“STONED-OVER, FOREVER”
Written By Alex Montalban
Art Courtesy of Rebekah Jenks
My first encounter with ‘marihuana’ was at the very ripe age of 13, growing up in Los Angeles, CA; or, ‘The Valley’ (for all you other CLUELESS fans like me out there).
Yep - believe it or not, my first ‘toke’ occurred approximately 3 miles from where CLAIRE was mugged under that infamous, hugely-fluorescent clown that still overlooks the Circus Liquor on Vineland Blvd. in North Hollywood.
My best friend at the time (we’ll call him “Luke”) held a glass, phallic-looking apparatus, filled to the brim with what appeared to be one of the many spices I had only seen in my mother’s kitchen cabinet, and handed it over to me; this pipe in one hand, and a Bic lighter in the other.
However coincidental, “Luke’s” father was also the guitarist and lead singer for a world-famous rock group at the time, at whose household I also opened my first Playboy, and later lost my virginity.
Talk about Sex, Drugs, and Rock N’ Roll…
But there we were, two highly-impressionable teenagers in the hills of Studio City, overlooking one of the most beautiful landscapes this country has to offer (this was back when LA smog wasn’t as bad as it is now).
Regardless of circumstance, it was on this particular, early-Fall evening in the late 90's that I fell in love with recreational marijuana. I had never directly inhaled anything until that first pull; to be honest, I was totally against inhalation, of any kind, but I knew enough about pot to know that one hit wasn’t going to hurt me.
And boy did that first hit taste good! The burn felt whole; it was clean, natural, holistic.
I suppose I had been expecting a more carcinogenic choke, given the amount of second-hand smoke á la cigarettes my body was already familiar with, but this was not the case. My first reaction and experience with weed was completely therapeutic and detoxifying - like the burning of sage to cleanse a household. It brightened and clarified every aspect of my present being while also completely calming and nurturing any in-and-out mindfulness I involuntarily decided to play with.
Similar to what you hear about most first-timers, I don't exactly recall experiencing any immediate euphoria, or high-like sensation; more so just a very acute sense of self and being. I can still feel the temperature of the cool breeze on my arms, the warmth of the sun quickly dissipating at each tick of its set, the sweet yet sour aroma of fresh flower before ignition, and the ‘cooked’ pungency wafting everywhere around me shortly (and much longer) thereafter.
But enough of the nostalgia; as far as more concrete remembrance, it was on this same evening that I precisely recall the first iteration of one of my most classic dishes: about a dozen Eggo waffles. With chocolate chips, bananas, a shit-ton of butter, even more syrup, and enough powdered sugar to make Tony Montana do a double-take.
In short, I never looked back after such a fateful night.
But let’s fast forward a year or so:
I’m a freshman at an all-boys, Catholic high school in the heart of LA. Sure, I wanted to go to my local high; right down the street from my parent’s house, with which about 90% of my 8th-grade graduating class would be enrolling the following season (‘Luke’ included).
Oh, and it was co-ed. But how does the saying go? “Mama knows best”, I believe.
So, all-boys high school it was - I’m biased, but I entered this college-preparatory surrounded by 1,200 of the brightest, most well-rounded, and talented scholar-athletes in the Greater Los Angeles area. We performed hours upon hours of curriculum study, sports/practice, and local community service outreach, year-in and year-out. This is where I attended high school, and quite frankly, I loved every minute of it. I still thank my mother to this day for sending me despite my childish tirades at the time.
In any case, the mission assigned to us during Freshman orientation was true and wholesome; we were, and always would be, "Men for Others". I wholeheartedly believe that this is where my genuine care and compassion for all others was ultimately harnessed, marijuana surely assisting in my overall “peace, love, and happiness” approach.
However, it was also at this time that myself, and a few of my fellow classmates, assigned ourselves a mission of our own:
"How high could we get while still receiving straight-A's semester-in, semester-out, and then ultimately attend the prestigious colleges of our choice?"
Well, the answer was REALLY FUCKING HIGH (to some degree or another) for just about every graduate in our class, 95% of which ended up matriculating at a major 4-year university the following semester. I myself landed in Ann Arbor, Michigan, and graduated from UofM a mere 4 years later.
Nonetheless, within the daily setting of other obnoxious, yet focused and determined young men like myself, we ultimately didn't have the distractions of other comparable Catholic high schools in the LA area, i.e., girls, fashion, cliques, typical teen-drama, et cetera... We were solely focused on our studies, sports, a relationship with God, relationships with our local, less fortunate and disenfranchised communities…and of course, our own “extra-curricular” activities.
But back in our high school days, pre-rolls and blunts weren't as acceptably mainstream as they are today; too smelly and lingering. Rather, for our pre-school, extra-curriculars, we preferred a 9mm, glass-on-glass, laser-cut bong blown by legendary companies such as ROOR, PHX, or ILLADELPH.
Once we all had our driver's licenses, it was 'snaps' (a popcorn kernel-sized nug) on the way to school and on the way home nearly every single day. Just enough smoke to fill the chamber, pull through, and ghost your hit without coughing (unless you choked, which totally warranted your best friend calling you a "little bitch" from the back seat). I’m old school, but to me, there’s nothing better than ripping fresh flower through percolated water, maybe a couple cubes if you have a catch.
