March 4, 2002

It took 3 years before I caught wind of the High Times annual entertainment awards, but last night I was finally able to participate in the extravaganza that is the Stony Awards. The event was held at B.B.King’s Blues Club on West 42nd Street, in that neon-sparkled monument to consumerism, the avenue-long stretch connecting Times Square to what is apparently becoming the New Times Square, a shit hole of a neighborhood formerly known as Port Authority. It was on this sensory-overloaded patch of urban ground that my friends and I waited for nearly an hour and a half to gain entrance (apparently behind hordes of people who arrived later than we did) to the event of the season in the lives of pot smokers everywhere. Some attendees traveled as far as Boston to honor their idols of pot culture, and some recipients such as Snoop Dogg and Ice T left the west coast for a night of east coast props.

As a novice to the Stony Awards, I wasn’t entirely sure of what to expect. Part of me envisioned a ghetto-style Oscars night, where bejangled rap artists and hangers-on gave acceptance speeches in front of an adoring crowd. But the fact that it was an awards show dedicated solely to pop cultural drug references gave me another visual image altogether, one in which boisterous drunks and the smog of the billowing joints overwhelmed any attempt to distribute awards. I pictured the whole thing dissolving into a very large college party, one in which Snoop Dogg may or may not join (knowing Snoop’s history for the no-show, I didn’t really expect him to be there.)

Tickets were $50, which translates to $59, for those of you who don’t speak “Ticketmaster.” It’s a pretty penny to pay for the possibility of an evening with Snoop, but with the allure of free drinks and food for 3 hours and the promise of being in the room with someone, anyone whose name started with the letters LIL (the possibilities were endless), my attendance was a no-brainer.

I was standing at the doors of the club, attempting to resolve a ticket discrepancy with a marijuana leaf wreath-clad bouncer, when two high-topped black vans with Jersey license plates (MUSICG and its partner MUSICK) pulled up to the curb and a buzz infiltrated the crowd. I knew enough to sense that something big was about to go down, and in a matter of minutes the doors of the vans opened and a cape clad, pimp hat-topped Snoop emerged with an entourage a dozen or more people strong. Among these people were a man in sparkle sun glasses and a lime green suit and matching hat, and an older man in a tiger print leather suit. In the confusion of the moment Snoop made his way towards the wrong door, and was led by the bumbling bouncers and posse to the entrance of the club, where I was able to snatch an image of His Dopesty as he sauntered in, late, but at least he made it.

This sighting gave me newfound hope, and I rejoined my friends in one of the two long lines of anxious attendees, representing such walks of life as Long Island high schoolers, dazed hippies, gangstas and glamsters. Minutes passed like hours, as we challenged ourselves to recall the last time we waited in line for anything. These moments of frustration were interspersed with moments of hope that kept us from going home. Ethan Hawke and a slew of messy-haired Gen Xers stumbled out of a cab, and George Clinton emerged from a large silver bus adorned with a badly air brushed Marilyn Monroe. Apparently B.B. King’s doesn’t have a “back door”; either that or this was their weak attempt at the red carpet entrance of Oscars fame. Either way, the end result was that those of us waiting were able to catch fleeting glimpses of the stars as they swaggered into the event.

We were constantly reminded of the long, painful passage of time by the computerized screen situated between Madame Toussaud’s wax museum and what appeared to be a multilevel food emporium with such palate pleasing restaurants as Jody Maroni’s Sausage Kingdom and Chili’s. A press conference was under way inside the club that needed to wrap up before we could be let in. Because all of the celebrity guests were running late (presumedly smokin’ up?) the doors did not open until about 8:30 pm, an hour and a half later than scheduled. Somehow my friends and I in spite of being among the first to arrive ended up being quite possibly the last people to enter the club.

Because of the poorly managed waiting process, we were among the slew of $59 ticket holders who didn’t actually get a place to sit. Still, that put us closer to the bar, where we continually refilled our house-vodka-drinks, beer, and wine in an attempt to make up for lost time. We were pleased to note, that true to what the suit from NORML and his Libertarian gubernatorial candidate friend had informed us before the lights went down (yeah, they were an interesting bunch), that as long as you brought your own, there was an all you can smoke policy as well. In no time we were toking in the hallway in front of the bathrooms (where an Mtv-VJ-Jessie lookalike told us he saw “Ethan Hawke take a piss”) and eventually smoking in the middle of the club, leaning against the wall for support. We snatched free cocktail weenies and mini egg rolls as they passed by on trays carried by the apathetic servers. I think I consumed 59 calories, not $59 worth, but oh well. That’s what you get for not shoving everybody in front of you in line in a mad dash to enter the club. Assholes.

The award show was somewhere in the middle of the scenarios I had expected – there was a host and awarders and acceptance speeches, but it all seemed so, for lack of a better term, half-baked. Jim Breuer, known for his Saturday Night Live character Sheep Boy, hosted the event, and was either very intoxicated or just not funny (or both). But as the bouncer had explained to me earlier in the night, it was a “mellow crowd”, and most people were satisfied enough with a pot reference a minute and the occasional sound of a bleating lamb from our evening’s host. Personally I couldn’t stand him, and soon understood why my roommate would leave the room whenever his sketch came on tv. That, and pot jokes, and a flagrant attempt to amuse us with his large belly, appear to be Jim’s schtick. Next, please.

To be frank it didn’t seem that the people in attendance paid much attention to the awards—this includes the awardees themselves. When Daniel Franzese (I think that's his name - the "fat" kid from Bully) was called to the stage to accept the best actress award on behalf of Bijou Phillips, a good minute or more passed before he actually made it onto the stage. If the front of the house was having as much fun as I and my friends were, I can only imagine what was going on behind the scenes. When Snoop accepted one of his two awards, he brought Ice T and the green suited man (apparently a famous pimp of sorts – and when I say that, I really mean pimp) and other members of his entourage. He gave an acceptance speech that was punctuated with a toke from a huge joint, and he thanked High Times and gave props to the night’s event, where he was “hanging and smoking” and generally being Snooper-cool.

I know that Ethan Hawke looked pretty messed up when he accepted his award, that the Bully kid had to come up to the stage something like three times (he was guilty of some-look-at-my-fat-belly nonsense too), and that Snoop won two awards. For the first I think he won best actor, which is likely, mainly because he was in about three films last year, thereby increasing his chances dramatically over the competition. For the second, the coveted Stoner of the Year award, he was awarded by George Clinton, and I was especially excited to see Atomic Dogg and Snoop Dog on the stage at the same time. So excited that I made my friend take a picture of me and another friend in front of the stage (which was really far from where we were standing, so we’re not expecting it to turn out) where George and Snoop were standing. I have a feeling the photo is going to be a lot of smoke and not a lot of Snoop. Not unlike the award show itself.

I did get my own personal hint of Snoop, or something akin to Snoop, when the tiger-leather clad older gentleman approached me as I lounged against (read: was held up by) the wall near the bathrooms. He identified himself as Snoop’s uncle and invited me back to their hotel. In spite of the SRO turn out the awards show had an air of intimacy, and with the warm glow of a good buzz coursing through my veins, I actually imagined that my friends and I would adjourn the Stony Awards in a miniature after party at the Omni Berkshire Hotel. In a logistical snafu this didn’t end up happening, and in the reality of sobriety I realize now that’s probably a good thing.

All in all the Stony Awards tickets were expensive, food was scarce, seats were limited, and the host was almost unbearable. For those who were not in a cab in search for the Snoop party during the performance following the “ceremony”, they may have felt they got their money's worth. For me, the evening was fun but something I need not repeat anytime soon. Thankfully they only come around once a year.