A Taste of Stoner Nostalgia: The Story Behind Cheech and Chong's Magic Dust

Cheech and Chong's Magic Dust is a comedic sketch that originated from the 1973 album titled "Los Cochinos", by the American comedy duo Cheech Marin and Tommy Chong. Cheech and Chong are well-known for their marijuana-themed humor and their subversion of society's conventions, particularly in relation to drug culture. In the Magic Dust sketch, Cheech and Chong parody the phenomenon of crystal methamphetamine abuse. The sketch begins with Chong asking Cheech about an unusual substance he found in his aunt's cabinet, which she referred to as magic dust. Cheech initially describes it as "the greatest thing [he] ever tasted" and says that it made him feel "super cool". Chong becomes interested and asks for a taste, to which Cheech hesitantly agrees.

“Well. ” she said through her tears.

My mom s middle name was Ruth and even though no one called her that, for as long as my parents had been together, my dad had only ever referred to her as Ruthie. Because I was there for business, not pleasure, and because I knew he charged hundreds of dollars and was booked years in advance, I didn t think he would offer me a reading.

Chong becomes interested and asks for a taste, to which Cheech hesitantly agrees. Once Chong consumes the magic dust, a series of outrageous and exaggerated events unfold. Chong's behavior becomes erratic and hyperactive as he experiences the supposed effects of the substance.

I Didn't Know If I Believed In The Afterlife. Then My Dead Father Sent Me A Message.

I’ve always been curious about the supernatural. When I was a kid, I begged my parents for a subscription to the Time Life “Mysteries Of The Unknown” book series and spent hours paging through the thin, hardbound black books and gawking at blurry photos of Big Foot and fuzzy, unexplained lights hovering in formation over some lonely mesa in New Mexico.

But the volume I found most captivating was about mediums. The idea that a person could function as a mystical transistor radio and pick up messages from the afterworld thrilled and terrified me. I was especially fascinated by a woman who had lived a century earlier and had ceremoniously oozed ectoplasm from her orifices ― sometimes in the shape of a gooey hand or even someone’s face ― whenever she spoke with the dead.

I had so many questions: Could we really come back, even if just for a few seconds, in the form of a mysterious, garbled memo beamed into the head of someone with the ability to pick up these ghostly radio waves, and if so, what would we say? What would it feel like to hear them ― to be reached by someone who had left Earth but hadn’t entirely left their earthly life behind?

Determined to find out, I tried to initiate conversations with spirits in my bedroom before I fell asleep. I’d offer up an open invitation to whoever or whatever might be floating by our house, whispering, “If there’s anyone here who wants to talk to me, I’m listening! Don’t be afraid!”

I was never completely sure if I was trying to convince the ghosts or myself that there was nothing to be afraid of. I didn’t know what I’d do if one actually showed up or, heaven help me, I started dripping ectoplasm from my ears, but it didn’t really matter because I never got a response.

Because I still wanted to be part of this strange, magical world that I hoped but wasn’t entirely persuaded existed, I decided that if I couldn’t be a medium, I would study them, and I wrote to the parapsychology institute at Duke University about my plan. This was the ’80s, years before our culture’s current infatuation with the paranormal, and some sweet research assistant was kind enough to indulge this 10-year-old weirdo by mailing me a few crudely photocopied studies about psychokinesis and remote viewing, none of which I understood.

By the time I got to college, I realized I had no apparent extrasensory abilities and I wasn’t good enough at science or math to earn a spot at a foundation attempting to prove that life exists after death, so I began indulging in my only other option: visiting psychics.

My first experience was at a shop in downtown Minneapolis when I was 18. It had a neon crystal ball glowing in its window and a weathered sandwich board sign offering a $10 reading leaning next to its door. When I finally got the courage to go inside, I found a middle-aged woman chain-smoking at a table crowded with a half-eaten carton of soggy fries, a pack of tarot cards, and a small TV.

