By EW Staff and Readers

There’s getting stoned and there’s getting stoned. Sometimes it’s relaxing and sometimes the devil’s lettuce does you wrong. Eugene Weekly asked our readers for tales of when partaking goes sideways, and you delivered! 

Clipboard Brain

Many years ago I was working as a backstage ambience coordinator for Bill Graham Presents. That day, we were working the Grateful Dead show at Stanford’s Frost Amphitheater.

I was on my lunch break, so after smoking a joint I was sitting at a picnic table when the band took a break like they always did in the middle of the show.

Jerry Garcia walked back and grabbed something to drink and sat down at my table.

My co-workers looked frightened and they immediately got up and scattered to other parts of the catering area.

I didn’t move and Jerry gave me a very bewildered look and said: “Was it something I said?”

I replied: “We are well-trained and we are taught to not bother the artist, but you sat at my table, so all bets are off.”

In our following conversation he noticed I had a clipboard with my daily notes and he asked me what I was using it for. I told him it was my “brains” because I had way too much to do during the day to keep track of it all in my head.

He laughed and we finished the conversation talking about mowing lawns and raking leaves and basic chitchat.

I was finished with my lunch and it was time for me to go back to work so I told him to have a great day and I started to walk away.

Suddenly, I heard Jerry‘s voice loudly say: “Hey Stoner!” The entire catering area stopped and froze and was looking at me like: “Oh my God, what did you do now?”

I turned around and he was waving my clipboard in the air and he said, “You forgot your brains.” It was hilarious and everyone started laughing and then we went on about our day.

Needless to say, Stoner was more than my last name at that moment. — Lonnie Stoner

Naked (And on Camera)

I had smoked some in my younger years but hadn’t for two-plus years due to having a kid. When I got diagnosed with lung cancer I got a medical marijuana card, but couldn’t smoke so edibles it was.

One night, while my partner went climbing for the first time since my diagnosis, I decided to try the edibles I’d picked up. After popping a gummy and waiting 45 minutes with no effect, I took another. Classic mistake. Within 10 minutes, I was on an emotional rollercoaster: euphoric, doing naked yoga, then sobbing and terrified of death, only to switch to hyper-optimism and planning a blog (not a blogger, never willingly read a blog in my life).

I started texting my husband my highs and lows, sexy to sad to happy to mad, and repeat. Since he was climbing and had his phone off, he didn’t see my 20-plus messages until he took a break. He decided to cut his climbing session short and head home.

When he walked in, he found me in a full-blown panic, convinced I was overdosing and needed to go to the hospital. Luckily, he kept his cool, got me in the shower to help ground me, and stayed with me until I came down from the high.

To add to the fun, we had a home security camera, which captured the chaotic adventure. It was a mortifying watch through the next day (although I was pleased to see I looked pretty decent doing naked yoga). — Krystal Elms   

‘Acute Marijuana Overdose’

So I was 17 and my best friend Debbie got a joint from her brother and we drove (I drove) to Island Park. It was just dusk and we parked and lit that thing up. Two minutes later I said, “This isn’t doing anything.” Two more minutes later and I told Debbie I might die. We had to get home. 

I tried to drive but made it as far as Fred Meyer where I unknowingly parked by the employee exit. Must have been closing time because the employees filtered out by the dozens. I told Debbie we had to leave, but that I couldn’t drive because of acute marijuana overdose and was in an active state of dying.

So, Debbie got behind the wheel of that 1985 Mercury Lynx Sport even though she’d never driven a stick shift before. I reclined and, fighting off vomit and paranoia, continued to tell her for the next 12 miles down Main Street to ‘SHIFT.” Somehow we made it without a single engine kill, and then we got to her house, and I threw up and her dog ate it. — Shalena Cardinaux

Do You Know the Doughnut Man?

