Common Sense for Drug Policy
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Common Sense for Drug Policy |
Your Highness
Some Notes on Enjoying Marijuana
(Part 4 of 4) by Gary Stimeling
Copyright 2004 Psychotropics Cornucopia, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
Side Dishes
Besides their favorite route of administration, many people have favorite accompaniments to cannabis. Throughout the world, many like to mix it with tobacco. Besides extending the supply and helping the weed stay lit, it adds the effect of nicotine, a drug that some fine pleasurable. Others, like myself, get nothing from it but a headache like a bare light bulb burning in the middle of the brain.
A small amount of opium, as in Nepali temple ball hashish, accentuates the sleepy, dreamy aspect of Cannabis indica, and tones down the stimulation of sativa varieties. A touch of alcohol can also offset too much spaciness with a bit of grounding. In Harlem in the Thirties, this combo was “a pigfoot and a bottle of beer.”
On the other hand, a line of cocaine or a dose of caffeine can counteract the sleepiness that some people feel after smoking weed. For them, a cup of coffee with a bonger is the perfect way to start the morning or the evening — not too tired, not too wired. Turkish coffee is another way of doing this:
Serve strong, hot, black coffee with the grounds, in a demitasse cup. Add a spoonful of honey and ½ to 1 gram of crumbled hashish. The hash will melt and sink to the bottom with the grounds and some of the honey, which aids absorption of the THC. After sipping the coffee, eat the sweet sludge at the bottom of the cup.
Naturally processed chocolate, like the new high-test brands being offered in health food stores, makes an excellent complement to marijuana. Not only is it a sensual munchie treat in itself, but also it contains small amounts of compounds that bind to the body’s receptors for anandamide, the internal cannabinoid hormone. Thus it augments the high to some degree, in addition to the mild stimulation from its theobromine, a caffeine-like alkaloid.
Peppermint tea gives a gentler stimulation than coffee and is a favorite adjunct in much of the Arab world. Another common hash-smoker’s cup is made from 3 parts mint, 2 parts black tea, and 1 part hibiscus flowers.
Pot smoking can be hard on the throat, so soothing herbs and nutrients are in order. Lozenges of zinc and vitamin C taste terrible but work well and help prevent infectious sore throat from a scorched mucous membrane. Demulcent or expectorant herbs like licorice, marshmallow, anise, slippery elm, honeysuckle, horehound, and mullein are good for this purpose, especially if combined with a healing aromatic or astringent like mint, thyme, sage, rosemary, blackcurrant leaves, or raspberry leaves.
Marijuana is great for hot afternoons because it can lower body temperature by two degrees or more. Smoking it makes you thirsty, though. So it’s not surprising that cold drinks and slurpy fruits are perhaps the best complement of all. Effervescent vitamin C drinks like Emergen-C® are superb thirst quenchers. Pineapple, watermelon, lemonade, the wonderful Italian almond soda called orzata, or some orange or grapefruit juice diluted with seltzer — all are good choices. But if you live near an Indian or Latino neighborhood you’ll be able to find the best one of all: a cup of fresh-squeezed sugar cane juice. Aromatic cane and sweet cane seem to have been made for each other.
Safety First
Behind the oh-so-genteel verbiage of their lies and laws, dope bigots issue the Inquisitor’s brutal challenge: “If you defy the wisdom of our ignorance, we will destroy your life.” I’ll never forget an episode of Cops in which a planeload of narcs were pursuing some pot smugglers flying low over a forest with their lights off on a moonless night, somewhere in the southern states. Eventually the fleeing pilot hit the top of a tree in the dark and crashed in a fireball, milked in the show’s usual style for the presumably self-righteous viewer. What sticks in my mind is the murderous glee in the narrating cop’s voice as he chortled to his base commander, “They’ve crashed! We have fatalities! We have fatalities!”