Despite any naysayers, this was our method of inhalation (coupled with eye drops, deodorizers, and discarded toilet paper rolls with dryer sheets) that proved successful time and time again.
Once the bong water was disposed of and the glass was put away, hidden from on-campus security peering into car windows, our 'sesh' members would exit the carpool and go our separate ways for the entirety of the school day.
No one ditched, no one cheated; we were rambunctious, naughty, and stinky teenagers, but we were eager to excel. We showed up on-time and pulled our weight both in and out of the classroom.
High school then led to college, and undoubtedly, my routine stayed the same. I graduated with a degree in English, and played some pretty competitive hockey for the university’s club team for four years, again, completely stoned out of my mind.
Upon commencement in ‘09, I went back home to LA, entered the Entertainment workforce, and ultimately became an assistant for a Motion Picture Talent Agent in a VERY dog-eat-dog world. And you guessed it, all the while, higher than a giraffe’s you-know-what.
After four years at this major ten-percentary; reading scripts, writing coverage, fetching coffee, and rolling calls all day long, I eventually resigned to go work with the stunt team on a now very successful movie franchise. I was still fetching coffee, but I got to train daily with some of the best MMA fighters in history; closely watching and observing them block and choreograph (for nearly 4-months-straight, on-location) what is now, and forever will be, incredibly beautiful action-design on film.
And sure as shit, I was baked on set every day for those 4 months.
But one day, in particular, I will remember fondly for the rest of my life. We were deep into production; at least 12-13 weeks, when I finally got the nod. It was a very early call-time (4:45am) at an old naval yard in Brooklyn, New York. I was up and at ‘em, as always, having blasted a huge bong-load before departure, and jogging the approximate three miles to basecamp. I arrived early for duty, always the punctual one, and began taking my daily notes per the day’s call sheet; outlining the blocking, staging, framing, camera orientation, continuity, call-times for every stunt performer contracted to work that day - you name it.
As I was walking across the set with a hot coffee and donut in-hand from ‘Crafty’, braving the sub-20 degree outdoor temps with chilling winds, one of the film’s co-directors intercepted me en route. He grabbed my head with two hands, looked at me intensely, then snapped it towards his counterpart about 20 yards across the way, and asked, “What about Alex?”
“Fuck it! Send him to hair/make-up”, says his co-director. Next thing you know, I’m getting suited and booted in a proper Honey Wagon; three-piece suit, too much hairspray, make-up, prop assault rifle, and a ‘holistic’ cigarette - titled a ‘Russian Guard’ in the credits if you care to roll through at the next viewing.
In the stunt world, I had learned over the course of 3-months that depending on the stunt (or implied impact), if it requires more than three-takes, you’re not getting another call from that Stunt Coordinator for future work. So, there I was, having final touches done on my hair/make-up while rehearsing the stunt in my head over and over again, preparing myself for the ultimate concussion that I knew was about to transpire.
As the storyboard read at the time, the film’s protagonist was to snipe me (your ‘Russian Guard’) from about 400 yards out, while making my leisurely walk on patrol, smoking my fake holistic heater.
The assignment was a common ‘footfall’. I needed to basically trip over my own feet (on cue) and hit the deck upon taking a ‘bullet’ to the head.
First take: “BANG”! (the cue). I cradled my fall. I remember watching the playback in the Village immediately thereafter, and receiving the obvious feedback, the sensation of my morning wake-and-bake now completely having vanished.
2nd take: I steeled myself for another digger. I tripped over my right foot and made a decent ground-impact, again, right on cue. Playback looked more natural and realistic, but we reset for another.
3rd take (and final): I myself said, “Fuck it”, and just went for it. I had had my bell rung enough times on the ice in my life at this point. What’s one more concussion? So I allowed the weight of my 200lb. body to hit the deck and wait for whatever repercussions that came as a result.
Well, I knocked myself out. Like completely, lights-out, for a good 20 seconds. All I can remember is coming-to with a cast/crew of nearly 75 people applauding and cheering for my first performed stunt. Unfortunately, this scene wound up on the cutting room floor, but I still have the footage. Apparently the directors both really loved my “head-bounce”.
So, why the narrative? What’s the point in sharing my unique upbringing? Well, nearly ten years later, and here I still find myself devotedly spreading the awareness and elevating the consciousness surrounding regular marijuana use.
Ya, I’m a stoner, a blazer, a pothead. And I’ve been one since I was a pre-teen. But I am not a couch-potato! Marijuana has undoubtedly supported all of my ventures in some capacity or another along the way. It has inspired me to go after my dreams and aspirations, channeled my creativity, mended strained relationships, and, I’m sure, has reduced brain swelling due to contact sport.
I am not condoning (nor disapproving) any 13 or 14-year-old to start blazing. Rather, the purpose of this memoir is to further destigmatize the negative connotations that come with the plant. Whether you’re a 70-year-old suffering from Rheumatoid Arthritis, or a 21-year-old ‘Dab-Head’, there is beneficial room for marijuana in your wellness routine.
We sure as hell have come a long way, but we have a lot more to accomplish, and a lot more to smoke.
Stay high, my friends.