In 1972, I was a senior in high school and knew Tim L., who was a source of just about any kind of drug you might desire and was well known to the police. Once he told me a crazy story — “If you are ever at a party and this old guy shows up at the door, with a vendor’s tray of doughnuts to sell, RUN! This guy is a volunteer with the police. He goes to parties selling doughnuts and if he sees pot or drugs going on, he informs the police, and you can be sure that the place will get busted!” — Paul Remi Prevost.

The Doughnut Man, The Doughnut Man

I was hanging out with some friends in Haight-Ashbury, in a seedy hippie crash pad with not much furniture in crappy condition. Chairs, we agreed, would be an improvement. Someone mentioned that, according to the SF Chronicle, the Fox Theater downtown was undergoing a makeover. Anything of any value had been sold and the remaining fixtures (seats were mentioned) were being given away free to anyone who wanted them.

We headed down to the Fox in three Volkswagen buses intending to liberate as many seats as possible. Never mind it was about 2 am. Upon arriving at the theater, we were bummed to discover that the area was surrounded by a chain link fence! Why, we wondered, if they were giving shit away, would they fence off the area?

Undeterred, the more agile and less stoned among us scaled the fence and accessed the theater where a big pile of worn seats awaited us. Our plan was for the inside crew to toss seats over the fence to the outside crew. This worked perfectly until a squad of San Francisco’s finest arrived and busted us. Our protestations that you couldn’t steal something that was being given away for free fell on deaf ears. We were booked on suspicion of trespassing and theft and spent the night in jail.

We were released the next day when the Fox declined to press charges and that is how the matter ended: no jail time but no new chairs.

I was at a party where everyone was stoned listening to Firesign’s Theatre’s “Don’t Crush That Dwarf, Hand Me the Pliers,” when the doorbell rang. It was an old man selling fresh doughnuts! I remembered my friend’s warning and yelled “It’s the Doughnut Man!” but nobody believed me, they all went for the doughnuts. I convinced my two best friends to go to my house only three blocks away. We left and didn’t come back for nearly an hour. The front door was wide open, loud music still playing with nobody there, and when we saw a cop car race down the street and around the corner we got out of there. The police had come not long after we left, and everyone had run off, jumping the fences into neighbors’ yards, cop cars everywhere.

It’s not an urban legend when it happens to you. — Tom Arnold

The Doughnut Man(hood)?

Among my strangest cannabis experiences, I ventured with a boy I liked to Voodoo Doughnut. For whatever reason, we decided to split a chocolate Cock-n-Balls. It was odd being hand-fed a giant cream-filled penis on the steps of First Christian Church downtown, wondering, “What the hell kind of date is this?” What could have been a hilarious and laughable experience felt mostly awkward and full of tense silence as, inch by inch, the penis disappeared. — Kelly Barela

Ponder the Orb

I was making edibles with the most delicious chocolate and butter. Of course, I licked the spoon. Then a while later I licked the whisk. Then a while later I licked the stiff rubber spatula. Then I cleaned out the bowl with my fingers and licked them, too. Then a while later I sat in a chair for six hours. — Billie Best 

A Joint with Jesus

About 45 years ago, I was backpacking on the French Pete Trail near Sisters. Ken Kesey, Timothy Leary and Albert Einstein would have been proud of me with the LSD and alcohol in my system.

Along the trail, I encountered a young man, who like me was in his 20s. He stopped and asked me if I wanted some pinot noir from his back pack. He pulled out his Bota bag and I inquired, “Do you have bread and fish in there too?” From his confused WTF expression, I could tell he wasn’t the real Jesus.

I was reminded of Martin Luther’s quote in the early 1500s; “Beer is made by men, wine by God.” He suggested we smoke a joint and he pulled out a bag of fat joints wrapped in rainbow rolling papers. We pondered who was most influential in the world: the Beatles, the Stones or Pink Floyd? We agreed it was PF, which has allowed me to quote Jesus for four-plus decades.

