So, I started this new job today, and-

No, of course I’m not going to tell you where. The last thing I need is all of you fuckers coming to the new workplace all  like, “Zed! It’s fuckin’ Zed from trippin’, man! I sooo want to party with you! Lemme see your fuckin’ leg, man! Bust out Ol’ Blue!” while the boss is right there and shit!

Wait, actually, now that I think about it,that might not be so bad. I guess I could lie to the boss and say I just play some stoner guy in a movie, appease him, then, still smoke up your shit later on. Okay, send me an email with a picture of you holding a nug of something nice and I’ll totally tell you where I work. You’ve probably been there at least twice this month already. Anyway, I digress…

I’ve decided to take this job more seriously than my last one, so this morning, I smoked like half a joint of some primo to the dome about twenty minutes before I had to be there. And now the kids at home are looking at each other with confusion. “Wait, Zed…I thought you said you were taking this one seriously! Why would you get super-stoned before the first day at work? That makes no sense!”

This, class, is what I call “Reverse Highcology.” I don’t mean what Bugs Bunny uses to make Elmer Fudd think it’s duck season, or how you pick up chicks, either. I mean, if something sounds so fucking stupid that most wouldn’t consider it an option, it will be off everybody’s radar and you can probably get away with it a lot easier than you think you can. Dig? People can only tell if you’re high by making comparative observations, and by playing on that, you can be high all the time and no one will ever know. Come. I will show you the path.

First, as you all know, one of the most notorious indications of blowedness is your eyes. Yeah, yeah. When you get stoned, your eyes typically become glassy and bloodshot, and your pupils may be slightly dilated (though speaking from experience, if you actually get high enough off weed that your pupils dilate noticeably, it’ll be hard to tell because you’ll be passed out and they’ll be closed!) Now, stoners have tried to address issue in a few ways, most of which are ultimately ineffective. Let’s break it on down for these fools.

Sunglasses: These were a good start, but unless you happen to be Secret Service, at some point, you will have to take them off in the public view and thereby fuck up your whole “I’m not high” front. I mean, unless you’re Snoop, but you’re probably not, and if you are, everybody knows how high you are anyway, so there’s no fucking point to any of this for you. But hey, Snoop, if you ever actually watch my fuckin’ movie, man, I’d be honored! Hit me up if you’re ever in Detroit and we can smoke out!

Eye drops: Tighten your skull caps, because I’m about to blow your fucking minds with this one.

How many times have you and your boy blown one in his car between classes or some shit, and right before it’s time to head back in, he busts out the Visine? I know! What a fuckin’ idiot! Wait, what did you think I was going to say?

For you to really grasp the depth of my chiefin’, I’ll need to give you a quick lesson in ocular anatomy. (For you retarded folks, that means “what your eyeball is made of,” and for you haters to the crops, fuck you, ‘cause even though I smoke daily, my vocabulary still owns yours.) Anyway, your eyeball is filled with a fluid called vitreous humor, which basically keeps your eye inflated in a sphere shape. For whatever reason, THC lowers the internal pressure of this fluid inside your eye, and also causes the blood vessels in your eye to dilate, which allows more blood to move through its surface, creating the bloodshot effect. So, the stoner-eye syndrome results from internal changes in your eyeball. Eye drops, however, can only be used to help with external factors that cause red eyes, like allergies or fucking with your contacts too much. To use eye drops with hopes of getting rid of stoner-eyes is like saying they have lotion that you rub on your belly to cure an ulcer; it’s fuckin’ stupid as fuck.

