It's funny how things can carry a sense of duality, particularly semi-aligned events that happen on opposite ends of the country, globe, etc. The events that occurred at the Alamo this morning coincided nearly exactly with the final acts of an highly regarded, academy award winning actor that I had looked up to since the mid-nineties.

It was already 3 am by time I was able to call my work day at the Hookah Lounge done, so I really wasn't expecting anything to go down between my arrival and my eventual sleep. This was about 14 hours ago. It had started to snow without much warning, which was true Texas style. And Lubbock more so, where in a single day it was once recorded to have suffered through a dust storm, thunder storm, sleet storm, and a full on snow and freeze by sundown. The flakes this morning were as thick as nickels, falling like tufts of cotton. The source of my transport, Helter, informed me that everyone was holed up in the Alamo waiting for me.

"What for?" I asked.

"Well, apparently JT has a whole ounce for himself and wants to smoke fifteen grams of it tonight," Helter said.

Morning, I refuted in my head. And Jesus, what kind of possession grips a person to obtain that much grass and then smoke it all starting at 3 am? Not that I, or anyone else, would complain for that matter. But when you were dealing with high powered super strains that were pushing 30 percent THC content to plant content (fucking-a, right?), it did get expensive. And none of us were famous--yet.

My room was decently crowded upstairs, and for a moment it looked like the end of a party. Jack and Conway were sitting on the futon with the roommate, Bells, who would be one of only two females there amongst us males. The other was Janet, girlfriend of Helter, and I couldn't help but to feel bad for them. Not in a sexist sense--we were a bunch of dirty, loud boys who happened to have drugs and their own place, plain and simple. And for that I could feel for them.

Conway was almost passed out, though he stared out occasionally from half closed eyes. He was the obligatory culturally diverse slice, our black friend. This was only at first glance, because to be fair, Helter was part Viking and I myself looked nothing short of a gypsy. And JT--the neighborhood friendly Irish descendant. Jack himself was part Hispanic. We could have made soda commercials for Tab soda.

JT looked as passed out as Conway, but he had it in him to nod at me as I entered. We all meandered a bit, listening to music and smoking cigarettes. I myself occupied myself with cutting two skins to glue together as sort of a super wrap. Around 3:30 am JT said we were going to be doing a sort of weed-Olympics. Outright he asked me to grind up four grams for said blunt.

Before I could really start rolling, JT suggested we change spots. He would grind, and then I could prepare the room for a proper smoke out. I agreed and set about taping up some of the draftier windows, stashing dirty clothes against the door. Con looked slightly amazed, as if he couldn't remember when he'd entered this weird reality. Jack was the same, but perhaps a little bit more grounded, as he offered to help roll.

JT asked if I could do the rolling, and I agreed. Something like six grams, a pile of green powder, lay ground up on my table. I took the skin and hesitated. This was a lot of money.

"Sure you want me to roll it fat?"

"Uh, fucking duh," he said, grinning. I smiled back but wasn't sure how to feel. I was wired from too many energy drinks to push me through a twelve hour shift. Bad vibes were an every day thing with me. Sometimes they meant something, most times I was just usually on edge on a biological level.

I began piling grass into it, and I made sure to do it in plain sight of JT lest I load too much. I heard no objections, and after about what might have been the second or so gram, I called it even and attempted to roll. For the record, I never have been, nor will be the type to go on about drugs like a gold medal. I figure, hell, the people who harp on their latest drug binge miss the point of drugs entirely. What is there to brag about the mere act of altering one's consciousness with substances? You've taken Nyquil. You've drank coffee before. And you no more consider the man bragging about his fifth keg stand last night an Alcohol Connoisseur than a heroin addict a Smack Purveyor. It just doesn't equate.

But that said--I had never rolled nor seen so much grass at once that was to be smoked.

I'd seen ounces on ounces at dealer's dens, but it was the difference between driving by the BMW dealership and getting behind the wheel of one of those German puppies. It occurred to me once I began to lick and glue it together that this was rather serious. A thumb sized blunt that was worth something like sixty dollars--that means something, though I couldn't be damned to figure it out now.

JT nodded over to me and asked how much was left in front of me. About a joint's worth. He nodded and said to pull the bag back out of the second drawer and weigh out another 4 grams worth.

"Roll a joint for everyone," was what he said, "Weed Olympics, dude. Everyone smokes their joint at exactly four-twenty a.m. Then we load the Obliterator and take turns filling and clearing it. And then we'll smoke all of that and then smoke that blunt you--holy fucking shit how much is in there dude?"

I balked. Dammit I'd just knew that it'd been too much, but it was the opposite. he was impressed, and set about snapping "non-incriminating" photos (grass in hand, no room visible, no faces, etc). Then it was the matter of the EIGHT joints I had to roll. And in 15 minutes, as it was then 4 am with time going no slower. I said, "Fuck it. Where the hell's my roller?"

I found it three drawers down in the desk and it sped things up tremendously. It was a sort of operation. I rolled it right, twisted the end, and passed it to Helter, who passed it Janet, who passed it to JT, and so on. By time it was 4:15 everything was rolled, and we were settling down into a circle of the middle of the room.

At 4:20 am, February 2nd, it began.

There's not much to say that isn't apparent. The room was quickly filled with smoke, unfiltered in any way by AC or otherwise. Eight jays blazing as Wiz Kalif and other smoke tunes rumbled through the speakers. (It's the next episode~) The Obliterator was used neck, a monstrous bong that took an entire breath to fill and then another to clear. And then of course--the blunt. And not just a blunt, THE blunt. The most potent any of us had ever touched.

The night cascaded away in the enjoyable kind of blur I knew we'd spend months talking about.

But more curious was what was happening in New York at this time. Established actor Philip Seymour Hoffman had, perhaps around the same time I was trucking home along slush covered roads, decided to give in to his old kicks. He was found dead in his apartment, this morning, and while no formal report has been released by the police department of that state, it was confirmed that a hypodermic needle was found in his arm upon discovery. And that was tremendously shocking to hear. This man who'd played everything from a goof-ball tornado chaser in Twister, to a quiet but understanding personal assistant in The Big Lebowski. This was a successful man--a man with friends and family that loved him dearly. More so, this was someone I myself looked up to as someone who could play any role with the strongest, quietest conviction.

And while a group of second rate college students and minimum wagers were blazing themselves in the type of tight knit circle that had probably been emulated all across America since the mid-sixties, a multi-award winner was cooking up what was either the strongest Black Tar heroin there was, or simply a bad batch he wouldn't see coming. And who knows--at the very moment I was taking a particularly large hit, trying best to ignore the burn and whine of THC entering the system at something near light speed, Mr. Hoffman was tightening the band around his arm, prodding deep for a vein. And I exhaled, he breathed in as the needle bit his arm and he took the plunge.

He knew then--at that singular moment the smack hit his system as I helped my friend Conway light the bowl, that he was either fucked or going to have the best high of his life. Regrettably, as most heroin addicts will attest, the greatest high is to catch the dragon. And when one chases and catches the dragon--it happens once.

And only once.

Rest in peace, Mr. Hoffman. Even if you were an regrettable addict, in which people with either have full or no sympathy for, I hope you rest in peace. I hope you when you found the dragon, full well knowing what it meant to chase it, that it was worth it in the end. that the terrible and final ride was everything you wanted. Because if it wasn't---

Well... then God I pray you're able to rest in peace.

~RDS