Saturday, December 5, 2009

A Whiff of Freedom

After work yesterday I was walking as fast as I could along Walnut Street in Center City Philly, hoping I wasn’t late for my train, when I started to wonder if that sweet fragrance was ...

It was. A portly, middle-aged black fellow in a wheelchair was down to his last toke as I walked by—less than a hundred yards downwind from a couple of Philadelphia’s finest. If I hadn’t been afraid of missing my train, I’d have gone back and said, “My friend, thank you for the whiff, and God bless you. May you enjoy many more.” As it was, I found myself thinking that stupidity is most exhilarating when it’s illegal.

Then again, pot’s analgesic properties, and if it were legal, it would put a big dent in Big Pharma’s. And my friend was in a wheelchair. Maybe he was wounded in one of Uncle Sam’s wars and dealing with chronic pain in one of the least unhealthy ways known to man. (And for which Uncle Sam would thank him by putting him in the slammer.) I’ll never know.

I don’t ever want to be in his shoes. Not in his chair, not toking on a joint. But it’s always a pleasure to see someone give Big Brother the finger.

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