HUGS AND NUGS
Two things about the scene: hugs and nugs. The way headz embrace, yo. A long full chest to chest clasp. Long enough to let-it-flow. Tight too. Word is bond. Hug is bond. A long hard hug and you feelin what the other person’s made of. Understand where I’m coming from? I’m always hugging everyone I meet. Fuck-a handshake. Hug out—yo—Huggy Bear steez. You give good hug then you down with love. I hate havin to explain this Shiite. It’s like I’m creating this watered down Idiot’s Guide to the Counterculture. Then I tell myself chill. It’s aiight, Thelonious. This hasn’t been done before and it’s important enough. Like the whole nugs piece. A nug is one of many slang words for weed. There’s a ritual in smoking weed. As a sign of respect the person who packs the bowl passes it to someone else to spark. It’s usually passed to the host of the car, pipe, or house where you’re smoking. If you run into an old friend you let them hit the pipe first. You’re respected if you’re allowed to hit that pipe first. But no matter what you do or who you are, if you know-se what’s up you better not smoke all the green. The green hit has the best flavor. The green hit is the nectar, the dank, the fresh aroma and taste. When people smoke all the green it’s wick wick wack, a clear indicator you’re not headie. Or you’re not thinking headie, Mistah Stoops. Unless there’s so much weed it doesn’t matter. To make sure you don’t hog all the green, you only light the corner of the bowl. Don’t blaze the lighter over the middle of the bowl. Save some green for the man who packed the bowl—who should get next hit, unless he’s too far away in the cipher. Respect. After every hit many headz grace the pipe. The grace involves putting the glass to your heart to signal love for the herb and love for all those in the cipher and then raising the pipe to the heavens in respect to God or Jah or whoever for the blessings. Some grace silently to themselves. Some grace cause they see others doing it. I don’t grace—who would I grace to? I’m an agnostic—why would I fake the funk and pretend to grace—I don’t know if there’s a God—and know what—you-se don’t know neither, bitches.