Of course, in most situations for the average toker, the stakes don’t get quite that high. Still, cannabis has a metaphysical way of attracting trouble, even on a small scale. It creates a sort of magic circle, a trouble-free zone — a trouble vacuum, so to speak. Naturally, trouble abhors this vacuum and flows in from the outside world to fill it. That’s why it so often happens that, just as you’ve finished a bowl, something happens. Maybe the lights go out, there are no spare fuses, the corner hardware store closed five minutes ago, and the thought of a trip to Wal-Mart makes you want to vomit. Ah well, candles are romantic, and if you’ve chosen your venue and activity with care, it’s usually no worse than that. My point is this: Don’t give that trouble vacuum a chance to attract big trouble in the form of a chortling officer.
Driving is one of the worst things you can do when stoned. Yes, I’ve heard it said that tooling zonked through the Nevada desert at 185 with a brick on the accelerator is an experience not to be missed. And yes, if someone has to get to a hospital, you can come down and do it. A couple of multivitamins will help. Ignore the taste and chew them for faster absorption.
And yes, studies of performance under actual road conditions [see the Research page] show that driving stoned is much less hazardous than driving drunk. But that doesn’t mean it’s safe. Drunk drivers tend to take more risks than when sober, while high drivers tend to take fewer. Andy, briefly a roommate of mine back in the Sixties, once had to drive home on Los Angeles highways just as the three—or was it five?—brownies (and the Kool-Aid) he’d had at the Acid Test were peaking. Sure enough, comes the siren and flashing red light in his rearview mirror.
“I’m sorry, officer. I didn’t realize I was speeding.”
“Speeding!? Buddy, I clocked you at 13 miles an hour.”
Andy managed to convince the guy he was just nervous from his first time on the freeway.
But that still doesn’t mean it’s safe. It’s way too easy for even an experienced user to suddenly forget which color means “stop,” to misjudge a turn, or at least miss an exit. Please, you owe it to yourself, your passengers, others on the road — hell, you owe it to me, you owe it to the cause of legalization: Pick a designated driver, or wait it out.
Ah, but life could be easy on the outskirts of civilization in those halcyon days of yore. A friend of mine was reminiscing about his college days in St. John’s, Newfoundland, in the early Seventies. Dealers unloaded from trawlers, on the public docks, weighed and bagged in the yearbook office, and spread out their wares on tables in the school cafeteria. Kids went home to their fishing villages and shared the herb with their parents, who’d say, “Well, this is nice. Let’s grow some.” No one had told them yet that marijuana was the devil with a green dress on.
But I digress. Must be something in the air. We can’t afford to let our attention wander just yet. The first step in using marijuana safely is scoring without tears. Unless you have a Victory Garden, there are a few simple rules to keep in mind at all times:
$ First choice is always to buy from a dealer you know, or through a trusted friend. Seek out worthy acquaintances and cultivate a reputation for discretion. A good dealer is like a secret lover. “God bless the child who’s got his own.”
$ If you must rely on the street, your first task is to find the market. In an unfamiliar city, this may not be easy. Lunchtime, quitting time, and early evening are best. Vest-pocket parks with shaded benches, areas around libraries and colleges, midtown side streets near bus stations, especially streets with alleys and recessed doorways, are just a few of the possibilities. Wear comfortable shoes. You may have to do some walking, and your chances are better if you look relaxed. Like lovers, dealers seldom go for someone who looks desperate. There is rarely an open-air market in a town of less than a few hundred thousand population. It just doesn’t have the critical mass.
$ Spend some time scoping out the scene before making a move. Caution is the watchword everywhere, but it’s crucial in the more fascist jurisdictions. The same buy that gets you a $5 ticket in Ann Arbor could get you life in parts of Texas. So sit on a bench and read a newspaper. Observe who takes care of business quietly and efficiently. Avoid loudmouth pushy types who attract attention. Try to follow a few customers at a discreet distance to make sure they don’t end up busted a few blocks away, or cursing a burn artist who flashed the weed and passed the oregano. If the action is in a park, circle around and explore the underbrush. The buzz-cut guy in the nylon windbreaker with the binoculars who looks like he’s getting ready to masturbate is probably a cop planning to jerk you around.
