‘Would you like a smoke?’ says the dude with the ponytail.
‘Would you like a smoke?’ says the dude with the ponytail.
‘Well, um, no, um, maybe,’ I say, checking the time.
11 a.m. Six hours to go before the speech. Five-and-a-half if you count the radio interview with the ex-mayor of San Diego, which I suppose I could cancel if things get messy.
‘How strong is it?’
‘Oh, it’s fine.’
Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that one before. On the other hand, this is California. Where the weed is now near as damn it legal, so long as it’s for ‘medicinal’ purposes. And this scenario does kind of qualify me, I think: stress due to excess travel; pre-speech nerves. Plus, of course, as a journalist I consider it a sacred duty to immerse myself wherever possible in the local customs.
The joint tastes light, floral, pleasant.
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