Speaking of nefarious acts (see below), last night, I was walking down the street, minding my own business, looking in store windows, when a thought popped into my head: I should start smoking pot! I swear. It was like, "I should start doing volunteer work at the hospital!" or "I should start baking my own bread." Not like I've never done it. I had a few (lamentable, very lamentable) experiences in my teens and twenties. But since then, I've always said 'no, thanks' when I'm at a party and they pass the dutchie to de left hand side. What the hell prompted that? For the most part (I'm giggling), I think it's because I want to be cool. No, I'm serious. I think it would make me cool. Stop laughing. I'm serious. I know a lot of cool people who smoke pot. I mean, it's just pot, right? What's the big deal. I guess I'd have to get a dealer, right? Have a weekly assignation with some ancient hippy in the Chelsea Hotel. Now I'm not talking about 'trying' pot. I'm thinking about being a pot smoker. I, pot smoking guy. "Why yes, I do smoke pot. In fact, I'm a pot smoker."

Nah. Here's why. First off, I can't afford it. Secondly, I know how it would go. I'd go buy pot, and make a schedule of regular assignations with the aged hippie in the Chelsea Hotel. And I'd do it once. Maybe. Or on the night when I scored my first bundle (that's how heroin is referred to; I'm not sure if that refers to any drug, or just heroin), I'd get home and I'd be really tired, and so I'd put it in the freezer (is that what you do with it?), and never get around to smoking it. I have a bottle of brandy at home, and three nice bottles of a mellow merlot. When I bought them, I thought, it might be nice to relax at home some night and have a snifter of brandy or a glass of wine. I had an image of myself, with a sort of wry, thoughtful smile on my face, sitting wearing a sweater with my dog at my feet, enjoying that nice merlot. When I bought the wine, in that moment, I think I aspired to be a person who would sit there alone with a faraway look in his eyes sipping merlot. "Be that guy!" I told myself. All those bottles remain unopened.

I get home, I put down food for the dog, I pick up messages on the answering machine, I check email, I walk the dog, I make myself something to eat, while I'm waiting for dinner to heat up, I invariably get caught up in some project like refolding all the towels or doing a quick inventory of the spice rack or reading through the alumni newsletter from my college or whatever. And I eat dinner, and of late call down the muse and write until it's time to go to bed. Prior to this project, all that would be transpiring at around midnight, so when I finished dinner (if I hadn't eaten in the city), I'd be off to bed. so, even though being Mr. Merlot Sipper or being Mr. Pot Smoker might be laudible goals, I'm not that guy.

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