My mother humors me about my writing ambitions because I’m her son. How’s the bass fishing? All right, just one toke, but then I’ve got to go. . . . They wave at me, their eyes cheery slits. I’m not surprised to see Meuenchau and Coombs just where I left them: sitting in Meuenchau’s old pickup truck, smoking homegrown and listening to Leon Russell under the pepper tree. Many owners have not made much effort, despite rocketing California real-estate prices, to keep their properties from becoming eyesores. Thrown up in a hurry back in 1957, the houses remind me of the tacky little cottages on miniature-golf courses. The neighborhood hasn’t changed much: small, drafty, suburban, ranch-style homes, the Southwestern motif drawn out to the point of absurdity with split-rail fences, wagon wheels, dangling branding irons, and varnished cow skulls. But that seems gutless to me, even more gutless than coming home to live with my parents. Even though I’m confident of my talent, I suspect that I should’ve finished school, gotten a degree, woven some sort of safety net, just in case the novel doesn’t pan out, just in case I am a sham. I just want to finish up the novel about the redneck chiropractor with the crystal ball, sell it, make a little cash, and start doing the talk-show circuit. Seems the one thing I learned in college is that college is not for me.
Ten years later, dead broke, I come back to the old neighborhood to live with my parents for a few months - and to write, I tell people. And then, as if God really loves me, crank vanishes from my neighborhood - and no one misses it.
I vow never to do it again (“Never again, never again,” the chant of the meth-head), but do it eight or nine more times. It takes three days to weather the hangover - the most desiccated and noxiously enervated state I’ve ever experienced. But then comes the drip, drip, drip, that bitter, alkaloid savor the meth user learns to associate with pleasure, and I wander around grinding my teeth and feeling like Bruce Lee grafted onto Aldous Huxley for about twelve hours. I am certain I will sneeze blood all over the curtains, that I’ve done permanent damage. I try not to cry, the burning pain is so terrible. Whiffing something straight up your nose into your brain seems a violation of human dignity, and crank looks nasty, like ant poison and pulverized glass all chopped up on that mirror. He calls it “crank,” like a car part or a grouchy old man. Start sucking, fire is drawed into the bowl, through the weed but only thru its center.My neighbor, a divorced mechanic who invites kids in and pours them draft beer to increase drug sales and his chances with the girls, offers me my first taste of methamphetamine at age fifteen. With my right hand i light the lighter and approach it to the bowl Tilt it some 30 or so degrees to the right
it is on my mouth vacuumed and i just use the hand for support. Put pipe on mouth, holding with left hand, but the pipe isn't near my mouth (letting some air in). Pack bowl with weed *until it is topped*, push it a little in so it evens on the bowl surface nicely
so i thought i could come and ask some questions ^^ I'm getting the 'kicks' but anyway i feel i'm using it in a wasteful way. My experience feels less than ideal to me because i don't know if i'm doing it right. When i bought it,i had no idea of the buckload of variants of existing pipes, with or without holes and whatnot, i just bought this one because it was the cheapest i could find to get me started on pipe smoking. Hey guys, this is Elm from Brazil! I've been smoking joints for 6 months now and i've decided to up my game and bought myself a cheap metal pipe like the one on this picture below