As we parted, he quoted Deuteronomy from the Old Testament and I was reminded that although Jesus-like in spirit, he wasn’t the real JC. Or was he? … Jesus has killer weed! — Mike Fassel

Probable Cause

A buddy and I were going to an amusement park, north of Salt Lake City, driving through Davis County, one the nation’s most conservative. I was 17 but looked 15. Not possessing fully developed prefrontal cortexes, we were taking bong hits. I passed a roadside scene where a few cop cars had somebody pulled over. Paranoid, I slowed down, I guess too much, because one the cops pulled out and pulled me over.

Unfortunately, when I rolled down my window, a cloud of pot smoke came billowing out. The cop said I was pulled over for driving too slow. He asked if he could search the car and I obliged, not knowing my rights. 

First, he found the bong, which he put on the roof. Investigating further, he discovered illegal firecrackers under the seat. I’d forgotten they were there. He placed them by the bong. He asked to open the trunk. Inside was a gas siphon I’d been using to fuel my Thunderbird boat. He couldn’t do anything about it because I wasn’t caught stealing. 

The cop patted me down but found nothing and was about to search my friend, who had the weed, when he got a call on his police radio. It must have been something really serious because he grabbed the bong and firecrackers and said, “This is your lucky day, boys.” 

We were blown away as the cop sped off. We made it to the amusement park with the pot and found a way to smoke it. — Scott Fife

Put It in Her Brownie

A small group of friends in their ’60s and ’70s made their first batch of pot brownies. They ate a few and then spent the day relaxing around a large property. They soon got the munchies and ate more pot brownies, and then more. They made the misstep of NOT baking a large pan of straight brownies to put out once everyone had a small portion of the special ones.

One of the men spent hours laying on the garage floor waiting for the world to get back to normal. His wife debated calling an ambulance. No ambulances were called and no one drove anywhere. Most of them spent the day either lounging around the living room and/or wandering in the huge vegetable garden marveling at the vibrancy of the plants.

No one got sick or died although a few times a few thought they would. They told me the story a few days later with lots of smiles and laughter. I would not be surprised if several indulged again, having learned the one mistake they made… not having lots of straight brownies available. — Rouanna Garden

Chiefin’ Cadillac

In the early ’80’s, my scraggly hippie buddy and I were hitchhiking out West, when a fancy Cadillac pulled over, driven by a guy in a fancy business suit. He asked if either of us could drive, and I said yes. After we loaded our stuff, he got in the back seat, with my buddy and me up front. As we got going, he lit up a big joint, took a few hits, passed it to us with a Bob Dylan cassette, and went to sleep for a few hours, while my friend and I cruised in style! — Rick Moser

ONLINE EXTRA STORIES

Drop a Bag

My boyfriend picked me up at 9 am. We went to two sketchy meetings, parking lots and finally met Moses and his sick friend in the Whiteaker. Larry offered them doughnuts and then we left for the northbound highway to the state capitol. Moses called and said he needed a memory card at Walmart. Too bad Larry couldn’t buy his needed cords there.

We met at the Liberty Bell and the nearby The Circuit Rider statue. After a very slow start and disappointing his buddy Moses, Larry propped up a cell phone onto his tripod and the interview started while I sat on the steps of the statue. Moses heard of William and moved from San Francisco where he was protesting the Iraq War. Moses met William, who was promoting his Church of Caring, cannabis legalization in written tracts and the benefits of cannabis and drum circles.

In August 1991 three men decided to go on a fasting, walk and camp at the state capitol to demonstrate. The three men mostly consumed water and milk chocolate for 41 days. After 16 days, Moses met Barbara Roberts’ assistant. Young people visited them, recorded their visiting time and played hacky sack. Later Moses “accidentally dropped” cannabis in her office, was ticketed for the next day, the charges were miraculously dropped and the guys moved apart to other NW cities.

We departed to other cities. Larry wanted to visit his elderly parents in Corvallis. — Nicole Taylor

Wake up in the Morning and I Dab 

A year ago I was Eugene Weekly’s new, hip reporter. 

