‘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.
‘Have I got any surprises coming later or is this it?’ I ask, very mildly buzzed.
‘This is about it.’
‘All right then. Just two more puffs, then that’s definitely it.’
After two more puffs — with no apparent ill effects — I ask what I’m smoking.
Ponytail shows me a fat bud, like a bonsai triffid, sealed in a jar.
‘Ultimate Death Knell White Widowmaker Devil Weed,’ he announces. (Or similar.)
Ulp.
‘You say it’s not strong, though?’ A note of panic in my voice now.
I would ask more but already my connection with the outside world has started to grow fuzzy. People are saying words, speaking sentences, but whenever I try focusing on specific bits to understand what they mean the conversation accelerates far beyond the point where I can make any meaningful contribution. This may present problems in a radio interview, it occurs.
‘Yeah, I had to stop smoking that stuff. I was getting no pleasure out of it.
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