You know, smoking weed isn’t something just anyone can do…not with style, anyway. A lot of people might think marijuana, like many other drugs, is what it is…you smoke it, make cookies or whatever, get high, and that’s it. There is little or no respect for the ritual itself. But, smoking weed is more like drinking wine than anything, and I consider myself a connoisseur. You have your wine chiller; I have my airtight stash jar. You have your frilly glasses; I have my arsenal of pipes and papers. You have your wine of the month club; I have connections in other states. What you buy in a box for $30, I buy an ounce of for $60. What you buy for $300 a bottle,I might pay $120 for a quarter of, though I probably won’t want to. My point is that, as with wine and other classy endeavors, there are a few unwritten rules for stoner etiquette that everyone should know, and maybe even a place where they exist in writing, so there’s a standard to go by. It might look like this…

S.E Article 1: Basic Rotation

(This is a highly debatable subject, particularly amongst gang members. Now, where I grew up, you passed it to the left, period, but let’s get technical…)

Whoever lights the shit (herein referred to as the Lighter) has the sole authority to determine rotational direction, except where the person who lights the shit did not provide said shit, in which case the Lighter is obligated, although not required, to pass it first to the one who provided the shit, especially if that person sits in vicinity to the Lighter.

S.E Article 2: Complex and Compound Rotations

In instances where more than one joint, bowl, or other smokeable is in rotation, having one rotational direction can help reduce confusion and double-hitting, but contra circular rotations are acceptable. If the number of smokers is even, this makes it easier to keep both rotations moving at the same speed, particularly if the smokables move between diametric or adjacent pairs of participants.

S.E. Article 3: Number of Hits, Hit Adjustment, and Chiefing (Article currently under revision)

S.E. Standard Practice 1: The Eclipse Lighting Technique

When smoking anything that can be reasonably called good shit, a glass bowl is the best way for the smoker to enjoy the unaltered taste of the Buddha. The first, or ‘green hit’ is the tastiest of all, as the smoker inhales the entire yummy flavor of the crystals and hairs that burn up on the surface as the bowl gets smoked. Unfortunately, if you’re the one sparking the bowl for the first time, you may unwittingly deprive whoever you’re smoking with of that green hit flavor and hog it all for yourself.

Behold, the Eclipse Lighting Technique. Rather than just torching the shit out of the top of the bowl, hold the flame slightly over one side of its edge. This should give you a nice, tasty green hit without charring all of the bowl’s surface area. When executed properly, the top of the bowl may resemble a lunar eclipse, where the dark, burnt area is surrounded by a corona of unlit greenery (see fig. 2 below.) If your smoking buddies are experienced enough, it’s possible for up to five or maybe even six people to get a nice ‘green hit’ depending on the size and depth of the bowl.

S.E. Standard Practice 2: Implementation of Grinders (Article currently under revision)

It’s not fair for me to make the rules up all by myself…I actually think that’s almost communism. I’d love for you fuckers to contribute, so if you think you have a rule worthy of becoming official Stoner Etiquette, send me an email at zedwilson@comcast.net.

(Ed: Or better yet, leave a comment in the comment box below)

It arrived in the mail today! The paycheck for a three day “gig” in early November. All the days of phoning in to check if I’m needed, all the frustration of finding the best transportation arrangement in proximity to where I’ll have to check in, everything I learned in school and the life experience gathered since then, all the hours have finally paid off! Even more important, I may very likely be contacted for a return engagement as early as next Autumn!

I’m speaking of course about really being part of this process in LaLa-Land and “paying one’s dues”. Nope, not Extra Work through Central Casting – this is the real deal: being in the Los Angeles Court System jury pool.

In many ways, the two experiences — work as an “extra” or background… and jury duty (well, being a prospective juror) — are painfully similar. Consider these few examples which should be easily recognizable if you’ve ever endured either process.

- Your first experience with either is often when you are an optimistic young adult ready to conquer the world overnight. Nothing can slow you down on what you feel is your pre-destined course — until you quickly learn that registering to vote makes you eligible for that dreaded jury service letter OR that finally registering for extra/background/atmosphere work is NOT a swift 90 minute yellow-brick-road-trip to having those Kansan showbiz dreams fulfilled by some Wonderful Wiz of a casting director.