But, wait, Zed…I’ve used Visine and shit, and I swear, it’s worked every time! Well, as uninformed as you may be, you might actually be right, especially if you wear contacts. We all know what a placebo is, right? Basically, if you think something is something that it isn’t, and that it will have some effect on you, your anticipation of said effect alone can cause your brain to subconsciously induce said effect to a degree. (And again, for all of you naysayers, I’m getting baked as I type this, so suck on it.) So, if you wear contacts, you’re used to fucking with your eyes more than most, and your brain has come to associate certain stimuli with certain responses and status reports …in this case, eyedrops in; eyes feel better. Therefore, your brain itself could, theoretically, revert your eyes to their typical state post-eyedrop without any help from the actual eyedrops at all. So, maybe eyedrops do work, although indirectly, and you could probably even pull this off if you don’t wear contacts, but hold on. If your brain is subconsciously forced to work against the THC in your system, that will inevitably lead to a fucked-up or premature loss of buzz. Secondly, now that you’re aware how all of this goes down, the placebo effect won’t work anymore! I know! I’m an asshole! Don’t worry though. If you watch Trippin,’ there’s a subliminal sequence in the movie that will revert your optical cortex and nerves to the state they were in three days ago. Seriously!  I swear!

So anyway, having debunked these failed forms of stoner camoflauge, what are we to do? Remember when I was talking about comparative observations earlier? Dumbfuck Translation: This usually is like this, but now stuff is different, and it sticks out. Well, what if we take the comparative factor out of our appearance altogether by looking the same all the time?

(Wait…he can’t be serious.)

I am, and you got it. The answer is to always be high. If you’re high all the time, and you just always look like that, no one’s going to say shit, you know? Case in point: that fuckin’ Jim Bruer guy from Half Baked. Now, I’ve seen or read an interview with that guy, and I think he even goes on about it in his bit, about how he just looks like that even though he doesn’t smoke. I mean, dude, look at that fuckin’ guy. Yeah fucking right. But, have you ever seen him not look like that? If you did, you’d probably be all like, “Jim, oh my God, what happened to you?”

Aside from looking stoned, unfortunately, you can also smell stoned. This, however is an easier fix than the eyes issue.

First of all, do not, I repeat, DO NOT put on cologne or body spray if you think you smell like weed. If you’re a female, it might work for you, but guys, especially, don’t fucking do it. It goes back to the inferences we make without even realizing we’re making them. If somebody left, came back, and now they smell all good, I think either 1) they were at the gym or 2) they were chiefing, automatically. I have a buddy who used to live with this chick and her family, all of whom mega-frowned on smoking weed. He’d still sneak it in whenever he could, though, and try to stay under the radar. I picked him up this one time and we took a ride and burned one, and minute later, he pulled out a spray bottle of Febreze and doused himself with it. I know he was trying, but I think I’d suspect the guy who smells like Febreze of being stoned quicker than the guy with a cheeseburger who reeks like Axe.

The best way to avoid smelling like weed is to minimize the absorbant materials on your person, like your clothes and hair. If you’re a bald stripper, you can leave class early today. If you’re not, check out my morning routine.

1)     Get up

2)     Brush teeth

3)     Get stoned

4)     Eat breakfast

5)     Get a little more stoned

6)     Shower

7)     Coffee

8)     Out the door

The important part is the order in which I do these things. Because I get high before I get in the shower, there’s no way my awesome hair can stink like anything but shampoo. When I smoke, too, it’s always in a room other than my bedroom, so there’s no way for my clothes to pick it up, either. Finally, the coffee breath will ensure that anyone who ventures too far into my breathing room will be deterred.

So, If you want to be high all the time, but don’t want people to know, you just need to remember your Reverse Highcology. Hell, you might even be able to convince Elmer to say fuck it and shoot them both!

Next Lesson in Highcology:  Inside the Mind of the Non-Smoker

So imagine this: you and your buddy walk into a whorehouse. The madame brings out the lineup, and you say to your friend, “Man, I can’t remember the last time I got some pussy!” when suddenly, the madame gets all shitty, tells you that you can’t say ‘pussy’ in the whorehouse, and now you have to leave. Now, if Jizz happened to be the madame, I might get it, as the word ‘pussy’ obviously bothers her. But with that exception, most people would probably use the words ‘ what the fuck?’ at least twenty times during the drive home.  Sadly, that was only an analogy to a far more confusing truth.