She seemed annoyed that I was interrupting the episode of “Oprah” she was watching, but she motioned for me to sit down. After I handed her my money, she asked to see my palm. She looked at it for just a few seconds before warning me that the ghost of an ex-girlfriend was ruining my life. Her voice got lower and quieter as she emphasized how grave my situation was, but she perked up when she told me not to worry — because she could banish the ghost if I gave her another $150. Seeing as I was gay and had never been on date, much less had a girlfriend, I was unimpressed.

Still, I wanted to believe. I wanted there to be something ― someones! ― waiting for us in the great waiting room in the sky. So, I continued to visit psychics throughout my 20s . and I continued to be disappointed. No matter who I met or where I met them, no one ever gave me a reading that felt remotely genuine or accurate or personal. If the dead could talk, they had nothing to say to any of these so-called psychics ― or me.

Then, when I was 28, my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. He had never smoked, he walked several miles a day with his beloved Tibetan terrier, Harry, and he always took a handful of vitamins and supplements with breakfast. He loved his life, his family ― especially my mom ― and his job, and he wanted to live as long as he could so he could enjoy all of it for as long as he could.

Cancer didn’t care.

Within five months, he was transformed from the sharpest, smartest, sweetest man I have ever known into a slobbering, writhing, moaning 80-pound zombie. Four weeks after he became the monster in our very own horror movie, he was dead. I was devastated.

My mom, the toughest woman I have ever known (or will ever know), wasn’t just devastated; she was destroyed. My parents had been together for over three decades and they had the kind of love you’d swear was a sham ― that it must have been engineered in some perky, permanently-Christmas-decorated laboratory deep within the offices of the Hallmark Channel ― because there was no way it could be that pure or unwavering. But it was.

With my dad gone, my mom had no idea how she was going to keep living and, honestly, had no real interest in it, but she clung to my brothers and me and somehow strung one day to the next until they piled up and began to almost resemble something like a life again. But none of us were fooled ― least of all her ― and we knew nothing would ever be the same.

Ironically, I didn’t try to reach my dad after he died. Before his death, my obsession with mediums had been merely theoretical ― a quaint hobby, a low-stakes leisure activity, a fun way to spend 50 bucks on a Saturday afternoon. Now, everything was different.

He visited me in my dreams sometimes, and it was good to see him healthy again ― almost glowing ― in his old body, even if he didn’t say much, but even that was almost more than I could take. Part of me was afraid of what would happen if I tried contacting him and he didn’t show up. Would that mean he was truly gone? That there was nothing waiting for us out there? Or, maybe worse, that he didn’t care enough to come back? Part of me was afraid of what would happen if I tried contacting him and he did show up. Would that mean he wasn’t at peace? And what would he say? Would I want to hear it?

Two and a half years after his death, I was working at a magazine and I was given the opportunity to interview a medium. This man had a reputation for knowing things that people just shouldn’t know, and I was curious to find out if he might actually be able to do the things that so many others claimed they could but couldn’t. We met at a restaurant in Manhattan that was supposedly haunted and filmed a fairly fluffy, lighthearted video about his unusual ability.

The interview went well. The medium was kind and humble and seemed more like a middle school principal than someone who spent his days relaying messages from dead relatives. When we finished, we had lunch together at the restaurant, and after some friendly small talk, he asked me if I wanted a reading.

I was caught off guard. Because I was there for business, not pleasure, and because I knew he charged hundreds of dollars and was booked years in advance, I didn’t think he would offer me a reading. I told him that it wasn’t necessary but he said it was no trouble ― this was just what he did ― and that he’d be happy to show me how it worked. So, I agreed. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t wondering if my dad might show up, but I also didn’t want to get my hopes up.

