The day Daddy nearly smoked a stolen doobie.

Jake and I recently had the extreme good fortune to attend the Outside Lands festival in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park.  Yes, without children.  Yes, for three days.  Yes, seriously A-W-E-S-O-M-E.

The fashions, as you can imagine, were pretty insane.  I remarked at one point – after seeing a girl donned in a giant fur cape, acid wash jean cutoffs and pink ballerina toe shoes laced up to her knees – that postmodernist fashion has finally arrived.  In other words, fashion no longer exists.

These god-awful outer space tights were everywhere.

I just, ugh. I just don’t know anymore.

Really.

Thankfully the music was spectacular.

Between sets by Phoenix, Young the Giant, and Vampire Weekend, Jake and I walked through a bustling corridor to get to the next show and saw a white dude with a truly egregious afro making his way through the crowd. Think Willie Nelson, only with an afro, crunchier, younger and probably smellier. As soon as the guy passed by, Jake bent down to pick something up.  It was a big fat joint.

“This just fell out of that guy’s hair!” tittered Jake.

“Nice score!” said an envious onlooker with a thumb’s up.

I should mention, before I go any further, that my precious Jake is a decently straight-edge guy.  His only vices, really, are oatmeal stouts and movies starring Bruce Willis.  Other than that, he’s pretty clean.

But you wouldn’t have known it by the way he fondled that joint before squirreling it away in his jacket pocket.  I was shocked.

“You can’t smoke that, Jake.  You know that, right?”

“Why?!? It’s practically legal in California, right?”

He had a point.  But between wiping baby butts, driving a cursed minivan and trying to maintain some semblance of a career, I had no time to keep up with marijuana law.

“I don’t even know anymore,” I said. “But that isn’t the point.  You can’t smoke that.”

[pause, thinking.] “Because it might be laced with something, huh?”

“BECAUSE IT FELL OUT OF A GUY’S AFRO.”

But he remained unconvinced, and held on to that joint for the rest of the day.

As we left the field to hunt down our car and turn in for the night, Jake walked up to one of the recycle/trash/compost stations. (This is San Francisco, after all.) I had all but forgotten about the weed in his pocket, but apparently it had been weighing on him more than I knew.  After studying the illustrations on each bin to determine where he should dispose of his joint, he finally decided on compost, chucked it in, and heaved a sigh of relief.