A year ago I was the new, young Eugene Weekly reporter assigned to spearhead  the highly coveted Weed Issue. As a not-so slyly closeted stoner, I was both honored and freaked out that Camilla read me like a book by making me in charge of this issue. 

For the cover story I thought it would be fascinating to dive into the weed dealing underworld of the past and uncover if there’s still space for weed dealing in Eugene. 

A friend of a friend hooked me up with the guy he buys his weed from because he says,“dispensary weed is a joke.” 

“We’ll see about that,” I recall thinking. 

“If he offers you a dab, don’t take it,” My roommate warned before dropping me off at the interview. “Jim’s weed is strong. So strong”

I laughed and said “Okay…”, but he and I both knew I wasn’t convinced by his warning.

We decided to hold the interview at his house so he could show me all his weed gadgets and maybe I could even see how the “good shit” is made. 

“This will be anonymous right?” He asked before letting me in.

“Of course!” I replied.

His tone shifted and he warmly welcomed me in offering to help me down the stairs as I was in a walking boot at the time due to a tragic broken foot injury.

I hobbled around his weed-themed basement as showed me how he makes his own dab resin, and what he packages his weed in. He even let me into his very own bedroom-grow complete with lights and a zip-up tarp. 

As the interview began to wrap up I noticed him begin to pack a bowl into his pristine dab rig. 

“Would you be interested in trying a little before you leave?” He asked.

I started nervously laughing, thinking about how the last time I took a dab was two years ago and ended with me pouring an entire bottle of ranch on a piece of calzone. 

“You don’t have to it’s totally up to you but we can make it as small as you’d like,” He reassured

”He did just show me how he made this lovely dab resin. It’s like when you interview a chef and he makes you a meal. Am I really gonna turn down his creation that he just shared with me?” I recall thinking. 

“Sure, what the hell,” I said. “But make it really small. Like so small.”

”Of course,” He said as he packed the bowl. 

”Ok, just suck in and I’ll torch it,” He directed.

I breathed in and immediately started coughing. 

“Wooow that was a lot,” I choked out. When I looked up at him I began to have tunnel vision. ”Fucking hell,” I recall thinking as darkness began to narrow in on his face.

”Here, I’ll take the rest,” He said. 

He continued to smoke and tell me more about his obsession with weed, but I stopped being able to listen. Alarm sirens blared in my head as I smiled and nodded at him, knowing if I don’t find an escape soon he is going to realize just how stoned I am.

He excused himself to use the restroom and I texted my roommate something along the lines of “Pick me up now. I took a dab. So high. Scared.”

Instead of saying “I told you so” he said “I’m on my way.”

Those were the longest ten minutes of my life. The more Jim drowned on about his weed the more I began to slip into an almost psychedelic experience. 

I couldn’t bear it any longer. I kept inching towards the stairs until finally my roommate texted “here.”

”Oh my roommate’s here I have to go!” I said as I made a break for the stairs. 

“Oh man, I’ll offer him some too. I’m sure he’ll want to take a dab too,” he said following close behind me. 

Against doctors orders, I started running. 

“No he won’t!” I screamed. 

“Well I’ll go say hi and check,” he said. 

It didn’t take Jim long to catch up to my crippled sprinting. He had made it to the front door before I made it up the seemingly never ending staircase. 

When I got to the front door I could see Jim talking to my roommate through the car window. 

I did my best to send my roommate telepathic messages saying “If you take him up on that dab I am going to kill you.”

Out of breath and unsure how I am going to survive the next few hours in my own brain melt I collapsed in the passenger seat and shot a look of fear at my dear roommate.

”Thanks for the offer Jim but I’m good tonight,” My roommate said. 

He read my telepathic message. Thank God. 

Jim shut my door and waved goodbye. 

“You told me not to take the dab but I took the dab and it was the worst mistake of my life,” I said as the houses and trees we drove past began to shake and melt in ways I had not yet experienced. 

“It’s ok,” he said. 

I woke up the next morning on the couch with a blanket my roommate apparently put on me before bed and a piece of chocolate next to my side. — Emerson Brady