I Hate Everyone, Except You(35)

For thirty years I used a variation of that line at countless parties when offered a toke of this or a snort of that. “Nah, I don’t feel like doing a bong hit right now, I just reapplied Fresca to my panty shield and, dude, I am trippin’ balls.” I don’t think anyone ever laughed, just gave me that aloof, slightly confused look I usually reserve for people with really short bangs or novelty hosiery.

I’m just not that into drugs, despite the fact that I’ve done my fair share of them. It’s a control thing, really. I know exactly what I’m going to feel like after two margaritas (horny and bitchy) or three gin and tonics (horny and exhibitionistic), but with drugs you never know what kind of high—or low—you’re going to have. The last time I chased half a joint with a Vicodin I ended up screaming obscenities at a leprechaun because he was shitting pennies all over my living room. The next day the woman who lived across the hall told me she thought I had been babysitting until she heard me yell, “If I see one more coin come out of your ass, so help me God!” at which point she assumed I had a “special friend” over.

That was 2004 and I haven’t done recreational drugs since, yet I’m kind of intrigued by people who do. Do they use because they want to get out of their own heads, or do they need to? And where are these people going that’s so great, because I never got there. I did have a fantasy for a while about composing a series of mystical essays after ingesting different substances. You know, one Saturday chew a few ’shrooms and write about the meaning of life; the next, take some LSD and see if I can channel Buddha. And so on and so on, until the only drugs I haven’t done are crank and bath salts. I chickened out, mostly because I don’t want to die, but on some level I think it would be fun.

So, recently I tried a much safer, somewhat legal version.

I was in San Francisco after a trip to Los Angeles for work and I asked a friend of mine—Renée—with a medicinal marijuana prescription for her “anxiety” to buy me one dose of an edible, because I was conducting an experiment. She asked what the experiment entailed and I told her: “I just want to try writing while high to see if it’s any better or worse than what I come up with when I’m sober.” Renée, who was also writing a book at the time, said she had attempted the same thing to no avail. Every time she tried to write while high, she got a case of the fuck-its, closed her computer, and watched TV or ate cookie dough. She suggested that I take a marijuana gummy, and she would stay with me, sober, and interview me, while recording the whole thing on her phone. I said it sounded like a plan.

On a Sunday night in mid-May, Renée came to my hotel room. I chewed and swallowed one THC-infused gummy bear and this is what transpired: RENéE: So, what do you want to talk about?

ME: I’m not sure this thing is working. Are you sure you didn’t give me a regular gummy bear?

RENéE: I’m sure.

ME: In Germany they call them GOO-me bears.

RENéE: Ya.

ME: Shit. I forgot to tell Damon we were doing this.

RENéE: Do you want to call him now?

ME: No. What if he gets mad at me?

RENéE: Do you think he would?

ME: He doesn’t like los drugas.

RENéE: Las drogas.

ME: I took French. Is my forehead shining? I feel like my forehead is shining.

RENéE: A little.

ME: [Looking in mirror] I look like shit. You know, once you start wearing makeup, it’s hard to get used to seeing your own face without it. Don’t tell anybody, but sometimes—well, always, actually—I fill in my eyebrows just a bit, with a MAC pencil. They’ve gotten sparse with age. You know Tony Goldwyn?

RENéE: The actor?

ME: Yeah, he looks good without eyebrows. He’s got strong features to carry the rest of his face. I don’t. My face is so oval.

RENéE: Isn’t that supposed to be the ideal face shape?

ME: For women! When was the last time you saw a guy and were like, “I just wanna hop on that sexy oval face, ya big stud.”

RENéE: You may have a point. But I still like your face.

ME: Thanks. You know, sometimes I think I may be invisible to birds.

RENéE: What makes you say that?

ME: They’ve been flying at me, like I’m not there. But then at the last minute, they dart away. It’s like my bird force field has gotten thinner or something. I should Google that. What if my fucking aura is fizzling out? Birds can see things we can’t see, you know. The birds used to be able to see my aura and they could steer clear of it. Now, it’s barely there. Can’t see it until you’re right up in it.

RENéE: Do you feel like your aura is fizzling out?

ME: Sometimes.

RENéE: Why?

ME: Old age. I don’t know. Stacy [London] and I had our aura photographed once a long time ago. We were in a New Age shop shooting part of the show in our first season. We were in Nashville. We had matching gold auras. The guy who owned the shop said we were practically angels or some shit.

RENéE: Well, you were helping people.

ME: When was the last time an angel helped you by suggesting you wear dark-wash jeans and ballet flats?

RENéE: Do you ever miss that show?

ME: Next question.

RENéE: When did—

ME: I should have another gummy because I don’t think this one is on.