Stoney Baloney | A Narrated Cannabis Column

Humans have been walking upright for nearly 200 million years. The average life span of a Neanderthal was 32 years. The number of people that have existed over this course of time is, well, a shitload. And through all of that, you are here now. The fact that you are reading this now is proof. Yes, your imagination can do wonderous things but transcend the physical plane of time is not one of them. You have consciousness and you have the body to transport it through this reality, which means you pretty much have what we can assume almost every dead sentient being is no longer experiencing, which is life. There is no life in the past, it doesn’t exist. There is no life in the future, it doesn’t exist. What only exists is this moment right now. And you got it, friend. Mozart is not here now. He lived 32 years. Christ, John Smith, Nefertiti--their energy has manifested into other forms. Yet you still possess the core reactor, that spark that sets the heart pumping nutritious blood to every cell in your body. You are surrounded by skin. The entire thing moves at the will of your thoughts. Isn’t it amazing? And a day will come when you will be gone, and time will roll for another 200 million years plus. You are armed with sensors--nose, ears, eyes, mouth, and skin—everything necessary to flow through this one and only journey. Heaven? You mean there’s something better? I’m not convinced. So, let’s apply our focus to what is tangible because time is precious. And that’s waking up tomorrow after a healing rest for another unfolding day of breathing quality air. And while we’re on the subject--you can’t breathe without lungs. And Cannabis gives those sponges a good Rain-X coating of resin, which is good. Hey, Bob Marley did not die of lung disease. And if it didn’t get him, it ain’t gettin’ nobody.  

Yes, pinky swears are a lighthearted agreement rarely enforced, but we all know that there exists a code with the intention of not being broken. Because in this sue happy world of painful litigation, if we don’t respect the sanctimony of a real deal, then why agree to it in the first place? Locking pinkies is a silly way to execute blood brotherhood without the pricks. And I’m not referring to the kind of pricks who drive BMWs, but the kind you make on your finger by poking it with a needle to draw a drop of blood. I’ve seen blood bonding in movies where two warriors will cement an agreement by slicing a line in their arm before the compulsory forearm broshake, then sealing the bond by wrapping a leather strap. The man love is palpable. In fact, you think they might rub beards.  Either way, the hand is the tool that secures alliances, and the inconspicuous pinky can be the secret weapon of assurance. Sure, most pinky swears aren’t taken seriously, but if we create a legally binding understanding that once a pinky swear is consummated there is no way to overturn it without going to hell, or some shit like that, they can be enforceable. It needs to matter more. Along with saving polar bears. This is good. Because even though the pinky is the runt of the litter, it has plenty of potential. Your ring finger is cool but is basically employed for the purpose of identifying the symbol for a ball and chain called the wedding ring. The middle finger, well, that’s a no-brainer—very useful indeed. The index finger is essential for booger harvesting and pointing at cool shit, which is of great importance. But the pinky has been underrated. Therefore, as unlikely as it is that it will work out, sometimes you’ve just got to see how it goes because it’s the best option available. Kind of like when you’re out of weed, but you’ve got a dirty pipe with a bunch of resin collected in it.     

Make bad decisions. End of story. Well, there’s more actually. See, we all know that It’s difficult to think clearly when gazing through the glowing lens of beer goggles. Because when everything in your periphery is enhanced by fuzzy Glamour Shot lighting, the miscalculation alarm can be severely compromised when your weaker senses are enticed. Suddenly, casting caution to the wind makes perfect sense, and you are down because you’ve just unlocked the jailed trap star who runs the city. That antisocial video gamer who clocked in this morning with a Best Buy name tag just got run over by the tank that is the new confident and boastful Chief Executed Baller. With a couple of shots and a beer satiating the gullet, the amazing new you has emerged. And this dude is a fucking player who struts with swagger and makes the calls, ready to order some rounds and make some forgettable memories. This is the juncture in the evening where terrible ideas become sound opportunities to prove to the world that the tin man just needed a few drops of oil to lube up the joints. A few of these ill-advised decisions include tossing back a fifth shot of Fireball whiskey, doubling up on the stack of waffles, and cranking the ignition on the Hyundai. It all makes beautiful perfect sense. Oh, and hooking up with your childhood bestie. Not all decisions made when drunk are bad, however. The moment you decided to hit a homeless guy’s pinner on the sidewalk after slapping his palm with a twenty spot instead of calling Guido for an eight ball of blow was the best decision you made all week. Thankfully, the evening wasn’t a complete loss.   

