As a Washingtonian, I have access to legal weed. I have been to the legal weed store once, it was a bare-bones storefront, with a “greeter” outside the door making sure you understood there were no samples, no returns, cash only, ATM inside. It’s a cottage industry for sure, they have three mis-matched display cases with edibles, smokables, and assorted accoutrement. I dig the tax argument so in fairness I wanted to pay that extra freight in solidarity.
The news about regulating marijuana is good, overall. No widespread stoner-mayhem on the highway; no uptick in toker assaults (although reports of aggressive bro-hugs increased).
Colorado and Washington were always green and clean, when you think about it… of course the idea that there is a beneficial herb growing in our verdant valleys is no surprise. We’ve got that live-and-let-live Western outlook too, pairing nicely with large vistas, mountains and forests. We might be dismissed as hippies but we’ve got the jobs, we’ve got the geography, we’ve got the fresh air. Can’t call it causal but hardly a coincidence.
I do believe that taking pot-crime smudges off people’s permanent records allows them to apply for jobs, and rent apartments, and be productive. Frees crime fighters to fight crimes that hurt people like assault, battery, domestic violence, rape, murder, slaughter.
As other states ponder decriminalizing personal use, I look at it this way: Government should get in to the pot business or out of the liquor business. It’s that simple… weed was misclassified near heroin instead of alcohol. If we’re passing out pills for social anxiety, we have to admit that marijuana is a beneficial herb that helps break negative-neurotic cycles for some people and is no less valid a treatment option. Think eucalyptus, camphor, menthol, other odiferous balms from nature. Think tea leaves and coffee beans and berry juice… we look to nature for comfort and entertainment.
SAMPLE – ROWDIER READERS ONLY
The Stoner memoirs are about pre-legal weed and the freewheeling sexual escapades of a bad boy with good manners.
from Stoner’s Bone of Contention (The Weightless Joint):
Since I knew I’d be stoned at the party, I had grabbed a cab over (to keep crisp) and expected to walk home. It was just a mile along well-lit streets then a quick trip up a side street to my place. Noranna didn’t mind walking alongside me. She opened her jacket, then her blouse, then she unsnapped the front of her bra, while we were walking along the well-lit sidewalks, and I could see her beautiful breasts swinging free. She told me to slide my hand into my pocket and tell her what my dick was doing. I had to confess it was thick, choked up, so she skimmed one hand down the length of my dick but skipped past the balls and reversed up her own torso to cup one sweet breast for me, to offer a piece of herself to me, because she wanted me to have it.
I resisted the impulse to jam my hand into her panties, not something I previously considered as an opening move. She was daring me, double-dog daring me to admit my strong urges. This was all happening fast, from hitting a pipe at a party to diner steak & eggs to her turning the corner to my street and scooping me up against her, my prong trapped between us, her sharp whispers in my ear. What’s hotter than someone surprising you with their confidence that you are a powerful sexual force? You are exactly what they’ve been waiting for. It’s time to bring it.
I don’t need a lot of laws to control my behavior: don’t drive stupid, don’t act stupid, and don’t perpetuate stupid. I don’t need laws against variations of drunk driving, distracted driving, reckless driving… it’s all stupid driving. The stupider the infraction, the more distressing the payback assigned.
Drug laws are no different, too much detail in the no-no-no. If we apply the Stupid Standard, then the drug isn’t illegal, the Stupid is.
I’m a dreamer. I fall asleep against the crisp canvas of my clean sheets, entering the bed from either side, not having a “spot”. The bed is calm and clear and waiting for me, prepared for my return. The body must be at rest for the mind to unlatch and spill its secrets, some riddles are to be remembered, others remain hazy. I can tell I’m reliving primal themes in dreams, our brains demand it, and if not accomplished at night will snatch waking hours mimicking psychosis. I trust myself to shake out the crazies while safely anchored in my nest, cocooned. The overarching image of my deepest dreams contain different places with the same secret room I have seen/experienced but cannot find again. I’m not frantic, I’m sure that room is there, somewhere, and I will find it if I’m faithful to the quest.
I’m always hoping I might have female company in the bed, some lucky confluence of energies engulfed in a pristine backdrop for those tender beginnings. I am concerned about “signals” for the readiness of your partner, and it is for that subliminal assessment that I present the glory of a simply set stage of fresh linen upon which to act. Sex is luxurious and instinctive, it is rutting and roiling, naked (defenseless) enhanced by a clean slate. I prove ready. It takes a whole lot of optimism to prepare for the sublime every single day. It’s well worth it when it works!