I told my staff (people who work for me, fool) that I would be in San Francisco on 4/20, and the two twenty-year olds snickered. I didn’t know what was so goddamned funny.

I arrived at the city, and found it dysfunctional, as there was a weird heat-wave of 88°, which, by the way, neverfuckinghappensinaprilinsanfrancisco, and everybody fell out like they were extras in 28 Days Much Later or some shit.

San Francisco has no air conditioning.

So I meet the youngest “team member” as I learned to say when I worked in the Valley, and he’s all: “you are here on 4-20.”

“Yes, (sotto voce) motherfucker, so what?”

“You said 4-20.”

“So what.”

Sitting up straight now, clearer: “That is code for pot.”

My dumb ass didn’t get that at all.

So then he sent this picture:

4:20 PM, University of Colorado at Boulder Quad [PIC].

And I gleaned what the four-two-oh was all about, as San Francisco turned into my mom’s freshman apartment when she was going to Cal-Berkeley.

I was two years old at the time (1970), but I remember the sweet smell of that Humboldt outodoor herb as I woke up to get a drink of water and she and her friends were listening to that bomb 15-minute Marvin Gaye song whose title I can’t remember right now because I had a secondary high from my pot-smoking mother.

Late to the party, as always, T-bone.