Often you won’t have to do anything. A legit dealer will instantly pick you up on his radar and begin deciding by your demeanor whether you’re a narc, a busybody, a bystander, or a potential customer. If you show interest don’t come on too eager, he’ll usually drift over to ask the all-important question: “Smo’?”
$ Never use a vehicle for the first connection. Cops just love an extra car.
$ As in love, the first time is always nervous-making. You’ll both want to get away to be sure you haven’t been stung. Just quickly ask his schedule and split. But not so fast. Narcs are expert at picking up on that bouncy “leaving-the-set” walk. Easy does it.
$ Even then, quick thinking may be called for. A friend of mine was driving away with his quarter when the red light and bullhorn appeared behind him and ordered him to pull over. Luckily he was on a crowded commercial strip in Florida. Instead of stopping there, he turned onto the first side street and was able to flip the bag out the open passenger-side window into thick brush during the few seconds when he was out of the cop’s headlights. If at all possible, have an “exit strategy” in mind.
Later on, especially if your guy isn’t carrying felony weight on his person, it’s okay to schmooze a bit. Many street dealers are fascinating conversationalists, since their work forces them to be supremely observant and good judges of character. It was a privilege to smoke with Flaco and learn some of the tells by which they recognize a narc — the paralysed eyes, the air of predatory invincibility he can’t quite hide, the out-of-place touches of grunge to spruce up the costume, the cigarette pack he never takes out of his shirt pocket because it’s a radio. He said he half-closes his eyes for a while, unfocuses them a little, and judges whether the person still looks right. He said that’s especially important with women. Otherwise it’s too easy to trust her attractiveness and miss a female narc. Only then….
“Looking for something?”
It was heartwarming to walk awhile with Jackson or Eduardo and glimpse the network of honest streetfolk (cabbies, hot dog men, messengers, shopkeepers, pedestrians) who warn them about police movements and new videocams so as to keep them safe. The Cannabis Intelligence Agency. Then how sweet to lean back and watch the hurrying passersby get mesmerized into slow motion, frozen in rapture by the melodies of Ronaldo, a guitarist who used to work the Forty-Second Street side of the New York Public Library with his cheesy pawnshop amp and genius fingers.
It was a rare pleasure to share a taste of Gregory’s gold, hear some Weather Report from his Walkman, then breathe in some of his encyclopedic knowledge of jazz while he pointed out the local undercover and greeted his regulars on the lunchtime shift in Central Park.
Likewise it was my good fortune to sit on a standpipe while Garfield, between customers, taught me of the kanabos incense in Solomon’s temple, the anointing oil and the herbed wine, and other lore of the Ethiopian Zion Coptic Church, whose members saved traditions from the Egyptian Book of the Dead and the Apostle Mark, collected in their own scriptural Bandlet of Righteousness, preserved through Christian and Muslim persecutions, handed down via Jamaica to the inflections of his own gentle voice on 38th Street, wondering why peaceful pleasure terrifies some people so.
One and all, thanks for disproving every stereotype about your much maligned trade. ’Twas an honor to have made your acquaintance.
But I digress. Must be something in the air.
Still gotta keep your eye on the ball, and look out for your safety while in the act of turning on. So burn that stick of incense. Light that decoy cigarette, and keep it ready to raise casually to your lips when the Man (or Woman) suddenly appears round the corner. Well landscaped city parks abound in suitable spots screened by foliage. Scope out your favorite alleys, doorways, alcoves. Smile, you’re on Candid Camera. There’s a nice Chinese restaurant vent fan outlet behind the dumpster. (Ethyl mercaptan can be your friend. That’s the odor of rotting meat, probably the strongest of all odors.) Master the art of palming the joint inside your cupped hand so you can raise your hand to your mouth as though blowing on it to warm it in the frozen winter air while actually inhaling from it. Woodwind players with the knack of circular breathing can do both at the same time. I’ve seen guys palm a lit joint in their pants pocket till the bubble-gum car passes, then calmly take it out and finish it.
And so it goes, endless as an Irish reel.
