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Though it was in the early 70s, I remember, as if it were yesterday, standing in the hall beside the dining room in our house at 998 Mass. Ave. with Anna, Rich, and Claude, one of our typesetting customers who ran a translation service. Claude, in his rather sheepish way, and sounding a bit embarrassed, said he was interested in trying a little marijuana. I said I was sure that Rich and Gred could get some for him. Rich gave me a withering look and cautioned me that it wasn't a particularly good idea to talk so openly about reefers. I, being rather naive, had had no idea that the law would concern itself with a few marijuana cigarettes.
Anyway, a couple of nights later, we had a party in one of the upstairs bedrooms. There were quite a few revelers present: including Anna, Rich, Gred, of course, Claude, and assorted others of both the male and female persuasion. I, even with my disdain for tobacco, and my only previous experience with smoking having been at the age 6 or 7 when I managed to get a couple of drags off pipe I had found hidden away in a drawer, wanted to see what all the excitement was about.
Someone close to me had told me about a couple of her experiences: thinking that both the very sad movie Garden of the Finzi-Continis and the moribund Lawrence Welk show were both hilarious.
I took a couple of puffs and waited to float off into the ether or at least to start laughing at something that wasn't really funny. But nothing happened, probably because, not being a smoker, I knew nothing about inhaling. I quickly gave up; though most everybody else seemed to be enjoying themselves.
I guess I have something else in common with Bill Clinton besides his view of what constitutes sex.
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