SOC #8: Rejected by Free Spirits

My favorite quote from the stand-up comedian Bill Hicks has always been: "They don't want me. They don't want the voice of reason." He said this in his last interview with a public access television program based in Texas. He will always be my favorite comedians, no one in my mind has surpassed him, though many have tried. Moving into my Boss' house was fucking cool, even though the house was full of silver bags filled with all different strands of marijuana, the house's property being a bit small with the houses surrounding it close together - I mean, one could smell weed a block away if we didn't keep the window's closed. One of my Boss' pet-peeves was people smoking joints in the house, which I can't understand to this day. The house smelled of weed already, smoking one joint and passing it around as we trimmed the buds made no change. Now, my Boss was one of those Hindu worshipping types that judged people by what Zodiac sign they were. He hated the fact I smoked cigarettes, his attitude being like, "I have nothing against you, but I hate you." He would tell me at times, "Your body is a vessel, and must be treated positively with encouraging -" Blah, Blah, blah, fucking blah. I simply smiled and uttered, "Uh huh," in mock-agreement and fake politeness as best I could. The man was a Canadian, who first took a hit of acid at age thirteen and started smoking weed in the same year. I agree with modern medicine, if one smokes weed that early in life, one'll not be as smart as could be in adulthood, even if one is a self-made millionaire. During the time I was working for this guy, he was in some dispute with the city over his business license for the medical marijuana dispensary. Now, when it comes to running a state legal medical marijuana business, there are certain rules one must go by to operate. He fucked up one of those rules, and the city cancelled his permit, which he couldn't apply for again in another two years. In his anti-authoritarian effort, he appealed. We still worked for him, but seldom got paid. I never knew Canadians can be such pricks and that stupid. He wouldn't show up to the house for weeks at a time. One day, I worked four straight hours making hash out of the bud trimmings, then went outside for a smoke break. I was relaxed, my face towards the sun, blowing out the tobacco. A good life. "What are you doing?" yelled my Boss. At the door to the garage, staring down at me as I took another drag. "You know the man next door is an investigator for the DA. You're out here smoking a cigarette, poisoning your body, and blowing second hand smoke in his direction." I informed him, "The dude smokes cigarettes too, and his wife." My Boss demanded, "Get in here." I said, "I'm not done with my cigarette. Just on break." He said, "I'll need to talk to you." I said, "Okay." I finished my cigarette. The man on the other side of the fence wasn't even home at that moment, and when he was, he was either smoking a cigarette in his backyard, typing on his iPad, or yelling at his wife about giving money to his junkie sister. "This will be the last hundred I'll ever give her," the investigator yelled in his yard one day, pacing on his lawn, smoking a cigarette. So I went back inside the garage to get chewed out by my Canuck Boss. He told me how lucky I was to have a job and the only reason he let me work for him was because of my friend -- blah, blah, fucking blah. Other than smoking all the weed I wanted while working for the Canadian, people who came some days to trim with my coworkers and I were really nice people. Most were struggling reggae musicians who would play the occasional local show. To be honest, I only enjoyed reggae when I was stoned. That's all they would play on the iPod speakers as we trimmed the buds. I worked well into the night, until I was by myself, put in my iPod, and blast some metal. One of the few nights my Boss would stop by and hear what I was listening to, he said, "That's Devil worship." I said to him, chuckling, "A man with dreadlocks doesn't feel dread, and a man with a devilock, such as I, doesn't believe in the Devil." He stared at me blankly. He then said, "Whatever. I got your money." During the summer of that year, our boss said my friend and I had to leave the house so his friends could have a place to stay while they were on break from their work. These new house sitters were roadies for Damian Marley. They were great people to work with. I loved to listen to them(when they spoke english, other times they would speak in Jamaican) as they spoke about politics, philosophy, spirituality, and their work with the Marley family. My friend asked one of them how the politicians were in Jamaica. He replied, cynically, "Fucked up." Now, the reason my Boss hardly came to the house that Summer was he consulted on a big Hollywood film directed by one of my favorite filmmakers, Oliver Stone. You see, my Boss was a friend of his. And I hoped my Boss would take my friend and I to the set, I wanted to meet Oliver Stone so badly, but my Boss never took any of his employees, though I heard a rumor Oliver Stone wanted at least two of us to speak with the actors. I could have met Blake Lively(whimper. I don't know, sparks could have happened.) But I actually just wanted to meet Oliver Stone, shake his hand, look at the script for 'Savages,' and have one little chat with him. Mention my book to him - blah, blah, fucking blah. It never happened. Before spending a full month on the set of 'Savages', my Boss bought over 300 clones, and left them in the garage, not telling us how to properly mix the nutrients we would have to water them with. Wow, what a great spiritualist: Called me a Devil worshipper; thought he could sue the entire city of Santa Barbara; and forgot to tell us how to water his marijuana clones due to his dumb-fuck ego. I left at the end of August, my Boss still owing me a few grand, but "Fuck it," I thought. My friend told me later all those marijuana clones had to be thrown away because my Boss couldn't secure land to grow them on.