I’m So Glad You All Are Enjoying Pot So Much
But I’ll stick with my wine, thanks
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.
Yes, I know it’s not utterly harmless. But neither are lots of other legal things, like sugar and cars and alcohol and oh yeah what about guns.
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.