Cover the pipe. Those new designs with the match-hole you can light through and then top with your finger are great. Zip out that one-hitter in the broom closet. Puff meditatively on a tobacco pipe, maybe mixing the fodder with real tobacco if you can stand it. Did you know you can one-toke a joint with a wet Kleenex or a drop of spit? Dipping it into water will cause it to absorb too much liquid to relight, but snuffing it less wetly kills the smoke quick while leaving it ready for the next toke. Try the roof. Damn the burglars who’ve made locked and alarmed access doors the norm. Move to Amsterdam before it closes. Open the window in the bus lavatory. (Forget the airplane bathroom these days.) Stuff the crack under the motel door with a towel. The air conditioner is your buddy. Cozy up to the intake, but be careful if it’s on the ground floor. Have a substitute smell handy. Ozium® used to be the odor-mask of choice. Developed for morgue use, it highlighted how prohibition makes all society a sort of mortuary. But now some police will recognize its faintly detectable olfactory nerve paralysis, so find another aerosol. Smoke behind a parasol.
Sometime around 1985, Jamaicans living in New York City made a notable contribution to the art of street toking when they began making blunts. These are small- to medium-size cigars from which most of the tobacco has been emptied out and replaced with marijuana. Phillies Blunts® were favored because of their strong wrapper leaves and sweet smoke, hence the name. “Richard Nixon” surveyed the phenomenon for High Times [March 1993, pp. 38–41] just as Phillies Blunts® T-shirts were hitting their peak of knowing-smile popularity.
Blunts have also been called blizzards (because they get you snowed), ’gars (adopted from cigar aficionados), LPs (because they’re long-playing), and other street names. They have several advantages over joints and pipes for use in public. The tobacco slows the burn rate and disguises the pot odor. Most important, they look legal, even up close. You can have a few tokes, put it out, carry it in your pocket or purse, and conveniently have a few more hits at intervals throughout the day without having to worry about being seen (unless you’re too obviously doing the pass-around ritual with friends). Some people even like tobacco’s addition to the taste and high, especially in a sweet.
There are basically two ways to make a blunt. You’ll probably need to practice with half a dozen cigars until you have a procedure that works reliably with your chosen brand.
Method 1: Open or cut off one end and roll the cigar on a table or between your fingers to loosen the filler tobacco until you can shake it out, leaving a tube of the wrapper leaves or outer paper. Then fill the tube with pot and twist the open end closed. This method tends to use more weed, since you can’t reduce the size of the cigar.
Method 2: Lick the cigar to moisten the outside, then open it. Some are made with a paper or tobacco-leaf outer covering that can be loosened at one end and unrolled. Inside, you may find a shell of tobacco leaves that you can crack open along a seam. Alternatively, especially if using a cigar made with several layers of outer leaves and/or a thick paper wrapper, you may prefer to slit it open lengthwise with a razor blade or a sharp-pointed pair of scissors. In either case, remove the filler tobacco and lick the outside of the wrapper thoroughly. You need to moisten it well to get it to stick to itself when you roll it back up. Then fill it with pot. This method lets you roll it up thinner than the original cigar to economize on stash. In any case, you’ll need 1–3 grams of pot, a dime or double-dime, depending on the size of the cigar you start with. Now roll the wrapper around the weed like a joint from the bottom up, then lick the inside of the top edge, fold it over, and stick it down. Go over the whole blunt, especially the seam, with more saliva. To get the blunt to hold together securely, it helps to warm it slightly by passing the flame of a cigarette lighter gently over the whole surface, or by microwaving it for about 10 seconds.
Then there’s the philosophy of hiding in Plainview — the brazen street-fattie. A purveyor named Chino used to walk around with a big old tight-rolled doob the size of a Pall-Mall® pasted insouciantly to the corner of his lower lip like some louche but lovable cattle rustler in a concrete Deadwood.
And ah, the bush. The delicious taste of freedom, of sparking one up without fear in the woods, in a mountain meadow, far for a time from the whole pestiferous game. Wave to the funny man in the Black Helicopter.
