Sour Grape

Colorado voters approved recreational marijuana in 2012, and the new law went into effect at the start of 2014. Other states have enacted similar laws, most recently California. All of them are superseded by Federal law, under which marijuana remains very, very bad. But for now, at least, it's legal in the Rocky Mountain State.

Marijuana doesn’t interest me the way it once did. But the reality of commercially available marijuana proved irresistible, so I visited a pot shop recently to report on the experience.

I don’t want to identify the place by name, so let’s call it GoldenBuds. It’s located in a strip mall about half a mile from my home, alongside a credit union, a dry cleaner, an Indian restaurant, a Tae kwon Do place, a hairdresser, and a DMV office. (There is another such emporium within the proverbial stone’s throw.)

The first thing I noticed when walking in was its cheerless front anteroom, complete with pale green walls and faded, threadbare carpet. The whole set-up felt temporary, like an election headquarters or a Halloween costume store. But this is no fly-by-night operation. Recreational marijuana is a growth industry.

Nor could I help noticing the security. An employee waited behind a small window covered in thick plexiglass. I shoved my driver’s license through a slot at the bottom to prove I was at least twenty-one (as if there could be any doubt). The guy looked at my ID, looked at me, then shoved the license back through the slot and buzzed me in.

An array of marijuana products awaited in this main room: edibles and drinkables, and the sort of paraphernalia common to what used to be known as head shops. My attention was drawn to a glass case, like in a jeweler’s, which held a dozen or more lidded glass jars. Each contained various strains of marijuana, with names like Purple Haze, AK-47, Agent Orange, Hindu Kush, and Northern Lights.

“May I help you?” asked the guy behind the counter, a young man with the requisite tattoos and piercings of his age group.

I wanted to say: “I’d like a dime bag.” I wanted to say: “A lid of your finest, please.” But he might not have understood these antiquated terms; this is not your father’s marijuana.

Each strain costs the same, he said – twenty dollars per gram. (There is also under-the-counter “shake,” the less-desirable loose stuff, at reduced cost.) He lifted a few of those jars onto the counter. “What do you want it for? Pain relief, or just ordinary recreational use?”

To get high, you nitwit! That’s what I wanted to say. But good manners prevailed. “Just something I can relax with, and play guitar.”

The guy recommended a strain called Sour Grape. “Very mellow. Good for jamming.” He removed the lid from one of the jars, and the familiar aroma of potent marijuana wafted up to my nostrils. Obviously, this was strong stuff.

Like most produce, you can buy Colorado marijuana in bulk. I had him weigh a tiny amount. GoldenBuds does not accept credit cards, debit cards or checks, so I paid in untraceable cash – just like in the old days.

My Sour Grape came in a white plastic container slightly larger than a film canister, once the preferred means of transporting the evil weed. Beneath the GoldenBuds logo, the label said: “This product is infused with marijuana. Child resistant container. Ingredients: marijuana, water, organic fertilizer, natural additives.”

Outside, I jumped on my bike and rode home. What happened next? Did my dedication to truth insist I sample the purchase? Of course not.