It first occurred during an extended Friday morning bike ride. Wouldn't it be great if I could score some pot this weekend? I was down to green crumbs and dust in a translucent Ziploc bag, and all of my connections had failed to come through for me in the past few weeks. It was just a passing thought while I pedaled, and I eventually got to the part of the ride where I didn't think about anything else but getting home without collapsing.

When I got back to the house, there was a message from a Mario Dog on my answering machine. I didn't know who he was (Mario Dog?), but there was a vague feeling that I talked to a Mario about hooking up with some high grade in the recent past. It turned out Mario Dog lived in Farmington and was looking for the other Chris Jungle who played drums. No luck, but pot was still on my mind.

My stash had become pathetic lately. I could literally count the number of times that I could get high with what I had left. If I conserved well, I could make it through the weekend. Since I had already exercised, I just wanted to kick back and hang out. I carefully rationed out a decent bowl, took some quality tokes, and kicked back to watch The Muppet Movie. That's right. Some day we'll find it, the rainbow connection. The lovers, the dreamers, and me.

My reliable dope connections dried up during the summer. Being 200 miles away from the Mexican border usually keeps my town teeming with marijuana, but a few big busts and a tightening of the borders (damn you, terrorists!) caused every solid dealer I knew to throw up their hands helplessly. I had picked up some random scores here and there, but nothing consistent since May. Such is the way sometimes.

I could go on and on about the pros and cons of the marijuana trade. Is it medicine that should be available for the sick and elderly? Yes. Is it a gateway drug? Yes. Is it as addictive as alcohol and prescription drugs? No. Should it be legal and available to Americans 18 and over? Yes. Will I ignore the law in order to obtain it? Yes. Is my life better or worse from smoking pot for the last ten years? Both.

Each of those questions is worthy of a column, but the point of this addition is that I was almost out of my personal supply. The last time I was completely out of pot for a significant amount of time was the summer of 1996. Coincidentally, I had a serious identity crisis at the time. Not to worry, I have a big one every two or three years.

On this Friday, I was a little stoned and doing all right. I got to the scene where Miss Piggy and Kermit have their intimate dinner with Steve Martin playing the annoyed waiter brilliantly, and the phone rang. A guy who kept saying he had a good dope connection said he could set something up. The movie was paused, a short drive occurred, I met up with the guy, and we were soon in a tiny store front converted into a hang out pad. Everyone was 5 to 10 years younger than me, and I couldn't help but think of all those people, advocates and singers who cry out that the children are our future. It's true. Without the youth of America, the drug trade wouldn't be half as productive.

Zing, zam, zoom. I hung out and smoked with the sketchy kids for about an hour, walked out with a fat plastic bag full of illegal herb, shook hands with my hook up, and went on my way home. Pot was on my mind during my bike ride, when I got a random phone message, and while I rationed out the last tiny bits for consumption. Then, marijuana actually came around. Just like that. Like it was supposed to happen that way all along.

I got home, put my newly purchased goods away, pressed play, and sang off key with the Muppets: Life's like a movie, write your own ending, keep believing, keep pretending, we've done just what we set out to do. The lovers, the dreamers, and you!

Chris Jungle will not remember this column due to short term memory loss.