I was at this head shop the other day (which shall remain nameless) with one of my buddies from out of town. The reason we call it a head shop is because you buy stuff there that ‘takes care of your head.’ This includes pipes, bongs, stash jars, pipe cleaning accessories, you name it. Most also carry t-shirts, incense, all kinds of cool stoner shit, and some even carry golf discs. It’s common assumption that anyone employed at a head shop has to be a stoner, too, and I’ve never found an exception. Anyway, I had been  there a few weeks ago and bought a new slider and downstem for Old Blue, the bong featured in trippin’. If you’ve read the  feeling a bit blue entry, you can infer that this thing is long overdue for a new bowl, and I figured it had earned it.

My friend and I proceeded to the massive pipes and bongs section in the back of the store, and I’m praising their awesome selection of pipes and parts. “Dude, you know that sweet ass blue skull bong I have? I got the bowl and all of that shit for it here, and…” Before I can speak another word, I’m approached by the chick who works there, who, as professionally as possible, says “I’m sorry, but you can’t use that word in here. We won’t be able to sell you any tobacco accessories, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Now, I know they’re not kidding, but I’m still going to have the ‘what the fuck?’ look on my face for quite some time. Although the head shop has like 2,000 pipes, bowls, and every other piece of paraphernalia you can imagine, having just one of these items on your person could get you a fine or even some minor time, unless maybe it’s still brand new. So, by that logic, they’re assuming a pretty serious risk by doing business, and the only way they could have gotten away with opening to start with is to strictly stick to the story that the items they sell are for tobacco use only. That phrase, actually, is one of the most definitive characteristics of a head shop; if you don’t see a sign that says that, you’re not in one. Crock of shit? Yes, totally, with the possible exception of the hookah shelf. But, it’s all about definitions, and an undercover officer or excise official could always be lurking in the store. So, not only do they have to maintain the façade, but customers do, too. I mean, the dreadlocks, tie-dye, Birkenstocks, and patchouli aren’t indicative at all until you open your mouth, right? The word ‘bong’ almost always indicates marijuana use, where the softer, more technical term ‘water pipe’ does not. So, to do you and your headshop a favor, all you need to do is translate to accommodate them. For example, you greet the guy at the door, and you want to say:

“Dude, I came in and bought that new downstem for this fuckin’ bong I have, and as soon as I got that bitch fitted in, I got ripped as fuck of this killer Lemon Skunk I have. Right on!”

Instead, try:

“Hello, sir, nice to see you again. On my last visit, I purchased an accessory for my water pipe. After successfully replacing the old part, I enjoyed some very tasty tobacco, and I thank you for assisting me with my water pipe which I use only to smoke tobacco.”

See? Easy. But, just in case…next time you go to a whorehouse, just point, say, “her” or “that one,” give them the money, and keep your head low.

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)

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!

Before I go into today’s adventure, I’d like to point something out. So far, there’s been one constant in these documented exploits: They continue to doubt me, yet, I continue to persevere.

“Zed, you’ll never get the shirts on time.” Oh, you mean these shirts?…

“Zed, you’re not going to drink that 80 degree beer.” Gulp…gulp…gulp…huh?

“Zed, you can’t roll a fake ass movie spliff in ten seconds.” (twisty, twisty…) You’re right, but I can do it in seven. Bitches.

“Zed, there’s no way that you can actually give yourself a boner, in real time, and have it look cartoony and awesome on film.”

I would have unzipped my fly and retorted as usual, but our effects wizard, Ian Strandberg, had already cooked up this air-compressor-up-my-shorts-into-a-balloon thing. And I have faith in him, so we try it.

Unfortunately, this was not Mr. Strandberg’s finest hour, and not only did my faux-dick do my real-life member no justice; it even popped a few times. I won’t ruin the surprise for you, but there’s another pretty major special effect going on one of my other lower extremities, which makes this whole thing more complicated.

