Let me start things off on the right foot and say I love ‘stoner comedy’: Grandma’s Boy, Mitch Hedburg, alien posters that say ‘Take me to your dealer’…it’s all brilliant. I can appreciate the distorted thinking, the misplaced priorities, the heightened experience, all of that. Few things make me laugh harder than watching someone take a rip off a big ol’ bong or a comically oversized joint or call 911 because they think their heart is going to explode. There’s something about watching your typical bro inhaling some harsh burnt plant matter ever so gently so as to not disturb his lil’ lung follicles because if he coughs he’ll be branded a ‘homo’ among marijuana circles forever (homosexuals are reknown for their inability to gracefully smoke marijuana). There’s something about someone who hooks a pipe up to a power drill so the smoke shoots effortlessly down your throat that says ‘Hey, innovation is innovation. What did you invent today, dipshit?’ There’s something alluringly juvenile about putting any kind of serious effort into creating an experience that is hours long, creates a bottomless pit in your appetite, and is bound to be forgotten almost by design. Unfortunately, these somethings I may never be able to fully enjoy.
Let’s listen to some rap or hip-hop, whichever you prefer. Everyone is high, all the time. From the guest stars to the clerks down at the rim shop. While I have my initial concerns about what these young men are trying run from with this rampant drug use, I cannot help but feel outrageously jealous these people ENJOY marijuana. When these musicians are in the back of a club passing a joint the size of a baby’s arm or a large penis, they claim this inhalable drug enables them to transform into a barely cognizant stupor, albeit a relaxed one. Being able to ‘hold your smoke’ is a measure of manliness, to have a constitution that will entertain drugs but not allow them to interfere with your ability to maintain an erection or rank your favorite Luiz Guzman movies. It means maintaining control even when half of your bloodstream is THC and bourbon, overcoming the lack of oxygen and nutrients to your brain. Very manly stuff. It is declasse to appear ‘high’ or ‘out of it’ or ‘tripping balls’ or generally exhibiting behavior commonly associated with ‘bitches’. I understand the darwinian attractiveness of someone who remains unfazed by drugs use while also enjoying it, women like a man who can get high and not accidentally sit on a baby or still give them a ride home. Unfortunately, if I smoked marijuana in the back of a club I would probably go in and out of rambling about a movie I saw and order sweet potato fries or complain about how early the kitchen closes. Like a bitch.
There was the time I had finally made my way into a young woman’s apartment and convinced myself a lil’ toke would help set the hazy erotic mood but instead found myself clutching her towels in the bathroom, praying for a quick and merciful death. There was the time I figured in the company of strangers a lil’ toot of weed will make myself more sociable, clearing the passageway for a charismatic and charming public performance, but instead found myself losing all orientation and laid down on the bathroom floor for an hour convincing myself I had early stages of Lou Gherig’s disease. Or the time I took a light hit off a one-hitter and returned to my friends who described my look as ‘death incarnate’, prompting me to take an immediate taxi home without informing my girlfriend. Kiss my ass Steve Miller, this shit is dangerous. Nothing rock n’ roll about having your thoughts overlap and pile up on top of each other until your inner voice is just a siren wailing a stage 5 alarm. Was Steven Tyler smoking the same “tea” I was, which turned everyone in my living room into laughing, pointing skeletons? Maybe.
As I’ve recently relocated to California where medicinal marijuana is widely available, my interest has been renewed due to the wide variety of carefully curated strains that have undoubtedly passed rigorous clinical trials, as opposed to back east, where you smoked whatever someone’s little brother was able to scrounge up on the local market, usually the high school parking lot. Perhaps these new strains would allow me to join the ranks of carefree yet mentally idle youths and finally enjoy sit back and enjoy Adult Swim or Odd Future. I want to finally join the party where people say “Hey, life is full of obstacles and stressful situations that are preventing me from achieving what I want. Give me something that makes me forget these obstacles exist while also diminishing my desire to achieve anything. This two-pronged approach will help me remain sane in an insane world.” I agree the party sounds preachy, but they have plenty of Chex Mix and are crowning the “Hot Kush Girl” winner at 11.
Browsing marijuana catalogues I see the same two words over and over: Indica and Sativa. This sounds latin, people! Or at least something latin-based. And our whole culture is latin or latin-based. It’s like this thing I remember reading in TV Guide, “Until we create a society people would rather participate in rather than escape from, drugs will always remain a problem.“ The Latins obviously never created that society and subcumbed to a drug epidemic that world has not seen since. But this is America (not Latin America), and we can hold our smoke. Except for me.