Still Smokin'

Though I am not one to suffer gladly the occasional pang of nostalgia, I report today that a tiny piece of my youth disappeared this weekend, as the first place I ever got stoned went up Post Toasties-style on Saturday night. In that house, on or about 15 October 1985, I smoked a doobie with Jeremy Burris -- the proverbial son of a preacher man -- and Eric Spangler -- about whom little can be said except that he was prematurely bald -- and then laughed and laughed and laughed before stumbling across the street to my own home, where I quite probably encountered my parents in some sort of awkward living room scenario, the kind in which Usually Sullen Teen suddenly feels obliged to become Overcompensatingly Chatty Teen, while Confused But Not Entirely Naive Parents take the path of least resistance and opt, mercifully for all, not to push the "Drugs are Bad" issue on that particular evening.

As my mother now informs me -- Roanoke Times reportage notwithstanding -- the word on Fair Oaks Road is that the non owner-occupied house had been converted into a sweet old fashioned suburban meth lab. For no special reason, I blame the president for this.