"IT MUST BE GREAT to be a cannabis columnist!" people often say to me. Yes, it is great. Seventeen-year-old me is tremendously proud. He's also a little disappointed that I never actually became a world-class martial artist who jams with Keith Richards in my off hours, but one step at a time.
There can be a certain degree of anxiety in writing a weekly column—good ideas don't always present themselves. Here's a look behind the curtain at how your Cannabuzz sausage actually gets made.
8:25 am—To get in the right headspace, I smoke some Puna Budder sativa flower from a bong filled with ice water. One of my cats knocks the bong into my lap. This is a rare instance where using cannabis results in a screaming, swearing fit. And now I have a cat who smells like bong water.
8:40 am—I try 9 Pound Hammer, a strong indica, with water-extracted full-melt bubble hash from Lucid Farms. My stress is gone, as is my memory of what I was doing. Oh right—column.
8:45 am—I ask my long-suffering girlfriend if she would read a column about a game I just made up where a group of people who are stoned must shout "Hi!" and wave in unison every time one of them uses the word "high" in a sentence. "Hi!" She stares at me for a long time.
8:46 am—I drop the game idea. Obviously, the problem is that I'm not "in the zone." Nothing some edibles can't fix! I find an unopened Fine and Dandies chocolate bar in my desk, and decide I'll eat a quarter, which is 25 milligrams of THC, a perfect amount to foster creativity.
8:50 am—Or, while reading The Onion, absently eat the entire bar.
10:12 am—Maybe the chocolate bar is faulty. I'm not feeling anything. I do have munchies, which can be treated with these dusty caramels found in the bottom of my briefcase. I'll just have one.
10:15 am—I have just realized several things: (1) The bar wasn't faulty. (2) One caramel turned into three. (3) Those were Genesis Pharms 100-milligram caramels. I've now eaten 400 milligrams of THC. (4) I'm fucked.
10:20 am—I can rescue this endeavor. I just need a big dose of a concentrate! I pull out an enail and proceed to stare at it. Why is this in my hand again?
2:45 pm—It's still in my hand when my girl finds me asleep on the couch. "I'm pretty sure this isn't how James Joyce worked," she says.
3:00 pm—I have eaten every chip, cracker, yogurt, and piece of fruit in the house, along with the better part (fine, the entire part) of a block of cheddar, a one-pound container of olives, and two packages of pita bread. "Maybe you should do a column about how the biggest side effect of cannabis use is gout," my girlfriend says. "You aren't my gout supervisor!" I bleat through a mouthful of marshmallow cream.
4:45 pm—Hit "send." Pure gold.