So Now You’re High
The story goes that in the Fifties a jazz group well known among musicians as weed lovers was hired to play a benefit for an association of narcotics police. I don’t know which group; it could’ve been any of hundreds. They filled the bill with “Tea for Two,” “Tumblin’ Tumbleweed,” “Mountain Greenery,” “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes,” “How High the Moon,” “Flying Home,” and so on. But twit the fuzz only in highly favorable circumstances.
Like most things, marijuana can be used wisely or unwisely. This is probably not a good time for working with power tools or setting up complicated electronic systems. (Remember: No driving.)
It can be a good time lawnmowing, housepainting, or other jobs that, while unpleasant in themselves, can be meditative with the right attitude. A few tokes every couple of hours is about right. Without the chores, cannabis is a superb tool for meditation or magick. It eases entry into the alpha-wave state of relaxed attention, helping your focus on the tools or the object of concentration become more complete. It also brings to the mind a sort of self-transparency, in which hidden conflicts become easier to see and work on. Indeed, its use thus as a sacramental ally has predominated throughout most of recorded history.
Cannabis can be a mental energizer through long bouts of reading or study, but it takes restraint not to overdo it. One toke per hour is about my limit. Any more than that, and I just get bleary-eyed and sleepy. Maybe you want inspiration for that poem, painting, song, that design that’s on your mind. A big blast can be good in the brainstorming stage, but for the execution, especially when it comes to grinding it out, less is more.
Going with the flow is good, but taking a moment beforehand to decide where you want the flow to go is also good. Because at some point you’ll want to do it all: Catch a ball game, practice your Australian crawl, walk around in a Monet, play a little squash, read some trash, or a great poem, phone home, spelunk caves, surf the Web or the waves, look at Mars through a telescope, cruise bars, write a friend who’s losing hope, pick out a new CD, catch a flick, gorge on sweets, walk the streets, hear some live sounds, lick old wounds, bet a little hunch on the trifecta. A thousand desires will intersect, a congeries from which to extract a slippery eel of a thing or two to follow through to completion. A bit of a plan can keep you on track during the period of distractable concentration.
But let’s get to the point. Sex stoned is like…sex stoned. There’s nothing like it. Naturally the couple must be at least potentially on the same wavelength already, or cannabis will probably just magnify their differences. For that girlfriend or boyfriend evening, though, pretty much any dose is fine, as long as it’s mutually agreed on. The month-long kiss…. Machine-exact synchronization in the push-pull…. So many sparks there’s ozone in the air…. The melting together into one…. Oh my! The afterglow goes on for miles.
Or — do nothing. Naught, diddley, nada, nichevo, rien, zippo, nichts, bupkis, squat. Dolce far niente. Because of the constant imperative in the West for goal-oriented activity, and inculcation of guilt for a single “wasted” minute, we forget that it’s possible to simply be, without endeavor, without entertainment, merely noticing (or not) the routine business of the body and the spontaneous play of the mind, in this case made unusually present by THC binding to your anandamide receptors. Pure being. Light within. Thou art That. Um tut sut.
Coming Down
Grass is noted for its asymptotic return. As in mathematics a curve may infinitely approach a baseline and almost, but never quite, reach it, so a remnant of useful highness lasts for a long while after the main part of the high has worn off — the whole next day, if the weed was good. Even, in some sense, always. In The Benefits of Marijuana, Joan Bello recounts her first night in jail, a time for a panic attack if there ever was one. But by remembering the serenity of highs past, she was able to re-enter that state to some degree, and find some measure of calm even in that bleak house.
It’s a good time for a nap, or snuggling with a pet cat or dog or human. It’s a good time for rededication — to your art, your cause, your passion, maybe making some notes from the creative part of the high. Perhaps the grand secret of cannabis use is never to overuse it…well, almost never. Moderation in all things, including moderation. It’s also the hardest secret for us depressive wake-and-bake types to learn. But let it return to baseline, be not too quick to renew it. Even give it a few days between. Not only does stash last longer; it’s more effective the next time. I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it one of these days.
Just a Few Additional Links
…from among the thousands devoted to the Green Goddess.
Cannabis Webring (formerly Jake’s Marijuana Emporium).
o maior barato (maybe the biggest mj links portal)