We’re a little behind schedule today, and Augustin is kind of pissed. He nixes the balloon idea, and authoritatively decides how we’re going to do this: he finds something dick-shaped (I think it was a pinecone from outside,) wraps it in duct tape, and tells me to stuff it down my pants and tape it place. I comply. (It was a little more accurate than the balloon, too, though maybe a bit girthy…)

So we start shooting, and after a few takes, my duct-dick shifts this way and that. For whatever reason, this scene just won’t happen like most of them. And the tension mounts. If the dick is right, the scene isn’t right, and if the scene is right, the dick isn’t right. (Know what I mean, ladies?) I have to be standing in a very particular spot, in a very particular way. So, Augustin takes on the role of duct-dick adjuster so I don’t have to move. And, in his frustrated hurry, during one of these adjustments, he accidentally grabs my real dick.

I know he didn’t mean to. And, in a drunken state, I’ve even said shit like, “Dude if I was gay, I would totally be gay with Augustin.” But, um, getting your prostate checked out pales in comparison to the awkward that came with this one.

Lesson to be learned, though: There is no stunt double for the Zedpole. If you doubt that, you will end up on your knees before him in shame. Stay tuned…

Devi told me a few weeks ahead of time that we’re going to need a bong for the movie. So, I secure Old Blue, a wicked ass ceramic skull waterbong from the 70s from a friend of mine. You’ll see it in the movie. I boxed up old blue in my trunk and kinda forgot about it till we needed it. When it’s scene time, I pop him out and pack him with (*sigh*) rolling tobacco.

Now, I’m not in the bong scene the first time, but right as Devi says, “action,” it hits me. Old Blue is not actually a prop. Untold amounts of cheeba have actually been smoked through this thing, and it’s older than I am. And y’know, somehow, as I’m watching everybody pass this thing around during the scene, the whole “everybody’s starting to get a little high” vibe is very believable. What’s more, after the scene, the cast seems very enthused about going to see how much pizza is still left over from dinner.

You say: they’re all a bunch of great actors, are taking their roles very seriously, and have healthy appetites. Zed says: RESIN HITS, motherfucker!

During the first half of the movie, we’re all continuously drinking beer.  Actual beer.  (And yes, all the actors are 21 if you’re lame enough to give a shit.)  It’s called WarBird, a red lager brewed locally by some cat who’s all about letting us promote it in his movie. And dude, it’s good fucking beer.

However…Devi and Augustin didn’t think about the fact we were actually going to have to drink said beer during the shoot, and left it outside in the heat. So here I am with like 3 cases of fire ass brew and the shit’s like 90 degrees.

While most members of the cast opted to pour out this wonderful, albeit warm beverage and substitute cold bottled water in their cans, your boy Zed held shit down. Not only am I actually drinking beer in every scene, but I also slammed a few that other cast members were going to pour out.

Even weirder, I actually kinda started to like it. I think I’m gonna start microwaving my Heinekens at home…

We start shooting today. Rather than wear the god-awful outfit Devi had in mind for me (she wanted me to wear fucking suspenders…come on!) I opted to cook up some fresh-ass Zed-threads on my own. Thus was created the awesome ass BZTD logo which appears on my shirt in the movie and would later become the official band logo. I went to the screen printing joint and ordered up a few. (Look for order forms on the BZTD site!)

So I rock to the spot to swoop my gear, and this motherfucker tells me they’re not done. I talked to him yesterday and he acted like they were collecting dust. And we start shooting in about an hour. So, I gotta think fast. I realize that one of my buddies from high school is working in the back. I holla at him, take him outside, explain my situation, break him off a nug, and I’m on my way to the set, with my goddamn shirts in about 20 minutes flat. Everybody loves to get paid in greenbacks.

But, I’m still gonna see if we can put a ‘fuck you’ note in the credits for them.

Disclaimer: The Deviant Downers are sketchy on being affiliated with “illegal” activities…of course, nothing illegal WHATSOEVER will be going on during the production of this flick.

So, my goal with this little journal is to log some of my favorite and not so favorite parts about the magic of movie making, and hip some of you fuckers to the for real skizzness on the production of my awesome fucking movie. Okay, Okay. Correction: Our awesome fucking movie.