The Pharcyde

The Pharcyde – Humboldt Beginnings (2004)

One night I decided to grow a weed plant.  And while this doesn’t seem to be overtly shocking, as our whole culture is getting more and more accustomed to the undemonic idea, the only real hurdle I faced was my parents’ staunch conservatism.  This in itself was vexing, as they subscribe to a logic Dr. Ian Malcolm would find confusing.  We actually call my Dad “The Illogical Logic,” as his ebullience only finds rivalry in his temper.  Yet these two moods could switch on a whim, reverse their poles and throw me for a loop.  Throughout my life, seriousness would be met with flippancy, frivolity with a hammer.  All at random.  I remember being suspended in grade 11 for distributing anti-student council propaganda, but he wasn’t pissed.  I forgot to cut the lawn once, and he erupted.  At home, I couldn’t have a girl in my room with the door closed, but it was fine to take one out to the detached cabin in the woods on our property.  (I was sure to take advantage of that rule.)  The only constants in our home were remarkable pancakes, and Fine Young Cannibals.

Luckily, or rather, chronologically, my older siblings had already done most of the mischief I involved myself with.  And while this meant that I had to work diligently to break any sort of new ground, it also meant I sometimes got away with serious shit. Thus, fearing which personality of the mustached Lumberjack I might face, whilst banking on the malleable form of my mother’s love, the weed plant plot emerged.

One May afternoon, brimming with the energy only those who escape from work an hour early possess, I stole out into my parents’ garden, and haphazardly planted some twenty-five seeds, blessing each with as many good hippy vibrations I could muster, or rather, that my cynicism would allow.  This is getting wordy. Let’s jump forward.  Of the twenty-five seedlings, only one sprout emerged, pressing through the dirt to elate my crushing ennui.

I don’t think my unborn child will cause such rapture in my life, as did this little green limb.  I was in love, and his name was Peddy Tendergrass.  Over the next few weeks our relationship grew, and eventually, I needed to pot Peddy, lest he be disturbed by the myriad of garden pests.  But this required confrontation with my, until then oblivious parents.  (Specifically, the terrifying patriarch.)  I waited until my mother was alone on the back porch, watering the plant next to mine.

“Do you like my beautiful little plant?” I coolly ventured.

“This is yours!??! Is this what I think it is?!?!”

Now, I have to admit, I was taken aback by her reaction.  I hadn’t seen her in such a stage of outrage since my evil sister did whatever the fuck evil thing she last did to my poor old parents.

And, that was one against me.  I quickly tried to regain control, and set into placation mode.  But it was too late.  I hadn’t heard the giant looming footsteps sneak up behind me.  My father had walked into our conversation, and my mother’s hysteria.

“Fraser! Did you know what our son has growing in this pot!?”

I looked away, unable to face his retribution.  I braced myself for the worst.

“Relax, honey. It’s just a weed plant.”

And that was it.  Somehow, it all blew over.  The Illogical Logic had finally done something that worked out in my favor.  And now doubly encouraged, I grew that little plant until it was big and strong, and had a fucking blasty-blast in the process.  I went through a million botanical trials and tribulations, uncovered the carefree youth in many of my relatives I had thought to be squares, and even connected with my parents a little. Only a little.  One should always keep some distance from one’s parents, lest they turn into them.  I even convinced my straight-laced mom to take care of little Peddy Tendergrass while I bounced to Peru in search of god knows what.  And she did a good job!  When I got home I made this song:

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