- By about a week or so before the big day of your first time, you’ve already informed employers, family, friends, that this whole next week (or longer) is definitely spoken for,… though nothing will definitely be known until the evening before. Naturally (because that sadistic prankster Murphy must have signed a pact with the devil in order to be credited for the eponymous Law), that is also the week for employee reviews upon which wage increases will be based, your strong-as-an-ox-103-year-old grandmother who lives 2000 miles away has broken a hip and isn’t expected to hang on past tomorrow night, and your best friend has chosen to invite you to stand up in the wedding party for the spontaneous elopement on the beach in Jamaica (all expenses paid). Oh, and you won spot #3 in the audition lottery to be seen for the new John Waters film in the role you were born to play AND your dream crush from high-school is passing through town next week and is hoping you’d like to meet at the airport for a late-nooner… because after that, well, duh… who did you THINK your best friend was gonna marry in Jamaica?!

Well, the conflicts will vary from person to person but in my case, it meant having to bow out of a role written for me when a short I’d booked lost its location and could only reschedule during the week I was on call for Voir Dire (I love to casually drop the phrase “Voir Dire“; sadly, it’s one of the few legal phrases I readily retained from high school senior year civics class; go look it up).

- You arrive for the mysterious first day well on time and prudently attentive… only to spend about 70 minutes sitting around waiting for the day to actually begin.

- The forms you dutifully complete require more information than is really relevant to what you may be doing. Have I “ever been convicted?”! What does that have to do with whether I can stay awake and feign interest in what’s being said?

- After filling the forms and listening to the dry but frantic introductory speech that is interrupted at least twice by a late arrival, you find yourself herded like cattle from one holding area to another… only to, once again, be sitting around in a large room that is either too cold or way too stuffy. But the less-than-ideal climate control does help keep your mind off the boring wait for when you’ll be called.

- Despite how many times you are perfunctorily assured that you are appreciated for the invaluable service you are performing, no one truly seems to trust you with comprehending the big picture because the trickle of info is about as forthcoming as an August downpour in L.A.

- Either it’s the hypothermic coma or the lack of fresh oxygen in the room but you notice that you begin to lose consciousness; a nap could be the perfect boredom alleviator if only there was a suitable surface for your shameless crash.  Alas, squeezed between the corpulent gent and the nun with moth-ball-like halitosis, all you can do is allow your head to slouch forward and irrigate your navel with a stream of drool.

NOTE: That is one difference between the two experiences — In the case of extra work, it’s merely a lay-person costumed as a nun (the halitosis, however, is genuine and remains a constant on both sides of the equation).

- After the crick in your neck curtails your nap (and the drool stain has spread to your lap), you start to eavesdrop on conversations around you and conclude that this is a 50/50 mixture of people who are either very curious and excited about being here OR thoroughly miffed that depite how nobly diligent they are toward their job, fate has brought them to this place today where, if the gig lasts several days, they *may* be able to afford a trip to the grocery store.

- On your way through the seating area to the restroom, you notice something else about this microcosm in which you are stranded: The people around you have no sense of humor and/or seem afraid to acknowledge the humor in this shared plight. Vacant stares meet your quips and blank eyes line your path like the runway lights at LAX.

- One very frightening realization, whether these are potential jurors or extras/background/atmosphere/puppets: generally speaking, this is a large bunch of people who probably don’t have a clue about the workings of a film set.

Another major difference between the two is that the first is a hellacious experience that no one relishes even though it is an integral part of the future of society; the other is jury duty.

The truth is that despite the stress, boredom, and how many prayers you may say, ultimately neither will make or break your career — until you consider again all those “I’m perfect for that role” auditions that you’ve had to decline because you knew that you’d be sitting numbly in the courtroom.

Dare I say that in the end, jury selection may actually be better than Extra work for one simple reason: You don’t have to deal with other extras (y’know: the ones figuring this is their chance to be discovered — face it, unless you are a gal with a smokin’ hot body, no director is gonna offer that lottery-chance longshot break to a piece of ambulatory “furniture”).

Could be worse — you could be an Extra **playing** a jury selection process venireman (go look it up).

Fave moment: It was about the middle of the shoot and we were doing a scene where Joe and Zed catch the little girl who threw a rock through our window.  She was late showing up to the set since she was doing “THE MUSIC MAN” on stage. Growing up this was one of my favorite movies. Between takes I remember we would breakout into song.  Going from being pissed at her in the scene, to singing after cut was awesome.

