"Super High Me" - A good example of a comedian-driven documentary

Doug Benson is this generation's Pot Comedian. Unlike 70s era stoner jokesters like Cheech & Chong though, his main point isn't how crazy and stupid pot makes you, it's how much harmless fun pot provides.

Spoofing Morgan Spurlock's somewhat annoying and dubious documentary "Super Size Me", Benson decides to spend 30 days completely stoned from the moment he wakes up until he goes to sleep. Since he is already a total stoner, he decides to abstain for 30 days, take a bunch of medical and mental tests and then spark it up for the following month, reprising the same tests, on weed.

The results are (not) surprisingly ho-hum. He does a little better on the SAT, his sperm count actually rises significantly, he puts on a bit of weight and his psychic skills vastly improve, for what it's worth.

Along the way he documents the fast-growing medical mariujana outlet scene in Los Angeles (or "Los Ganjales" as he calls it) and catches some interesting protests of pointless Bush-era D.E.A. busts of these legal establishments. We also get a good helping of his very funny stand up comedy and an all around good time with a good-natured pothead with a message.

It's interesting that this was produced around the same time as Jamie Kennedy's whiny downer "Heckler". Both are self-focused and self-indulgent, but in Benson's movie we are invited to the party/protest, whereas Kennedy impotently seeks to rally his celebrity friends against the rising power of audiences, a.k.a. us.

I saw "Super High Me" last night on the G4 gamer-nerd cable channel, in between "Half Baked" and some documentary on the pros and cons of the legal psychedelic Satvia. This is the first channel I have heard of that leans toward a pro-drug message.

Just say...something!

Jury Jail

Well, I just completed jury duty and I have to say that despite its horrible reputation, it's a breeze. The only hiccup was discovering a stray percocet in my backpack in line for the security gate (I made a stealthy run by the trashcan).

They start by showing you a lovely Diane Sawyer-narrated video and give you a little booklet that indicates you are always to be treated with respect. Then they tell you about the free WiFi and where you can plug your laptop it, how you go about taking 15 minute breaks (seemingly whenever you want), and where you can buy coffee and snacks. Why do I never get called when I am working a salaried, full-time job. I would have jumped at the opportunity to sit on a long trial when I was working at Weight Watchers.

They dismissed us at 1pm on Monday and 11:45am on Tuesday. That's it. No more jury duty for six years. Can you request to serve?

Milano's

As long as we're on the morning junkie theme today, I thought I'd mention the legendary, tragic Milano's Bar on E. Houston. On my way to work each day, just before I encounter the methadone/'scrip crowd on Broadway and Houston, I pass by Milano's and peer in the window. I am always fascinated by the workman-like rigor these morning alkies have. Do they, like, set their alarm for 7:30 so they have time to do a couple of errands before their drinking day begins?

Every morning there is at least one person sitting right in the window nursing what is usually hard liquor. I have to admit I have been tempted once or twice to stop in for a JD & soda to take the edge off my workaday world, but thus far, happily, I have resisted this impulse.

Methadonia

Every morning I walk by the building on the southeast corner of Broadway and Houston and without fail there is a gathering of middle-aged, smoking, drug addled people milling around in front. There has to be a methadone clinic in a nearby building.

I applaud these people's efforts to kick their habit, but the truth is, they still really look and act like junkies. I cannot imagine any of these people holding a job or having a normal life.

A 2005 HBO documentary Methadonia exposed the recent phenomenon of methadone patients mixing it with prescription drugs like Xanax or Klonopin to get a heroin-like high, and I can't help but think that there are 'scrip dealers among the morning throng. The thing is, since they are "in program", it's all normalized.

It reminds me of the old East Village when half the neighborhood used to line up when a certain building had heroin.

Maybe these people are a little better off not doing heroin. In the last few years I have substituted my raging cigarette addiction with addiction to various nicotine replacements and occasionally revert back to cigarettes. I know I am better off chewing nicotine gum or using a dissolvable tobacco like Ariva, but I cannot for one minute imagine living my life without nicotine.

Thank God I never tried heroin.

New York Film Academy - WTF?

So the second floor of the building where I'm working is the home of the New York Film Academy. You've seen their ads. You've wondered, what kind of fly-by-night technical college scam is this? Having had the misfortune of having to ride the elevator with its victims for the past four weeks, I think I have an idea.

Full disclosure: I went to NYU Film School, which has always been a bullshit school inside a real university. NYFA is a bullshit school inside an office building. Film school is where you go if you want to waste your higher education smoking cigarettes and traipsing around in weird clothing (I know that's why I did it). When I did it, though, film school was also essentially an expensive film equipment rental facility, so it kind of made sense if you wanted to actually, you know, make movies. But in the age of YouTube, iMovie and the $650 HD camcorder, why does anyone pay for this? These days you can buy better equipment than we used for less than we spent on rentals. Ultimately, I guess NYFA is a place to park your spoiled kid who couldn't get into SVA, Parsons, Pratt, Baruch, Hunter or anywhere else for that matter.

For tearaway rich kids who misspent their high school years getting tattoos and shopping and running away to Europe, it's a logical step in a privileged, wasted life.

It's actually kind of a brilliant business idea. Charge rich parents lots of money to teach their good for nothing kids something that every 14 year old with a computer already knows how to do. It's like rehab but without all that expensive drug intervention staffing.

I think I'm going to start the New York Blogging Academy. Cha-ching!

Xavier in the park

Took the dog to Tompkins Square Park this afternoon. I ran into Xavier and he was talking about how he remembers too much. Like when this woman hit him when he was a child. "She was one of those black people who think they can discipline everyone else's child," he said.

Anyway, the thing about the park during a workday in the middle of the summer is that you really see what the East Village is about. Not what real estate ads say it's about, or what disgruntled Brooklyn people say it's about ("it's all baby carriages and high rises now"); it's still really fucking trashy. Take a tour with me:

Enter at 7th & B, and the Chinese people are doing Tai Chi in the entry walk to one of the children's playgrounds. Why in this park, I don't know, but there's a reliable stream of Chinese doing their unusual poses, then hopping the M9 at 8th & B to go back to Chinatown afterwards. It's sort of odd. Maybe Tompkins has some desirable properties.

Saunter over to "The Hill", that grassy area in the center of the park. Here we encounter East Village layabouts like myself with a heavy dose of gay cruisey-ness (hint: the shirtless men are usually looking).

Wander around to the walkway just to the west of the makeshift dog run (the real one is being renovated - for the last year now, we don't really know why), and we encounter the summer punks. In the afternoon they are very docile: taking healthy afternoon naps, staring into space, generally relaxing A LOT. They have dogs on leashes, cats on leashes, dogs off leashes and any number of disposable possessions.

The summer punks really make you question your layabout lifestyle: on the one hand you totally hate working, but their lifestyle seems like more work than your yuppie job you had at your office. Like, sure you are chained to your cubicle or counter or whatevs but you can run off to the drugstore or pub (ahem) or somewhere and people don't generally notice. These summer punks scrounge for every penny every second of the day. Sure they don't have to be anywhere, but they can't really be anywhere either. Unless of course they have smack. Then they can just be wherever they are.

True layabouts, but in a bad way.