Whenever I visit a psychic, I always use the same protocol: I don’t provide more information than I need to, I respond with nothing more than a “yes” or “no,” and I’m always on the lookout for questions like, “do you know someone who passed with a name that begins with J or M?” or “did someone die from some kind of disease in their chest?” that are suspiciously vague and could apply to any number of people. I wanted this man to be different from the other mediums I had seen, but I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

He began the reading by telling me there was a short, loudmouthed woman with red hair standing behind me and she was pointing to herself and saying “Ethel.”

“Ethel! Ethel! Ethel! She’s practically yelling it. Is this your grandma?” he asked.

The author's grandparents. The family nicknamed his grandma "Ethel" because she looked so much like Ethel Merman.

My dad’s mom was a short, loudmouthed redhead and she looked exactly like the actress Ethel Merman ― so much so, that we used to call her that. Now, obviously, lots of grandmas are short and have big mouths and some have red hair and some are named Ethel, but the combination of the four together made me wonder if something unusual was unfolding. What’s more, because her name wasn’t actually Ethel ― that was just a nickname my family gave her ― this wasn’t something that this man could have Googled. I told him that I understood what he was saying but didn’t elaborate on exactly what part meant something to me. Still, just 30 seconds in, he officially had my attention.

The next 10 minutes of the reading were a blur of people and events and comments like “there’s someone here who owned a bakery in the ’20s or ’30s and they were known for their little pies.” Since I don’t know much about my extended family or my ancestors, most of it meant nothing to me, but I liked that he was giving me specific details, even if I couldn’t confirm or deny any of them.

Other than the appearance of the woman who might have been my grandma, most of the reading felt like paging through a friend’s photo album or attending a reunion for someone else’s family. A lot of folks I didn’t know were showing up to say hi, none of them had anything they really wanted to tell me, and, most disappointingly, there was no sign of my dad.

Suddenly, the medium straightened up in his chair.

“Oh. There’s a man here with Ethel. I think it’s her son. Does this mean anything to you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I responded, maybe too eagerly.

“Did your dad pass recently, Noah?” he continued.

“I think this is him and he has a message. Do you want to hear it?”

I inhaled sharply and held my breath longer than it wanted to be held.

Could it really be my dad? Could the ghost of the guy who didn’t believe in ghosts or God or heaven or hell or the existence of anything after death except falling into the deepest, darkest, soundest sleep really have whooshed off whatever cloud he’d been sunbathing on and into this little cafe to slip me some secret he hadn’t managed to share while he was still alive? And, if so, what could it be?

“Yes, I want to hear it,” I told him.

“OK. He’s saying this very clearly ― I can hear him very clearly ― ‘Tell Ruth I love her.’”

My entire body went numb. My mom’s middle name was Ruth and even though no one called her that, for as long as my parents had been together, my dad had only ever referred to her as Ruthie. It was stunning, but not at all surprising. If my father were given one more chance to say anything to anyone, this would be it.

“Oh, there’s something else. He wants you to tell Ruth that she can get rid of his ties now. He’s saying it’s time to let them go.”

Again, I was shocked. My dad had been an attorney and he had an incredible collection of neckties. Whenever he’d go on vacation, he’d buy a tie from whatever country he visited and, aside from his watches, which he’d given to my brothers and me just weeks before he died, they were his prize possessions. I also knew that though my dad had died years earlier, my mom still hadn’t been able to get rid of his things.

My brothers and I didn’t push her to, either. We figured there was no harm in our dad’s closet staying full until whenever she was ready ― even if that took another 10 or 20 or 50 years. But here was my dad, my mom’s greatest champion and biggest fan, raising whatever phantom energy he could muster to try to nudge her to something closer to closure. Everything I’d just been told made complete sense ― and it made no sense at all.

The reading ended shortly after that, and I thanked the medium. On my way back to my office, my body thrummed with the energy and peculiarity of what had just happened. I felt like I’d eaten three Thanksgiving dinners and then rode a rollercoaster on repeat for a week. My stomach was flip-flopping, my head was pounding and my heart felt 16 times too big for my chest.

