Updated: Jan 24, 2022
(first appeared in friend-of-the-blog Jet Cannon's Buzzed Boomer in May, 2021)
Gypsies. Nomads. Vagabonds. When the missus and I are on the road, in addition to a fully stocked bar, we usually travel with a little cannabis for strictly medicinal purposes.
Our supply comes from a hobby grower in Vermont. And if you had asked me, I would have said that “it’s pretty good stuff.” Apparently, my qualifications for assessing quality and potency has been impacted by a lack of regular experimentation and maybe a hint of regional Vermont pride. I was to be educated. While camping in Dinosaur National Monument in May, we met some friendly young folks in the next campsite. We chatted about life on the road over a few beers. Then they offered us a peace pipe filled with recently purchase cannabis sativa from a licensed store in Colorado.
Lori and I each took 3 hits with all the feigned nonchalance of wisened veterans to the stoner game.
Mere minutes later, I suddenly recognized that I had been elucidating to our new friends incoherently about how the machines were using artificial intelligence to take over the planet from us humans (this is true, but this seemed hardly the time or place to get into it). It became immediately apparent to me that this was not your standard stoned campfire conversation. My brain was no longer attached to my body.
To say that our hemp compared to theirs was like saying that our diet soda compared to their gin. That our sugar high compares to their acid trip. I knew if I had even one more beer, I would wind up in the bushes for the night convinced I could converse with raccoons, and possibly dinosaurs. I decided it was time to quickly, ungracefully, remove myself from the campfire circle and do something useful, or at least safer. Lori could maintain the social niceties while I got my wits about me. When I got into our trailer I thought "hmmm, what now? I could try to make dinner." But despite a deep intimacy with our kitchen galley, I became paralyzed with confusion and fear. I wasn’t really sure how to proceed with washing or chopping vegetables, or prepping the chicken. These tasks seemed akin to defusing a bomb in terms of complexity and concentration. Perhaps 10 minutes passed (or was it an hour?) as I slowly turned in a circle trying to work out what my first move should be. Then, Lori appeared at the door and I thought "phew, while it will be embarrassing to admit that I'm borderline catatonic here, at least she can take charge of the situation." It was then that I saw the puzzled and bewildered look on her face. She was just as wrecked as I was. Worse maybe. And having two bumbling idiots in the trailer was more problematic than just one.
Somehow, after much time and confusion we meandered through the culinary corn maze and got the feast on the grill. There were six chicken thighs and some sides. Lori ate one, I ate five. We were still starving. So we got into the Snickers bars. When that wasn’t enough, we got out the breakfast muffins and grilled those in butter. Delicious, but still insufficient. Then we made banana and peanut butter wraps with honey. Still starving, we began to comb through the larder for more of anything edible: toast, nuts, anything . At once point, we even tried to eat some baking chocolate (tastes just like chocolate-colored wax). After eating most of the food we had for the next two nights, we went to bed still ravenous, and completely stoned out of our minds.
There was lots of giggling and comedy sketch-worthy thoughts however.
Just be careful out there folks.