Tuesday, June 6, 2017

For Medicinal Purposes Only



As I relaxed in Kristin’s living room, contemplating what mischief we’d get into today, she mentioned that she had to take some of her pain ‘medicine.’ “OK,” I said. “The abolition of pain through FDA approved methods is both ethical and desirable.” She returned with an odd little machine that looked like a cross between a Crème Brule torch and a juice box.

“Woah,” I said, glancing out the window to make sure nobody was watching. “I haven’t seen one of those since coll-I mean, what’s that odd looking contraption?”

“It’s a vaporizer,” she said. That didn’t look like any vaporizer I used on her when she was sick as a kid.

“Oh,” I said. “That’s not what we used to call them.”

“I’ll show you how it works.” She showed me how you put flowers in a chamber and press a button to start a battery powered heater. When the light changes to green you inhale through the little tube. “I think I got that last part,” I said. I’m cool.

“So,” I said. “And where do you get these magic pain killing, herbal daisies?” trying to look nonchalant. I looked at my finger nails.

“Oh, there are hundreds of stores everywhere. And they’ve got everything. Flowers, oils, infused candies. I’ll bring you to one today. I need some more gummy bears.”

“Wow,” I thought. That’s a lot of stuff to set up in an alley behind the abandoned top hat factory. “Do tell,” I said.

“There are many different types,” my education continued. “Flowers for smoking or vaping. Oils for e-cigs. Candies and gummy bears.”

“Brownies?”

“You have to make your own.”

“Bummer, man.”

“Dad! Please.”

“Sorry. I remember I used to-I mean, people used to smoke what they called ‘joints.’ Do they still have those?”

“Oh, sure. But this doesn’t make any smoke.” Good move. You don’t want the dorm hall smelling like an opium den. Then the RA wants some.

She took me to see her dealer. I assumed the ‘I’m cool’ look. Don’t want to look like a narc. “Dad, you’re embarrassing me!” “Sorry.”

She took me to a store downtown. It looked like a head shop. Nice disguise. Noone would suspect. They’d be shocked, shocked to find that drug dealing as going on in here! I remember watching that movie when I was high. They checked ID before letting us in. Luckily I still had my high school fake ID. She checked it while I tried to look older. “State of Connecticut driver’s license!? Is that a real place?” Kristin interrupted. “That’s my dad, he just dropped in from the 60’s.” She bought it.

Inside was a standard looking store. It could have been selling model cars or Cuban cigars. Actually, the cigars would have been illegal. There were glass display cases full of fancy hookahs, pipes, and battery operated gadgets. High tech meets high times. There were chocolate bars, made from 72 percent USDA Organic, Fair Trade cacao.  And plastic bottles full of dried flowers with names like Marley Natural, 9 Pound Hammer, and Blue Dreams. There was Medical Cannabis Amber Mood bath soak. Cherry Bomb Dark Chocolate with Pot Rocks (I would have added Pop Rocks.) And, of course, Hash. We used to put hash on the cigarette lighter. Wait, cars don’t have cigarette lighters any more. Maybe there’s an app for that?

“What’s the best kind?” I asked, bewildered.

“It depends on what you want. Some have more THC and some more CBD.”

“Well, of course,” I said, knowingly… “…What’s that mean?”

“THC gives you the buzz and CBD is the medicinal compound. I use it mostly for pain management. So you look at the percent THC and CBD. Plus some are good for sleeping aids, some for getting high, some are all one or the other.”

I used to prefer watching Star Trek reruns and listening to Dr. Dimento. She gave me some CBD only chocolate on our way home. It took a while, but I think my chronic lower back pain lessoned. It could be just a placebo, of course. The chocolate tasted good. And no grit!

Later that evening she fired up, or batteried up, her bong. “How much do you take?” “About three breaths.” I would have said ‘hits.’ “Inhale about half way.”

OK. Utopia here I come.

It wasn’t exactly as I remember. Back then who knew where the stuff came from or how much oregano was mixed in? Some was home grown from seeds carefully picked from a nickel bag and lovingly planted among the Juniper bushes. It wasn’t that strong and, of course, not regulated. That way you could spend the evening toking on a corn cob pipe and drinking beer to the playful antics of Monty Python. Better living through agriculture.

After a few minutes I started to get a little mellow and a decent buzz. Aches and pains either went away or weren’t a bother any more. The BVD must have been kicking in. Either way is good. I forget what was on TV. The Little Rascals, I suppose.

Suddenly I had the urge to go to a planetarium and make jokes about Uranus until the projector turned into a giant grasshopper and chased us out of time and space. Or go to the beach and eat all the sandwiches there. Get it? Sand-which-is there? I crack myself up.

I got up to go to the bathroom and found myself standing in front of the kitchen sink. I’m glad I realized where I was in time. So I had a glass of water instead. I had pot parched mouth. Do we have any Cheetos? Or corn bread and peanut butter? Spam?

I came back with a plate full of salami and waffles slathered in mustard. “And why do they call them cat fish, anyway?” I extemporized. “Is it because cat’s like fish? Or do fish like cats? Which one is it, huh? Think about it.” I bit off a chunk of chocolate and chugged my Miller.“And pet rocks! What do you feed them? Gravel grits?”

“Where’s that heath kit bong of yours?” I said. “I think I’ve got a backache in my toenail. Better treat it with some ‘medicine.’” Every time a police siren went off I dived under the coffee table. “You sure this part of campus is cool?”

“The cat’s looking at me funny!”

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