But what, exactly, had just happened? How could this man have known those things? Could he have Googled me and found my dad’s obituary? My mom’s middle name? A photo of my grandma? But what about “Ethel?” And how could he have known about the ties still hanging in my dad’s closet? Did he just guess that, like many lawyers, he had a lot of them and, like many widows, my mom still hadn’t given them away?

I wanted to believe, but I couldn’t shake my skepticism. I’d had too many experiences with too many fakes. Still, I understood why so many people spend so much money on mediums ― often, more money than they should or have to spend. The chance, however slim, to hear from my dad was just too enticing to turn down, and making contact with him, however improbable, had been intoxicating.

I called my mom. I wasn’t sure she would believe what I had to tell her, but I wanted her to hear it.

“Mom, I just finished interviewing that medium and he claims that Dad showed up,” I told her.

“What!” she responded with a mix of incredulity and excitement.

“And he had a message. He said, ‘Tell Ruth I love her.’”

I could hear her begin to cry.

“That’s not all ― I know you haven’t gotten rid of dad’s stuff yet. ”

“Well. ” she said through her tears.

“I didn’t tell you this, but I finally took it all to Goodwill a few weeks ago,” she said.

“Oh . that’s so weird. Because ‘Dad’ wanted me to tell you that you can get rid of his ties. He said it’s time to let them go.”

My mom began to sob.

When she could finally catch her breath, she said, “Noah . the only thing I didn’t get rid of were his ties. They’re still in the closet. I just couldn’t. ”

Now we were both crying.

“I didn’t tell you this, but I finally took it all to Goodwill a few weeks ago,” she said.

He starts talking at an accelerated pace, being unable to control the flow of words, and becomes physically restless, fidgeting and moving around rapidly. The exaggerated physical and verbal behavior becomes the focal point of the sketch. As the sketch progresses, Cheech and Chong use humor and satire to highlight the absurdity and dangers of drug abuse. They emphasize the exaggerated effects of the magic dust, presenting a caricatured portrayal of methamphetamine use and its associated risks. Their language becomes increasingly nonsensical and chaotic, reflecting the disorientation and confusion often associated with drug abuse. Cheech and Chong's Magic Dust sketch is a satirical critique of the glamorization and normalization of drug culture. By using humor and exaggeration, they aim to highlight the potentially harmful consequences of drug use while mocking society's fascination with mind-altering substances. Overall, the Magic Dust sketch serves as a comedic reminder of the importance of approaching drug abuse issues with caution and skepticism. It challenges societal norms and provides a platform for open discussions about the risks associated with drug use. Through their unique blend of comedy and social critique, Cheech and Chong continue to be influential figures in the world of counterculture comedy..

Reviews for "The Spice of Life: How Cheech and Chong's Magic Dust Adds Magic to Your Meals"

1. John Doe - 2/5 - "Cheech and Chong Magic Dust was a disappointment for me. I had high expectations based on their previous work, but this film fell flat. The jokes felt forced and the humor was outdated. The storyline lacked cohesion and the characters were one-dimensional. Overall, I found it to be a forgettable and unenjoyable experience."

2. Jane Smith - 1/5 - "I'm sorry, but Cheech and Chong Magic Dust just wasn't funny. The comedy seemed repetitive and relied too heavily on tired clichés and stereotypes. I felt like I was watching a cheap imitation of their earlier work. The film lacked originality and failed to deliver any genuine laughs. I would not recommend wasting your time on this disappointing movie."

3. Mike Johnson - 2/5 - "Cheech and Chong Magic Dust didn't live up to its hype. The comedy felt forced and fell flat. Maybe it's just not my sense of humor, but I found the jokes to be predictable and lacking in wit. The film tried too hard to be outrageous, but ended up feeling forced and uncomfortable. Overall, I was unimpressed and wouldn't watch it again."

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