The Magic Cookies
by AK - August 29, 2013
Thursday Afternoon Bedtime Story: The Magic Cookies
Apologies in advance because this is a long one and needs to be told this way. If I had an editor I’d tell him I’d sooner not publish it than change it. So read it or don’t read it….
This one really isn’t about Neil; in fact it has nothing to do with him, but it does refer to and have direct relationship to a guest who often appeared on Rick and Suds and I think probably Steve Kane and Norm Kent and probably a few others too… and frankly, who the hell else would I tell this story to now besides you fine folks?
In the U.S., at least at the time this happened, there were four (that’s right..count them on less than one hand) people who received medical marijuana from the U.S. Government. Not “you have to get a doctor to write you a script and go fill it out at any number of weed stands in California or Colorado or other states… Actually provided by the U.S. Of Uncle Sam. And one of them is a colorful little lady with severe glaucoma named Elvy Musika.
And she was on the Rick and Suds show in the mid-90’s a few times,, maybe 3 or 4, to talk about how to her, it is indeed medicine, and how it shouldn’t be classified as this or that, and how for her medical condition it’s a necessity.. And for aids patients to help them with appetite after the drugs, and all these other things.. Pretty much what we mostly take for granted 20 years later and many states agree with, even though the Federal Law hasn’t changed.. But Elvy, let me remind you.. Gets her stash FROM THE FEDS.
And that was what I found most interesting about her and her story. Don’t get me wrong.. I agree with much of her points, but she’s a kook hands down. The ‘60’s garb, the patchouli oil, the hemp handbag,… But hearing her talk and SHOW us how the Fed doles out her “medicine” is really kinda fascinating.. They send them to her (again..this was in 1995) in a standard brown pill bottle, all rolled into the most perfectly rolled cigarettes.. This aint no “Snoop Dogg, coat the thing in spit and dry it with a lighter tapered turd torpedo”… this is cut at the ends, perfectly round Marl-juana Lights. And she shows them to us. And despite how perfect they look, I can’t help but feel a little bad for her because the weed inside it cack; brown shake from the worst stuff cop-and-stop nicklebag Grand Avenue dealer. And she’s watched like a hawk by the Feds to assure this and prevent that, etc. Totally not worth it.. Shed be way better off talking to Marvin probably, but she’s got her principles and such.
One time while she’s in the control room waiting to go on the air, I ask her, “So you have the right to smoke weed anywhere you want? You got clearance from the government! You’re so lucky!”
“No,” she says.. I have the right to smoke in my house or car… but it doesn’t mean I can just light up a joint on a city bus or on an airplane”
“Woah.. That sucks. So what do you do?”
She starts fumbling around in that giant hippy hemp bag or hers and says “C’mere”. I wheel my console chair around to her side, and she shows me what she’s holding in the hempurse of hers.. A standard issue sandwich bag. And inside it are 2 cookies.
“I unroll the joints I get and bake it into cookies and take them with me”
“NO WAY! Why not just make brownies?” I titter with incredulity.
“I just don’t like brownies. And the cookies are easier to eat and I can specify the exact amount in each cookie” she says from behind those huge dark sunglasses, smiling that goofy smile of hers. “Here. Take it” she says crumpling up the baggie into her had and shoving it into mine.
“Ohhh I cant! I cant! It’s yours. You need it”
“I insist” she says looking right at me, at least I think she was.
And with that, I took the plastic bag, stuffed it into my briefcase, and continued with my day. At around 7pm I got home and broke the news to my then girlfriend about the gift bestowed on me. “BEHOLD” I said, holding out the bag like I was Mufasa showing off my Lion King son. I explain what they are, and take one out, and bite into it.
I chew twice. Swallow. And nearly choke. It’s unsweetened, lumpy tasteless cookie dough baked with weed, stems, seeds moderately chopped inside.
Their taste can best be described as “vacuum cleaner bag dirt cookies”. I crumple the remaining cookie and the 2nd cookie into the bag, and chuck it in the garbage can.
We have a few friends coming over that night and I’m cooking a shrimp fra-diavolo for us all before we all go out to some club or the movies or whatever. And dinner goes great, the food is great, and the company is great. I make an incredible gravy and have really fresh shrimp to work with and it’s a really good dinner I prepare for 6 people.
We come home at around 2am and the place is a disaster.. There’s broken stuff everywhere, the dog is missing, there’s old pasta and shrimp tails everywhere… We start frantically, cautiously walking through the house looking for missing things, broken windows, open doors…
Raise your hand if you know what a “Schipperke” is…. Anyone? Bueller?
You in the back…yes. It’s a dog. It’s a little belgian boat dog they used for killing rats, and they all look exactly alike without any variation; black furballs that are intensely mean to anyone they don’t know and even some they do. They’re notorious ankle biters and barkers and insanely territorial. And insane. Snarling and gnashing of teeth is normal unless it’s just the people who live there sitting on the couch. Anyone or anything new in the house is greeted by a cacophony of yaps and barks and snarls and snorts and wide-eyed staring and teeth. They’re super smart, too… Ours once climbed up onto the dining room table executing what must have been olympic gymnast-like moves, opened the pizza box, and ate all of the toppings and cheese leaving only the red-stained crust with footprints in it while we made our drinks and a salad… but I digress…
One we figure out we haven’t been robbed, we just assume the dog, once again, has knocked over the kitchen can and had made the biggest mess ever. But where is she?
She comes out of a back room walking slowly, gingerly. Her eyes are crossed and unfocused. She can hardly walk or stand, as if she’s dizzy. . She’s panting like she’s run a marathon. She won’t eat anything….which has never ever happened. We try and calm her, check her vitals, see if she’ll drink anything.
“Omg was she poisoned?” the girlfriend asks.
“I don’t think so… there wasn’t anything in the garbage can that…. Oh… wait”
We look at the dog, who vomits up about 4 lbs of pasta, shrimp, salad, and remnants of a plastic baggie before falling on her side.
“She’s stoned” I say.
Sure enough, I go through what’s left of the trash around the house, and the cookies are gone. And with an hour or so, the dog is back to her normal self.
The next day the girlfriend and I got out for lunch, and when we get home, the trash from the kitchen is everywhere again. There was nothing in there, but we’re pretty goddam sure she was looking for more of Elvy’s cookies.
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