There’s not a damn thing wrong with socks. Hell, life without them just wouldn’t be as cozy. In fact, I can’t say that there’s a more soothing sensation than pulling up a brand spankin’ new pair of cotton fluffiness over the feet. It’s a reward for those soldiers, a way of thanking them for taking a pounding and being the trusted vehicles that get you from point P to point Q.  Did you know that your feet are among the heaviest producers of sweat in the body, and socks are there to soak all that up and prevent the scent of cheese from settling into your shoe? I know what you’re thinking, the smell of cheese in your shoes is not Gouda. So, you better Brie ready to head to Monterrey, Jack. Awkward silence. Anyway, we’ve become spoiled. Because socks are now a commodity we take for granted. What was once a true luxury of the bourgeoisie has become a mass produced, commonplace afterthought found on the discount aisle at Marshals. And getting them as a gift almost feels like a gyp. But you can’t blame grandma, her purpose is to keep you clothed and well-souped. Afterall, her grandmother grew up in the Great Depression, so having the ability to provide comfort for her brood is her way of expressing love. And socks have become cool with their graphic prints of Hindu patterns and weed symbols. In fact, socks are a great way to make a statement. And that statement is that you are so fucking fashionable that when it comes to dressing, no stone is unturnt. “And if they think my socks are dope, wait until they get a look at my underwear.” Now, it should be noted that getting socked in the face sucks. Unless It’s with a bag of weed that smells gouda.  

Everyone loves being told they are wonderful. That simple sound of adulation flowing off another person’s tongue can have the most pleasing chemical rush on the brain, pushing the dopamine swiftly to the receptors, instantly unlocking any tension while lifting the corners of the mouth towards the stars, loosening the jaw, and warming the refrigerated heart. Even the prickliest of Ebeneezers loves to hear how wonderful he is, though you know he’s likely to shrug off the compliment as a waste of air if not ventured for profit. Because somewhere in that hardened soul, there lies the need for love and validation that cracks the rigid conditioning of a Victorian rearing which left the child starved for emotional embraces. But as with anything in life that causes one to crave more, adulation can also be a tool for manipulating. Oh yes, many practice the art of calculating compliments to achieve a desired result that ultimately benefits them personally. Some call that laying the frosting on too thick. And no one is not susceptible to sugar. However, if the delivery is not perceived as genuine, the guise can be uncovered, potentially creating an adverse reaction. Most people know when they are being patronized. By the way, this does not apply to Cannabis growers as they all claim to grow the best weed. Tell them that and often they will place a handful of nugs in your possession. Of course, there is no such thing as the world’s best grower because there is literally no feasible way to accurately determine this. But who cares, you’re getting free nugs and logistics are not your problem. It’s called reverse psychology. And you can never be blamed for complimenting growers. Because when it comes down to it, all weed is the best weed in the world if it is the only weed in your possession, especially when it’s free. Or the price of one complement.   

Who doesn’t love tacos? I mean, this juggernaut of Mexican culture easily rivals the hamburger when competing for most delectable item in the food pyramid. And whether you like your fillings grilled, deep fried, or sauteed, there is only herding the ingredients into a tortilla and wrapping that baby up to convert your hand into a flavor shovel of extreme awesomeness! Think about it. Tuesday would be Bluesday if not for the amazing taco. And not just because the two are alphabetically compatible, but because tacos are so damn cheerful, they turn an ordinary meal into a downright fiesta. And with the deliciousness well in hand, all you need is a bottle of to-kill-ya to quickly transform a mundane weekday into a Satur-type-day? So vamanos on those happy hour Margaritas amigo, because we’re going to need some tang to punctuate the party. Tacos aren’t just yummy for the tummy; they give the meal personality. It’s the rare food item that can relocate your dinner table to a barstool smack dab in the middle of a pinata filled cantina. Suddenly you’re stoned on some pressed brick weed surrounded by a handful of gleeful hombres with frilly tuxedos and giant sombreros strumming guitars, squeezing accordions, and singing like angels and you’ll swear you’ve been transported somewhere south of the border. Every country has their own version of a taco, right? Poland has the pierogi, Italy has the pizza, and Israel has the falafel. And the United States has the taco pizza. Back to the food pyramid. I wonder if that originated in Tenochtitlan. That’s where they used to conduct human sacrifices. Those were some evil bastards. But then, they didn’t have Cinco de Drinko.   

