A R T S    &    C U L T U R E
		Carpe Doobie The Dormouse • April 1994

Sometimes I just get too baked to write this stuff. My motor skills occasionally lack the precision required for typing up an article. This line just took three minutes to write. [Ed: It took even longer to correct all the typos.] But hey, no worries! It’s Saturday morning, the seventh day of Spring, I’m baked, and I have all the time in the world to write this article. [Ed: Deadline was the previous Monday.]

Our Editor-in-Chief Neomi Rao, although a fine editor and the fearless leader of the YFP, doesn’t understand the artistic difficulties I face. I am consistently the last to get my article in, sometimes not at all, and I’m sure that she says to herself (or maybe to others?), “That Dormouse guy is such a flake... Figures...” [Ed: Actually, the Dormouse is a shank.] But while she’s saying that and working her butt off all weekend in YFP production, I’m at home saying to myself, “I’m sooo baked, I have a furry cat in my lap, and I have nothing but unadulterated pleasure and entertainment ahead of me today. Life is goooood...” So now I ask my readership, which situation would you rather be in? Sure, I can be as flaky as a good croissant, but I guarantee that I’m having a lot more fun than all the angel food cakes out there.

Life at Yale moves really quickly, and I fear that too many people come through this magical place with their attentions too focused on the future. What about the here and now? These have been without a doubt the best years of my life and pot has had no small part in that. Everybody needs to slow down sometimes and reflect, enjoy and relax. Everyone is running around freaking out about their senior essays and looking for jobs (incidentally, I’m going to shoot the next person who says i-banking) [Ed: Only because you want an interview.] What this school needs is a Cross Campus Smoke Out. Get a kind band to come and play, and let’s get really stoned, frolic about, and celebrate the arrival of Spring.
Somehow, though, I don’t think that will come to pass. But here’s an idea. You know all those seeds that you guys have piling up from grooming your bud, well, let’s turn Yale into the garden of our dreams. Just stroll about campus one afternoon dispensing seeds in the fake moats, masters’ gardens, societies’ back yards, and amid any other neglected but vegetated areas. Many will be discovered, but many won’t, and next fall could be a truly special time at Yale.

I just took a break from writing this article to go see Sirens with Elle MacPherson. [Ed: I didn’t know you two were friends.] This movie is great. Elle looks really sweet and the lesbo stuff is really hot! Movies, too, are really kind when baked, but now it’s 5:30 and my editor is starting to froth at the mouth like a rabid dog.

I’ve got a little something that can cure that problem, but I think that I’ll have to indulge on her behalf. I was getting kinda sober anyway. I think that I’ll roll a joint. Nothing beats a fat hooter, outside on a lawn bench somewhere with the sun shining. You know what I’m talking about—when you’re getting hella baked outside, kicking back, watching the clouds form the faces of foreign dignitaries and common circus animals, [Ed: Are lions and tigers and bears so common?] with a lush spliff between your fingers...

Yale, this bud’s for you!

—The Dormouse is the YFP’s correspondent to the Underworld