With recreational marijuana now legal in New York State, dispensaries will soon be opening up all over town. But anyone can sell sativa vape cartridges or gummies with twenty-two-per-cent THC content. We aim to offer greater curation, with products designed to replicate our proprietor’s personal experiences with cannabis during high school in the mid-seventies. Check out this menu of authentic, “vintage” highs:
Beginner’s Buzzkill
Sourced by: Your best friend’s older brother Rick.
The experience: The low THC content of this pre-rolled, dried-out joint—left over from the Loggins & Messina concert everyone but you went to in April—is ideal for novice smokers or anyone who appreciates not being sure whether they’re actually high. Do you feel something? Maybe . . .? What if Rick was fucking with us and it’s oregano or cat shit or something? Cough. Dude, you’re being paranoid. But being paranoid means it’s working, I’ve heard. I think. I don’t know.
Possible side effects: Headache, dry eyes, confirmation of social stigma.
Acapulco Uh-Oh
Sourced by: An actual dealer this time.
The experience: A dime bag of suspect origins that purports to be either “pure Colombian” or “primo Gold,” depending on the packager’s whim. Previously available only from the local supplier Huckapoo Mike, at Tower Records. (Ask for him at the cash register, then meet him out back. Have money ready. But, Jesus—don’t wave it.) Induces a fine, all-purpose high with an emphasis on witty, original insights you’ll want to share—like how this banana and this can of Coors are the same thing because they’re yellow on the outside and you eat their insides. . . . Yeah, no, I know beer’s a drink. Whatever. I guess I’m not explaining it right.
Possible side effect: Girl who maybe likes you now probably thinks you’re a choad.
Broken Homegrown
Sourced by: Your friend Steve, whose divorced mom lets him grow pot in the basement.
The experience: Nurtured from heritage seeds found in the gatefold of Steve’s sister’s copy of “For the Roses,” this is the real-ish deal—a smooth-smoking sinsemilla with a powerful, cerebral high that will encourage you to sit in a corner and fixate on the number fifty-one for an entire evening. Is it the funniest number—or the saddest number? Hard to decide. But you have to. Except Steve’s mom is kicking you all out now. Oh, man, I spent a whole party thinking about an integer?
Possible side effects: Further erosion of social skills and a 2 on your A.P. math exam.
Maui Owie
Sourced by: College guys with dark, stuffy dorm rooms and stereos with the needle left at the end of a record going skz . . . skz . . . skz. . . .
The experience: Is your right foot swelling because of the bee sting you got on your ankle three days ago, or are you hallucinating? That’s the magic of this fascinating Hawaiian hybrid that produces euphoria in everyone else and self-consciousness mixed with mild body dysmorphia in you. But, seriously, what do you guys think? Look at my foot. Stop laughing.
Possible side effect: Seriously, am I going to die?
Panama Dread
Sourced by: Shirtless older dude wearing puka-shell necklace at Lori’s party the weekend her parents went skiing.
The experience: A single bong hit of this reportedly “tasty” hybrid (Is it really tasty? It smells like asphalt) offers a pleasant body high combined with an unnerving rush of conviction that somehow everyone knows that you masturbate. And of that being the only thing they talk about when you’re not around. Or think about. You. And your habit of masturbation.
Possible side effects: Spending half an hour in Lori’s parents’ bathroom staring at your face in the mirror and dissociating; everyone now thinking that you were masturbating in Lori’s parents’ bathroom.
Stairway to Comatose
Sourced by: A guy selling dope from the trunk of a LeMans in the Oakland Alameda Coliseum parking lot.
The experience: “Looking to score some righteous herb?” That’s the winning sales pitch for this classic Thai stick—just the thing if you’re planning to more or less black out during the Led Zeppelin concert you’ve been waiting months for, though the next day you may have stray memories of craning your neck to see Derringer, the opening act, from behind a tall guy with his girlfriend on his shoulders.
Possible side effect: Trying to convince yourself that Zeppelin sucks.
Rudy Awakening
Sourced by: Your best friend’s other best friend, fucking Louis, who won’t shut up about “The Harder They Come” and calls everyone “mon” or “Rudy” now.
The experience: Anxious about sampling Louis’s “ganja”? Don’t be. It’s 1976, and no one at your high school has heard of cultural appropriation. True, this strain of cannabis hasn’t been within three thousand miles of Kingston, but it does produce a long-lasting buzz suitable for getting you through an afternoon of hanging out at the beach while paralyzed with fear of doing or saying something uncool. (Is it O.K. to like Mott the Hoople, or is that a band only chronic masturbators like?) Some users report that this high will continue on through an evening of realizing, at the dinner table, that your parents are stuck in a loveless marriage but are too lame to do anything about it. They just sit there quietly hating each other and drinking Blue Nun.
Possible side effects: Dry mouth, several decades of psychotherapy.
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