The brain needs oxygen so the body yawns. And upon rising from the pillow one overcast morn, there was a gurgled effect and a peculiar pitch out of the mouth that seeded my core with suspicion. Oddly, it resembled an anxious Chewbacca sending a ‘let’s get the fuck outta here’ to his not so trusted friend Han Solo who invariably induces motion sickness from the erratic movement of dodging asteroids to the smell of burnt Wookie dingleberries from laser beam near misses. I panicked. Had some strange transformation occurred whilst asleep? There was no extraneous fur growing on my body, no foul breath that resembled the remnants of fried Grantaloupe innards, or any other traits of a Chewbacca for which I should be deeply concerned. There must have been in a crazy dream before lucidity resurfaced, so the anxiety began to fade. Nightmare averted. But there is another species of Wookie—sort of the human version of that Sasquatch’s buzzin’ cousin from another mother. Generally unclean, extremely hairy, and housing silver dollar sized earlobe gauges, their look is that of having stolen tapestries from an eastern European gypsy bordello and fashioned the material into pants. You see and smell them at heady Cannabis events toting their wares in a pelican case. I sniffed the underarms, and it was not good. Had I transformed? Was it Freaky Friday? Jumping out of bed, I immediately made a terror run for the mirror where a thorough inspection was in order. The hair was studied for any new emerging dreads, the mouth for any new sores, and the face for any remnants of crumbs in the patchy facial hair. Nope, it was the same dude that passed out drunk the previous night in the middle of the original Star Wars trilogy. So, I relaxed and took a dab, clutching my stuffed Princess Kneesaa Ewok toy that brings me comfort in moments of reality.   

I’ve got a secret for anyone paying attention. So long as you’re alive, you’re always going to be dealing with complications on some level. Yes, sometimes more than others, but there is no avoiding the hard cold fact that there will never be a day when you don’t have to generate a solution of some sort. It’s true. You’ll never be challenge free at any point in your life. And as you resolve things, there will inevitably be fresh obstacles to overcome. That’s actually not a secret at all. Finding weed used to be a big problem. Like, there were times when we stoners were willing to put life and livelihood at great risk just to get a THC fix. And rightfully so—for those who crave the pleasurable acuity that this consummation of Phyto cannabinoids attached to the endocannabinoid receptors invokes, nothing compares. Not one drug in the world, plant derived or synthesized, can replicate the unusual, yet natural euphoria gained from using Cannabis. It’s like a friend. You have a relationship with it. You smile when you think of her. It is love. So anyway, you pretty much trade one obstacle for another. Be it drugs, or logistics, or bills, or partners, there will always be at least one situation in need of your resolve. And money doesn’t fix everything, either. I know this. Not because I have a surplus cashish, but because I’ve never met someone wealthy who wasn’t wearing something of a heavy crown. And in case you’ve been sleeping under a rock, the problem of finding weed has been resolved. And weed can put you in an introspective place of humility, patience, and gratitude, which is the mindset for solving those other seemingly difficult dilemmas. So, get stoned. Because chances are the problem only exists in your head. By the way, I publish a weed magazine. So, I do have a surplus of hashish.  

No matter how well you take care of your body, gravity will eventually pull you back to earth to be reclaimed by the soil. And although very smart people on this planet have developed stunning scientific methods to prolong the everlasting blink, when your train is whistling into the station, you’ll need to politely disembark to clear space for new passengers. This is the end of the line--no pill, no surgery--no more birthdays. But you can’t be mad. Being atop the food chain doesn’t mean you live forever, just that you live well longer. In fact, you’ll most likely dwell here about five times longer than the average caveperson ever did, so be grateful that you don’t have to be worried about being eaten by a razor-toothed land shark. That poor hairy dude didn’t have a gun, a car, or an electric razor--much less a Home Depot. Yes, there are clams that live over 500 years and there are some trees that live thousands of years. But for you, large brain or not, 120 loops around the glowing orb are what you get--give or take a decade or ten depending on how well you attract lightning. And that’s a generous estimation, mostly reserved for women living on some isolated island in Japan or Italy with simple diets and a daily glass of vino, sequestered from the instant gratification society of processed foods and secondhand smoke.  So, as there’s no denying that some people have temporarily circumvented death. But as there are clever roundabouts and shortcuts en route to your final destination, the tick of the almighty timepiece will eventually come to a halt. And when that clock finally stops, let’s hope it gets stuck on 4:20. Afterall, the best way to go is up in smoke.   

The finger reaches into the hole. And why not? Although this appendage often sits idle, like an old motor, it is a tool best maintained with regular use. And as the subconscious wanders into aimless thought while tediously inching through rush hour traffic, the instinct directs the fingernail toward an accessible area of the anatomy in need of grooming. Sure, this exercise serves some low-level maintenance to the nostril, but at the same time there is an element of achievement in withdrawing that coagulation of dirt and snot from the inverted cavern as if excavating something valuable. Like a gold nugget.  There’s a reason why they call it digging for gold instead of digging for coal, you know. And it’s because of this sense of reward by producing something that is sustainably harvested and interesting to look upon. You’ve manufactured a prize from your own body. A toy of sorts. Something to play with by rolling it between the fingers to create the perfect little musket ball for the most accurate flick. Or maybe you didn’t roll it at all, but slid it off the flat mantle like a shifted tectonic plate, with the intention of sailing it into the distance in hopes for a good twist in trajectory, as if whirling a frisbee into the warm summer air. You find value in this lone confetto—a personal token of celebration for the miracle of life. And this is the proof that you are alive. A booger, however immaterial it may seem, is of the highest significance. It is there to remind you that the system is fully functional--that the body is in pure working form, curing itself, keeping you optimal--a true symbol of your existence. You have spent countless hours over the course of your life with these little treasures, having grown accustomed to the daily practice of preening. In fact, it could be argued that this was the precursor to learning how to roll a joint. Or pinching a nug.  

Discussing urine sounds disgusting. Afterall, what we’re referring to is liquid waste that is excreted from your body. And it’s generally yellow. If you’ve taken your vitamins, that is. But when you really break it down, it’s just water that regulated your system so that it functions optimally. And the facts are that urine is about 95 percent clean. So clean that some people drink it. And are proud of it. Let’s not get into why, but the question must be asked--what is this fascination with reclaiming the holy water that once flushed your machine? Like, once you’ve drained the oil on the Lambo, you wouldn’t pour it back in.  Evidently there are reasons. And I don’t have the answers. I remember in the 5th grade there was a multiple-choice question on a test that inquired what the best chance of survival is if you were to be stranded on a life raft at sea. One of the choices was to drink your own urine, which no kid in the classroom chose out of absolute repulsion. The correct answer, no more appealing to a ten-year-old, was to kill a seagull and drink its blood. Which makes sense. If you can catch a fucking seagull. Good luck with that one. So, the urine could save your life. Especially if it smelled like fish because you’d be making your living off scooping minnows. I was thinking that if you urinated on some part of the boat and let it fester in the sun, most likely a seagull would land, and that’s how you could catch it. Sorry for the details, but as you can see my educators prepared me for survival and I’ve been traumatized by this one for decades. Anyway, back to drinking pee. They say if you eat asparagus your urine will retain the flavor and there are connoisseurs who savor this taste. I wonder if that works with infused drinks. Only if you’re a Cannaseur.   

I’m going to be the voice of reason right now by telling you that you gotta get your cardio in. That’s just how it is. You see, the reason we have bodies at all is because gravity pulls matter toward the earth and your muscles have developed into what they are today because of that resistance which forces you to battle against that incessant tug. Honor your space suit. You are consciousness in this rare form for an allotted time and then it’s over. On to another manifestation of energy. So, get it while you can. No one’s ever come back from the dead last time I checked. Once it’s over it’s over. Done. Goner. Adios amigo. Stardust, Baby. Bottom line is to keep moving or the inertia will creep on you like a good Girl Scout Cookie. Not the cookie that helps teach young girls to hustle, but the strain that makes you want the cookie. Because if you refuse or are not capable of making rapid movement to the point of increased breathing, these parts will rust and decay. In time, the energy of your atoms will slowly meld into another form, which is cool and all, but that form will not be the amazing you. And we want the amazing you. You want the amazing you. Use it or lose it, Champ. That is unless you like the movie Wall-e so fucking much that your ideal life is to be rollin’ in a motorized Lazy Boy drinking smoothies all day in a star sailing metropoliship. I mean, that looked pretty chill for a minute, but ultimately, we want challenges that test our mental and physical fortitude, leading to improved self-actualization. So, that little devil sitting on your shoulder who tells you to finish that tub of ice cream when you know you should be getting in your steps? Tell him to quit smoking all your weed because it leads to the munchies. It’s entirely his fault. That little fucker.  

When venom is coursing through your embroiled veins, it feels good to let out an exultant fuck. In fact, you would be hard pressed to find any single word in the English language so versatile. Call us unrefined, but when you have such an effective expression that is so interchangeable simply by the tone and cadence with which it is spit, why reach into that bag of expletives for anything else? With fuck as the signature example, swear words can be some of the most impactful of all expressions—the exemplary embodiment of absolute emotion. They are the sprinkles to your sentences. The punctuation of your pronouns. The gravy on your mashed potatoes. And when you study how we might’ve arrived at this era of artful articulation, it seems plausible that this breakthrough gained momentum when the 1940’s war children came of age a decade later. After having their mouths washed out with soap enough times in the cookie cutter order of row housing, they grew weary of the conservative austerity it took to defeat the Nazis, ready to adopt their rock and roll identity--ripe for a cultural rebellion. And rightfully accentuated by bad words in back alleys with cuffed jeans and cigarette fueled observations.  If you think about it, language is a peculiar vehicle for communicating. And since the advent of our grunts toward a more competent connection, shunned words have had a place on the periphery of the dictionary. And when it comes to the word fuck, why would you insulate the remark that pinpoints your fiery feelings when it specifically flavors your fervor? Doesn’t It feel liberating to let it out. Just like a giant, breathy bong toke.  

Ladies, you’ve got it all figured out. All Hell could be breaking loose, but so long as you’re armed with that imperative satchel that keeps your vitals accessible, you’ll always be ready for the world. This is your most necessary accessory, accentuating the confidence that proves you’re an irreplaceable bad ass. And one purse is not enough. Only one cannot ensure your command of any room’s attention. Because with reasons and seasons in constant flux, your ability to adjust to any given outing is critical for your interchangeable persona that presents your unavoidable qualities to the scrutinizing public. In your woman cave, there hangs the quiver of handbags that typify extensions of your character--different exciting versions of you that either offer cohesion or contrast with the varying surroundings. Sometimes you will blend, other times create distinction to an otherwise bland landscape. Either way, these carryalls help you to turn super into superlative. And when it’s time to turn things up, like the stitching in and of itself, your look is seamless. It is usually with great intention that this wing-thing is chosen, as if each was specially designed for your evolving moods. It exemplifies your womanly power, completing the statement that you’re always intending to make. It is the cherry that perfects the sundae. The rabbit in the moon. Mona Lisa’s smirk. Like her, you hold your mysteries close. And should anyone attempt to ambush you into divulging the wonderous secrets that are yours alone, the lips will slightly pucker while the stunned onlooker futilely wonders how to tap the hidden spring that spouts your charm. What lies inside this clutch is part of that mystery--the perfect shade of lipstick, the dramatic mascara, a feminine product. But almost more importantly, the cartridge of vaporizable oil which lights the wick to the roman candle that explodes into the eager night, sprinkling your unique stardust into the otherwise flat black sky.   

No matter how well you take care of your body, gravity will eventually pull you back to earth to be reclaimed by the soil. And although very smart people on this planet have developed stunning scientific methods to prolong the everlasting blink, when your train is whistling into the station, you’ll need to politely disembark to clear space for new passengers. This is the end of the line--no pill, no surgery--no more birthdays. But you can’t be mad. Being atop the food chain doesn’t mean you live forever, just that you live well longer. In fact, you’ll most likely dwell here about five times longer than the average caveperson ever did, so be grateful that you don’t have to be worried about being eaten by a razor-toothed land shark. That poor hairy dude didn’t have a gun, a car, or an electric razor--much less a Home Depot. Yes, there are clams that live over 500 years and there are some trees that live thousands of years. But for you, large brain or not, 120 loops around the glowing orb are what you get--give or take a decade or ten depending on how well you attract lightning. And that’s a generous estimation, mostly reserved for women living on some isolated island in Japan or Italy with simple diets and a daily glass of vino, sequestered from the instant gratification society of processed foods and secondhand smoke.  So, as there’s no denying that some people have temporarily circumvented death. But as there are clever roundabouts and shortcuts en route to your final destination, the tick of the almighty timepiece will eventually come to a halt. And when that clock finally stops, let’s hope it gets stuck on 4:20. Afterall, the best way to go is up in smoke.   

We all know the 10-second rule. When you drop a piece of food, if you pick it up within ten seconds you have beaten the decomposition clock, essentially rescuing the item from the armies of crazed little germs that lie in waiting for food fumbles. In your mind’s eye, these microscopic creatures are blood thirsty vampires, lurching, smothering it with toxic juices and dripping fangs, rendering your Funyun a potential risk to your body’s wellness. Your taste buds, however, may not excuse your blunder. There is not a moment to waste for the fast action determination that will either land that flavor into your mouth, or sadly litter the ground with another dead soldier. This is a decision factored on the intensity of your saliva, painfully anticipating the explosive zest while the impatient clock races to the point of no return.  You grow weary of your surroundings, weighing the risks of irreparable illness, or judgement from any onlooker within eyeshot. Do you forego the hazards and redeem the gaffe, or exponentially enhance the chance that a frenzy of multiplying bacteria could foster an unpronounceable condition?  Tick, tick, tick. You’re down to 007.  You stare upon it, frazzled by the dilemma. This is an exceptional onion flavored ring, and you are not one to waste tasty salt. The forehead begins to bead. Slow motion ensues. There is a finite number of Funyuns in existence and this one is yours. You put the fun in Funyun. You reach down and pinch the item with two fingers, brush any dirt across your jeans, inspect it momentarily, then hammer into the crunchiness with a shear jaw clamp. You chew and finish. You do not lick your fingers this time but wipe the hand on your jeans and go about your extremely busy day. In this unpredictable world where the strong survive, acquiring good food comes with challenges, and you are not one to be wasteful. Besides, those little critters are pure protein. Kind of like a ladybug on a blooming nug of weed.  Not that you would ever eat one. Unless of course it came after your Funyun.

Remember that movie where the guy is dying of thirst in the desert, and he keeps thinking that he sees water up ahead, but it’s only a mirage? Well, that is what your brain is doing when it tells you that if you drink more alcohol, you’ll feel better. And be more amazing. And be a more amazing singer. You know how it works; the progression casually begins on Friday happy hour with a beer and a shot just to take the edge off, a reward for the tempest of horseshit you weathered all week. Then things turn professional with more pints before throwing all caution to a stiff cocktail wind with the kind of reckless abandon that involves consecutive rounds of mystery shots with trendy names followed by hard high fives and puckered faces. Inevitably, the evening will wind down with a large Mojito and another beer that goes half-drunk before the proverbial white bar nap gets hoisted in staggering surrender. Your mind, body, and spirit are separate entities now, clashing like titans, fueled by a paradoxical lather of physical imbalance and a false sense of mental fortitude. With your better sense of rationale completely disregarded and your level of sobriety stubbornly defended, you’re in no position at this point to make calculated decisions. Like whether to invest the $43 for an Uber ride home or drive yourself. Or whether to provoke an argument with another drunk person or your significant other. Or whether to provoke an argument with your drunk significant other. Or whether it’s a good idea to eat. And eat a lot. This is called the Drunchies. Be it the Denny’s Grand Slam loaded with maple syrup and a banana split chaser, a Super-Sized Big Mac Meal accentuated by dubious packets of ketchup and a crushed Oreo McFlurry, or a fully loaded bacon-wrapped street dog, a liquor-induced feeding frenzy is a recipe for a boiling volcanic cauldron. Note:  Under no circumstances should this condition ever be misconstrued with the munchies. Unless you’re cross-faded.  

Back before the millennium, there was a Tao of everything. There was a book called The Tao Of Pooh, and even a movie called The Tao Of Steve. Never had the West been so interested in Eastern culture as America fused the secrets of the Orient with other crazes of the modern era. Suddenly, trends like Kung Fu and Kawasaki were riding shotgun with Mullets and the Macarena. Many faded, and others have stayed. No need to explain which. But somewhere along the silk road to culinary exploration, we really screwed the panda by adopting Kimchi and Sushi over one of the most flavorful, colorful, reasonably priced surprises the foodie world has ever ladled. But now Pho is having its day, getting deserved recognition while growing in popularity with every noodle slurped. Pho is very hip right now; it has a likable image. It’s trending, like a catchy comedian, an underground rapper with a mix tape, or a killer series on Netflix. You mention Pho, and people act like you have the password for a super exclusive VIP party. You can use it instead of the word Fuck, and nobody criticizes you for stealing a stale joke. Instead, they wink and acknowledge that you’re in the know. So why in the world would you not like Pho? It is awesome because it comforts you like a woobie. It makes you feel relevant by always being a hot friend who accepts you. You know what, that would be badass if they named a Cannabis strain called Pho. I mean, why not? They have a strain called Purple Monkey Balls. It could be the new Tao of Pooh. The Dab of Pho. It would be phomiddable!

Leaving Las Vegas is like coming down off cocaine. It sucks. Well, probably because you are coming down off cocaine. Because there’s nothing fun about returning to your mild-mannered desk job after getting a taste of what it’s like to be a rock star. In fact, no one ever said, “Thank God that’s over, now I get to go back to my accounting firm.” Ok, maybe someone did say that. Like, an accountant who unexpectedly got fast tracked into a frenzied post-Spearmint Rhino bacchanal. And it scared him. Because no one should paddle into Bonzai Pipeline if they haven’t first learned how to stand up on a surfboard. Is there anything more punishing than the reality bite of seeing that skyline shrink in the distance through the small airplane window? It’s as if you’ve just had a chunk of your soul grizzled out by a werewolf. However, unlike the mythical creature, you unfortunately won’t be morphing into one with the next full moon to devour fleshy tourists gorged on gargantuan buffets and Yardaritas. Nothing fun like that. Instead, you’ll die a slow, excruciating death from the bite. For the next 2 days, that is, until the liver has a chance to breathe again. Of course, it might be different if you’re headed back to normalcy with bulging pockets after crushing it at the tables, but that’s never happened to me. Or anyone I know. Well, that’s not exactly accurate. I have friends who have won money in Vegas, but they generally won’t include an excel spread sheet detailing the losses incurred leading up to those rare moments of dopamine filled glory. And it is those losses that keep the casino lights on, the air cool, and the carpet confusing. But if gambling is the driving force of Vegas’ success, I wonder what affect the new consumption lounges will have on Sin City. Because embarking on a strip search for the Great Pyramid, the Eiffel Tower and the Big Apple can be a dangerous lure with a belly full of Redbull and vodka, but Blue Dreaming can create a completely different course for a city built on bad decisions. Can Cannabis kill Vegas?  

Alexander the Great, what a fucking name! But how much do you actually know about him? Sure, he was a successful conqueror and all, but how successful do you have to be in your lifetime, or how many asses do you have to whoop, to deserve the title “the Great”? I mean, a guy can call himself that all day long, but for other people to do it and do it for a couple thousand years and counting, he has got to be one hugantinormous gangsterlicious Championshipism. And I say “guy” because women aren’t nearly as ridiculous as men. In fact, only a guy would use the term “hugantinormous gangsterlicious Championshipism.” Now, there are extraordinary people to whom the title “The Greatest” has been applied when alluding to their craft. Like Michael Jordan, the greatest basketball player; Marlon Brando, the greatest actor; Babe Ruth, the greatest baseball player. But how influential do you have to be to be called, or to call yourself, “The Great”? It’s equivalent to being named the greatest of the great. If you read the history books, they’ll tell you that Alexander the Great never lost a battle, that he was a military mastermind, one of the most influential people that ever lived. But I think it is safe to say that Mozart never wrote a shitty tune. And Nabisco never made a shitty cookie. So then, is it plausible to agree that greatness is entirely in the eye of the perceiver? That the title is completely subjective to where and when that person lived and what they did to gain notoriety? And that while people will boast of their own greatness, like every cannabis grower claims to grow the greatest weed, the validity of the claim is proven only with time. By the way, the best weed in the world is the weed that is sitting in your pipe.