How to Build a Wall of Vinyl, Castro District, THC Suppositories

“Everything sounds better on vinyl. It’s not a trend. It’s a fact.”
— David Arnold

5:44 a.m., it’s a chilly Sunday morning; I have two beasts here, eating some new Purina food we purchased yesterday, my wife is in bed, the coffee is made. It’s dark outside, our friend John is coming to pick up Griffy, our daughter’s German Short Hair Pointer.  They are going to bird something I do not understand.

My wife is now up, the house is alive with dogs eating, running, wresting, and now they have ventured outside to the courtyard.  They effectively destroyed all the plants yesterday; thank God it’s fall.  A dog-made backyard makeover just in time for winter.

I think our big task today is to take PVHT on a long walk to Massachusettes street; my wife wants to shop a little bit; I’ll walk the dog, maybe get some craft coffee, people watch, one of my favorite activities.  You never know a person’s story; you can only guess from the fleeting moments you get to share at a random time on a random day.

An ebony and ivory war is going on about 3 feet to my right.  Our white dog has what was deemed an “indestructible toy” by the maker; it took PVHT about 15 minutes to prove that advertisement false.  The corpse of the toy mentioned above is now a tug of wag rag being ripped from each others mouths.  

There is a fireplace to my left, a guitar in front of me, another guitar to my right, and a wall filled with vinyl albums behind me. In addition, there is a large cabinet of vinal records and a stand that looks to be from 1960, a wire-framed antique holding more vinyl records.  I own about 3000 albums, but I didn’t’ start collecting until about ten years after my divorce.

I was to meet my friend Greg for some Thai food, and we were early.  We walked the neighborhood a hood I would later move to, but at this time, I was living in Farmland and Carmel, Indiana.  We turned the corner, and there was a gift store; we walked in, and staring me in the face was KISS Alive I.  it was in pristine shape; I picked it up, my friend asked if I owned a record player, I smiled “not yet.”

I picked up maybe five albums that day, the start of my adult collection.  I took them to our Carmel home; my partner, my Queen at the time, this is years before we would marry on top of a mountain, looked at me funny and asked, “how might you play those albums?”  I wryly said, “Christmas is coming!”  And it was, and that year, I got a record player I could run through my sound system.

It became a hunting exercise; I would find vinyl shops, there was one in Muncie, Dan’s records.  There were flea markets; I would be out running sales calls and find myself in weird corners of the world digging through old albums seeing Billy Squire, Styx, and REO Speedwagon.  I would buy them all if I didn’t own them, and soon I was buying duplicates.

Not on purpose, I would forget what I had in my collection; even today, I have duplicates; one copy is in Indy and the other in Colorado. A few years ago, we dropped our middle kid to college; we went directly to San Francisco; Mom needed some time to decompress after seeing her kid off to her next life. So we stayed in the Castro district, a fantastic place with a relaxed vibe and a couple of gay folks.

We made our way to Haight Ashbury, a place we had visited a trip two years earlier.  We got a bite to eat; we got a coffee; I was sober at the time.  We went to Amebo Records, the iconic record store by the park; I loaded up, buying two boxes of albums, mailing them back to our home. 

To the right, I  noticed a green cross, a sign that said: “the doctor is in.”  there was a red arrow pointing up the stairs; I took my Queen’s hand and said, “let’s check it out!” So we headed up the stairs and walked into a 1960’s doctors office.  There standing as if the central casting had just called for a nurse was a Courtney Love looking character complete with a nurse uniform and a 1960’s voice, “what brings you in today?”

The office was that of a doctor that prescribed Medical Marijuana cards. So I thought, why not give it a shot.  I explained that I had just moved there; this was not a lie; I had moved temporarily there.  I had not changed my driver’s license but could give her my new address in Castro.  She said, “no problem, honey, we can get you taken care of!”

My Queen and I sat in the waiting room; all the magazines were 4 to 5 years old; they were battered and torn, like a movie set.  Ten minutes later, I was instructed to see the doctor; I went back to an office; if I were NPR, I would share his skin color, but I’m not NPR, so it is not essential.  The doctor had on a cap that looked to be from another country, bleeding the colors of Jamaica.

The man was kind and asked what had brought me in.  I shared I had quit drinking about six months ago; I was looking for something to take the edge off.  He replied, “so you are anxious?”  I said, “why yes, I am anxious.”  With that, he wrote one word on a blank piece of paper, signed his name, handed me the “prescription.” And I was told to go back and see Courtney.  He explained that he knew people would consume cannabis in his state, and they had decided it was best to deliver it safely and effectively.

I got my photo taken, got my I.D. card, and headed to my first-ever dispensary.  My Queen went to a Starbucks; I entered a large warehouse; I walked in and thought I was in Disney Land.  T.V. Monitors showing large green buds, food, drink, suppositories, all made from THC.  I bought a little bit of bud, some coffee beans tinged with THC, and sat down at a large table with some other folks. 

On the table were metal volcano-looking things; I was confused.  One of the folks sitting at the table noticed my confusion and said, “have you ever done this?”  I said, “nope?” So he showed me to put some of my “flower” on the hot burner, take my sizeable plastic bag and put it over the bud, and let the bag fill with smoke; we then sat there and sucked the smoke from the bag; I walked to Starbucks got my mate and wend to our Air B and B  with a  peaceful easy feeling.

We hung out at the spot a little before heading out to get a bite to eat.  I had grabbed a lollipop from my stash; I licked, licked, and cracked it on the way. Finally, we sat at the restaurant, and I realized that eating an entire lollipop of THC was a wrong move.  The paranoia swept over me like a warm blanket.  After repeated assurances from my mate, I was going to be okay; we had a nice dinner and went and watched an interactive version of The Wizard of Oz.

Well, that’s my story, and I’m sure you have a few you could share.  I try not to bore you with my life details, but now and then, I get a little retrospective and think back to my life journey.  This trip was an exciting event, and I would encourage you to pen a few thoughts about a time in your life where things were new and refreshing.  This one is more for me than you; cheers, I’ll see you tomorrow at the dawn of a new week.

“Everything sounds better on vinyl. It’s not a trend. It’s a fact.”
— David Arnold