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Tuesday, April 20, 2004

How Bunsen Spent His 420 Day

Indeed, The Day is not yet concluded. But I've been awake since 12:01 a.m. on this, the twentieth day of the fourth month of the year of our Lord two-thousand and four. I'm sure it has not escaped my Magic Weed puffing brethren that this is perhaps the grandest 420 Day of them all, as 04/20/2004 is very nearly a palindrome. Just take the dual, plump zeroes and roll them outward like benwa balls waltzing inside your passion tunnel, letting them bring together the two and its double-self like sweaty, eager lovers. 04200240.

Exactly what is it I was saying? Oh, yes.

I must first admit that I'm not usually an aficionado of the joint, nor the blunt, nor the glass tower of the bong. Bong. Do you hear the bells? I digress... Usually I prefer my mind-altering substances to substantially increase my chances at sexual congress--a touch of ecstasy, a dash of rohypnol, the odd crack-rock tantalizingly dangled in front of the genitals, deliciously just out of reach. But once and again I'll encounter the musty patchouli-stink of my neighbor, back from a month-long stint peddling hemp leg warmers in the parking lot of sundry Phish tour venues, and he'll invite me to join him in a recreational toke. On this, 420 day (and a numerologically historic one at that), he would not take no for an answer.

One joint turned into two, which, in turn, by some obscure law of geometric increase, became an entire day in the thrall of THC and a particularly catchy Widespread Panic album. But somewhere between the jackhammer-like hit I took from a gravity bong and the deep inhalation from a contraption that looked like a hookah being date-raped by a mechanical octopus, I began to harbor some intense paranoid ideation. A great rage began to subsume the paranoia, as I remembered my rabid disdain of the hippie culture.

I can't be entirely sure, but I think I may have beaten my poor neighbor to death with a Birkenstock snatched from his very own, filthy foot, and absconded with his Widespead Panic album, convinced that it contained the very rhythm of the universe.

In the cold light of hard-won sobriety, I can be certain of but one thing: Widespread Panic is rather shit.

About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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