Captain Pricks

You never truly outgrow getting paranoid about rock concert harassment for packing weed man. It’s much simpler taking only one edible in the parking lot prior to spice up a Bjork concert with your wife in London that she booked an entire trip around despite you protesting to see the Shrieking Seals on the Isle of Wight instead.

Recently, went to a Grateful Dead cover band show in Portchester at the Capital Theatre in New York and planned my alibi in advance if Security asked about the edible I was packing. Because I needed extra reserves if I got stuck talking to any name-dropping Deadheads who always act like they’re on a 1st name basis with the band. Bobby has his own brand of Kombucha now called Mayer Monk Street, I think. Phil is modeling for Korean vogue since he gave up drinking. Jerry did so much smack in 86, even Lou Reed would call him Captain Pricks.”

So as expected, I get patted down aggressively by security, regretting my decision to get dressed up for the occasion. Personally, I would’ve preferred a hard dick squeeze versus him patting my baggie in my pants with only one measly edible in it, so I could barely feel a thing. Security has me whip it out and I say, “It’s Melatonin.” Security says, “That’s not Melatonin. Besides, you don’t have to worry about that in New York anymore.” And I say, “Then why are you trying to give me a fake news panic attack? Shouldn’t you be asking me if I prefer Indica vs. Sativa as a form practice for your day job at the cannabis dispensary if you’re such a subject matter expert already? Not that I’d ever schlep over the Andrew Cuomo, no I won’t jump off my own bridge for some more edibles in the Swamp Thing state, stink a lot Jersey, represent, but you get the gist. Captain Pricks, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth