I’m So Glad You All Are Enjoying Pot So Much
Recreational marijuana is currently legal in eleven states — including the one I live in — plus Washington, D.C., and Guam. This is great. I hope it spreads to all the rest of the states. I think it was dumb and pointless, expensive and futile, a complete waste of public resources to have ever criminalized pot in the first place.
Our laws would look very different if we banned things on a strictly rational basis, ranked from most harmful to least harmful. That isn’t how we do things, of course. So I’m glad that we at least seem to be coming to our senses about marijuana.
Even so, it’s not for me.
I grew up with the fragrant, familiar aroma of pot all around me. My parents were counterculture back-to-the-land hippies. They smoked pot even before we moved to the Land; they grew it once it felt safe enough to hide a plot on our remote property, even in the days of scary helicopters that would fly over the Mendocino County backwoods looking for pot gardens to burn and hippies to bust.
My dad kept his home stash in a frisbee on the shelf by the cassette tape deck (run by a car battery, as we had no electricity). Stems and seeds and leaves all together, plus rolling papers and matches. I’m sure the adults didn’t just sit around rolling and smoking joints all day long, but I do remember plenty of that. I loved the smell then, and I love it now. I loved how mellow everyone got, and how giggly. How cheerful.
By high school, I had tried pot a few times myself. It didn’t have the lure of the forbidden, the unknown; but I was a teenager and eager to do whatever my friends were doing. Smoking it was all right, though it didn’t seem to do a whole lot for me.
Eating it was terrible. I had a couple of seemingly endless, deeply uncomfortable, almost hallucinatory experiences after pot brownies (which I ate on purpose) and pot-laced spaghetti sauce (which someone had thought was a funny joke to spring on unsuspecting victims).