Least Fave Moment: Their is a scene when I find Jizz’s body all messed up and I have to puke.  sounds easy enough,  run up, look at her, and puke.  I learned a valuable lesson in this scene.  Always be nice to your F/X people.  They had me put a mix of warm beer and cold spaghetti sauce in my mouth.  The first take they had me put the mix in my mouth and wait for action.  It seemed like it took forever to get that first take.  When action came I couldn’t wait to get that stuff out of my mouth.  The hard thing was how do you puke when you don’t have to puke?  You try and remember a night at a party, or when you had the flu.  Let’s just say it took me awhile to get it right.  It wasn’t until I heard people behind the camera go, “Ewwww!” that I knew I got it right.  So, always take your F/X people out to dinner.  Maybe they won’t come up with such a gross mix to put in your mouth.

Most Challenging Moment: For me it was the ghost story.  Learning all the lines, making them sound real and not robotic.  This is where working with great people comes into play.  My costar Heathyr noticed I was a little intimidated by the scene.  She would go over the lines with me till the cows came home.  Her willingness to help me as a fellow actor and a person made that scene great.

So, it’s our first night at Devi’s, a night or two before the actual shoot begins.  We’ve just had one final read through of the script and the cast seems ready to go.  We go about getting settled in, no easy feat in light of the fact that the entire cast and most of the crew will be calling the Hotel Snively home for the next couple of weeks.  I step outside for a cigarette and, as I’m apt to do, find myself wandering about.  I’m on the side of the house when I notice a light go on in a second floor window.  I look up to see Lindsay, who plays Holly, moving to and fro, setting up her room for the coming weeks.

“Move along, there’s nothing to see here,” a little voice inside my head tells me and so I go about my business of wandering.

I get to the front of the house, take a few more puffs of my cigarette and head back the way I came.  Lindsay’s light is still on and I instinctually glance up again.  This time however, she is no longer preparing he room.  Instead, she’s in the process of getting changed for bed and is about to take her shirt off.

Again, that little voice is inside my head, “Move along, go about your business.”  But this time, there is something to see here and I’m not so quick to comply.

Now understand, I’m not a peeping tom.  I’ve seen plenty of breasts in my life and many…ok, some… of them, have belonged to very beautiful women.  But also understand, I’m a happily married man and have not seen a pair of breasts other than my wife’s in six years.  And finally, understand that Lindsay…well, watch the movie and you’ll understand my dilemma.

So there I am, on one hand feeling very much like a pre-pubescent twit trying to get his first glimpse of a real set of boobies and on the other hand wanting to call up to her and remind her to close the blinds.  The voice is still inside my head, just not so “little” anymore.  It has ceased being polite and is screaming at me, “Get lost you fucking perv!!”

Upstairs, Lindsay has taken hold of the waistline of her shirt and has begun pulling it upward.  She does this in slow motion, it seems, almost as if she knows I’m watching (wait…does she?).

I wait anxiously, my cigarette (little more than a butt with a big old granny ash at this point) dangling limply between my loose lips and my eyes wide in anticipation, until the final moment when…

I turn away.

Already, my character, Jeremy, has taken hold of me, forcing me to be the “nice guy” and do the right thing.  Had I known that the scene where Holly flashes the guy in the pick-up truck behind us was going to be shot on a closed set I might have put him back in the box for just one more minute.

To me, Joe comes off as bit of an asshole.  I looked at this as it was just a mask he had to wear.  Deep down he just wanted to get the people that meant the most to him under one roof so they could have a smoking good time.  Still, I would absolutely be friends with him.  After all, I based him on a close friend of mine.

What advice would I give him?  Don’t try so hard at making sure everybody is having a good time.  And don’t be afraid of the fact that the people in your life are going to change.

You always want to look good for a shoot, even if you know you will be covered in blood. So when my friend told me she had some eye cream guaranteed to reduce puffiness, I thought, “what better time to try this the night before shooting Trippin”?

The magical cream came in a jar shaped like an eye with gel for the eyelid and cream for under the eye. I used it very sparingly before heading to bed. When I awoke, I was having some difficulty seeing and my glasses didn’t help. Quickly I made my way to the bathroom mirror and to my horror my eyes looked as though I had been stung by bees.

So frantically I start searching my medicine cabinet muttering, “where the hell is that hemorrhoid cream”? Yes, I have hemorrhoid cream in my medicine cabinet. I dab some of the hemorrhoid cream on gently around and under my eyes. Then I take some ice out of the freezer. All this time my cat is meowing at me for his breakfast, after cursing him I feed him. With ice in little plastic bags, I lay down on the couch and put the ice on my eyes. I can’t wait to see my close up.

