan

For an hour, I felt nothing. I figured I’d order dinner from room service and return to my more mundane drugs of choice, chardonnay and mediocre-movies-on-demand.

But then I felt a scary shudder go through my body and brain. I barely made it from the desk to the bed, where I lay curled up in a hallucinatory state for the next eight hours. I was thirsty but couldn’t move to get water. Or even turn off the lights. I was panting and paranoid, sure that when the room-service waiter knocked and I didn’t answer, he’d call the police and have me arrested for being unable to handle my candy.

I strained to remember where I was or even what I was wearing, touching my green corduroy jeans and staring at the exposed-brick wall. As my paranoia deepened, I became convinced that I had died and no one was telling me.

It took all night before it began to wear off, distressingly slowly. The next day, a medical consultant at an edibles plant where I was conducting an interview mentioned that candy bars like that are supposed to be cut into 16 pieces for novices; but that recommendation hadn’t been on the label.

I reckoned that the fact that I was not a regular marijuana smoker made me more vulnerable, and that I should have known better. But it turns out, five months in, that some kinks need to be ironed out with the intoxicating open bar at the Mile High Club.

As Bryan Preston writes at PJ Tatler, while pot may be legal in Colorado, green cords aren’t — or at least shouldn’t be:

It turns out that MoDo used some seriously strong stuff, and used it the wrong way, which made her whole trippy experience even worse. But…

Green corduroy jeans?

It’s one thing to admit to drug use, another to admit your noobness in using drugs while trying to seem with-it, but MoDo has to return to New York at some point, where the fashion police are as militarized as the real police.

Marijuana use has been proven to do bad things to the brain. But how does MoDo explain a terrible choice she made before her terrible choice to use drugs?

To only slightly paraphrase Allen Ginsberg, I saw the people that pretended to have the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving in hysterical itchy green trousers, dragging themselves through the Colorado streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, died-red aging faux-hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of the Internet.

And inadvertently providing material to Cheech Marin and Tommy Chong, if they ever do another movie together.

(Or to bring this post full circle, this week’s Saturday Night Live, if they’re savvy enough to actually goof on someone on the left.)