I think Mickey is a sensitive woman who, much like her husband, feels the need to put up this tough as nails exterior to get through life.  I imagine she’s had a rather difficult life and her husband and good friends have always been a much-needed support system for her.  She’s witty, sarcastic, and creative – Yes, I would definitely be friends with her, haha!   If I could give her one piece of advice, it would be to let go of her tough facade and of the feeling that she needs to carry the whole world on her shoulders- that being a martyr is not admirable and  she doesn’t have to do everything on her own.  I think in the end, it’s clear that Mickey’s choice to take everything onto herself produces the worst, most unnecessary results.  I would try to help her see that this is inevitable when you hold everything inside and refuse to accept the help of those around you.

When people find out that I have worked in independent films, I usually get asked the question “How much did you get paid?” My response is “nothing” and the second question that follows is usually “Then why do you do it?” My response is “because I love it.”
Working on Trippin’ showed me that there are so many people that are willing to completely turn life upside down to be able to come together to create a great film because they love it. I appreciate the people who are so creative and dedicated to creating all the different elements that go into the making of a movie. It’s amazing.

The van scene calls for us (well, me) to have some weed chillin. But now Devi’s flippin cuz we don’t have anything. I mean, really, for this being a movie about getting buzzed, these guys aren’t very on top of it. So, I pop out to the ride and grab my good shit jar, which is at about ¾ of a tank. I bring it back up to the set, present it, and no one seems to realize it’s actually real marijuana.

We’re just about to roll when I have second thoughts. Was it that, being the moral chap that I am, I figured some of these stiffs might be a bit pissed that they’re all unknowingly handling real, illegal drugs? Fuck no. This shit was PRIMO and I would hate to have to choke the shit out of the guy in charge of props when it turns up missing. So, I withdraw said good shit jar and we end up using oregano…which I might add, looks nothing like real marijuana.

Today was a glorious day in the acting career of Zed Wilson. That itself is hilarious, because I am not an actor. Everyone else in trippin’ is, though, which made me feel really nervous when we first started shooting. Every member of the cast has had some acting experience, and most have them have been in a few shorts and features and shit. They’re pros. I, on the other hand…not so much. I mean, I can act like I’m not high, or act like I’m paying attention, but as far as taking direction and remembering lines and all that shit, it’s all new to me.

Luckily for me (and the overall quality of the movie) I really don’t have to act, so much as I just do whatever the fuck Zed would do, given the situation. Considering I myself am that motherfucker, it works out. Even though I’ve read through the script, I haven’t even looked at it since we started shooting, really. Devi and I agreed beforehand that I had liberty to change my lines as I saw fit (e.g., the words bogus and tubular are NOT part of Zed’s vocabulary) so I usually just ask what’s going on in the scene and go from there. The rest of the cast, on the other hand, are not so fortunate.

Anyway, we’re shooting this scene and we just can’t click. Devi’s stressed, cast and crew are stressed, it’s hot as fuck in the cabin, and you can just smell somebody ready to snap and walk off the set. So, Devi, being the brilliant matriarch she is, gets this idea that we should just shoot a couple improv takes to chill out. Some of the crew seem even more pissed off about it, like we’re wasting time now, and I’m kind of expecting someone to throw something at me during the next take.

So anyway, she says, “action1″ and I’m sitting here with my guitar talking to Holly and Mickey. We somehow get into this conversation about chicks making out, which somehow turn into growing weed. As Mickey suggests we grow some plants, I’m reminded of an old Hamster tune called ‘Horticulture is a Helluva Crime,” which I wrote after my boy got popped with like 40 plants and got locked up for 90 days. I grab my guitar, start jamming…you know, Zed Wilson type shit. Somewhere in the middle of this I had like, completely forgot that we were filming a movie…I guess I was just used to lights and camera being everywhere by that point, plus I was kind of high from earlier.

Anyway, I play this little diddy, we talk a little bit more, and Devi says, “Cut!” As I look up, I see this giddy smile on everybody’s faces, and the same people who I thought might storm out of this bitch five minutes ago look like fat chicks who just won Oprah tickets. Apparently, this little scene was all it took for everybody to chill the fuck out and get back to having fun. For a scene to have so much gravity, you’d expect an experienced actor who understands his character and motivation and knows his lines and all that shit to be involved. But, a stoner kid with a guitar can work even better, especially if you catch him in his natural habitat!