Loading...Chapter One: Fantasy Island
There comes a time in every Angeleno’s life when they Google Map “recreational dispensaries near me” in order to find one that’s within walking distance from their house. For me, that time came a couple of days after seeing the Dead & Company at Dodger Stadium. I was sitting on the couch late at night watching clips from old Dead shows on YouTube and trying to decide between having a midlife crisis and walking the dog- until finally I realized- – why not do both? And thus the search began!
Of course, I the only reason I had to look for a recreational dispensary is that I’ve always been too superstitious to get a medical weed card. You see, my mother always told me it was bad luck to fake an illness and of all the motherly advice she’s given me in the last 45 years, that’s the one fucking piece I decided to take. I didn’t listen when she said “don’t walk under the bridge at night cause there might be axe murders.” I didn’t listen when she said “don’t take Uber cause the driver might be an axe murderer (my mom thinks axe murderers are a big problem in this town- when the real 
problem is Axe Body Spray. She needs to watch less Criminal Minds and more Entourage.) I also didn’t listen when she said “don’t let the dog lick your head” cause I still let my little Punky-poo go to town on my head like it’s snack time at camp and she’s got a big, sweaty Otter Pop. And, I sure as hell didn’t listen when my mom said not to smoke weed in the first place. “Just Say No” was the only thing I said “no” too. I said “HELL, YEAH” the first time a scraggly nickel bag was offered to me Freshman year of High School. I smoked those stems and seeds out of an old Sherlock Holmes pipe I had lying around. In more innocent times (8th grade) this was part of a Halloween costume along with a deer stalker cap and plaid bathrobe. Sherlock Holmes as proto-Lebowski, I guess? Come to think of it, that would have been a pretty great look for my walk to the dispensary- which, as turns out was only 0.2 miles away! How awesome is that? The last time I lived this close to a recreational dispensary, I was in college and his name was Tyrone.
Now, there were some distinct advantages to going weed shopping at Tyrone’s. Like the 3’ bong that circulated endlessly through his living room as 
though propelled by Newton’s Laws of Marijuana Motion (ganja in motion shall remain in motion unless bogarted by some fratboy douche with the Axe Body Spray and the “Cheat on your girlfriend not your workout t-shirt. Seriously, who invited that guy?) Tyrone smoked A LOT. He smoked like he was training for the Weed Olympics (or “X-Games”) and gunning for Willy Nelson’s spot on the American team.
The selection at New Amsterdam on the other hand blows Tyrone’s out of the bong water. I can’t even compare buying weed in college to shopping at New Amsterdam without sounding like a Yakov Smirnoff bit: “At New Amsterdam, they have big selection of cannabis- indica, sativa, oils, creams, edibles, vape pens! In college, we have two kinds of cannabis only- weed in bong or weed in bowl- if you want edibles, smoke out of apple. New Amsterdam- What a dispensary!” Holy crap- if they ever legalize weed in Branson I’m totally going to open a dispensary with Smirnov. We can call it “Branson Buds” and then do a reality show called “Branson BUDdies.” And then we’ll flip houses! And holy shit I could go for some Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch right now! Sorry, sorry, sorry- I shouldn’t have started hitting the vape pen while I was still writing this.
Oh right! The vape pen- that’s what I wanted to buy at New Amsterdam. I first used one when I went to see the Dead and Company and I can safely say I was the highest person in Dodger Stadium since Darryl Strawberry went to rehab. But unlike Darryl Strawberry, the vape pen never disappoints! It just kept going and going like the Energizer Bunny or like a 90’s hack comic who still uses the Energizer Bunny (or Darryl Strawberry) as a punch line. Yup, that comic just keeps going and going and going until he drops dead of cirrhosis outside the Ha Ha Hole in North Hollywood while trying to squeeze one more punch line out of Lorena Bobbit, dolphin-free tuna, and Zima and, yes, that comic is Jay Leno.
And much like Jay Leno, the vape pen is disposable and leaves an artificial taste in your mouth though, unlike Jay Leno, it comes in a slim, attractive package and always makes you feel good. Hey- turns out I like my cannabis like Donald likes his wives- slim, attractive, fake and disposable (and 
probably not made in America.) Ohhh, I’m sorry- did that make Melania feel bad. Well, “I really don’t care- do u?” #BeBest
Anyhow, the dispensary was closed the night I first looked it up, so a few days later my wife Lauren and I strapped our presumptive little maltipoo Punky into her harness and set off on the journey to New Amsterdam. For as the Chinese proverb says, “the journey of 0.2 miles begins with a single step and ends in like 500 steps or 1000 if it’s a round trip.” I say presumptive maltipoo, because we never actually gave her a DNA test. This is partially because they’re expensive but mostly cause I don’t want to know who that crazy bitch has murdered. Sure- she seems cuddly and adorable, but she’s really a ferocious killer. It’s like Child’s Play 8- Dog of Chucky. That’s why Lauren and I both went- because Lauren had to wait with Punky outside. I mean, sure I I could have said she was a service dog- assuming you consider running around in circles like a little white blur 
yapping her head off like a coked up Herve Villechaize the day he finally kills them all (“Za Plane! Za Plane! SO MUCH BLOOD!”) every single goddamn time she sees some douchenozzle in Axe Body Spray ride by on a Bird Scooter to be a service, which I ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DO but the ADA doesn’t see it that way- gotta get Betsy DeVos on that. Or, wait- who’s in charge of ruining protections for the disabled? Jeff Sessions? Stephen Miller? The Mooch? Surely someone in this garbage administration is responsible for hurting the handicapped? What the hell is Putin paying for anyhow?
So Lauren waited outside as our little Tattoo freaked out (“Za Bird Scooter! Za Bird Scooter! SO MUCH BLOOD) and I entered New Amsterdam. I gave my ID to the beefy man behind the desk in the registration area (oh THESE are the groceries that Donald was talking about) and the beefy man gave me his scowl of approval. With that, I stepped forward into a whole new world- one I can only describe as my college self’s Fantasy Island. (“Za Weed! Za Weed. SO MUCH BUD)
Now where’s my goddamn Cap’n Crunch??
Chapter Two: It’s Summer Time but the Vapin’ Ain’t Easy
As you’ve already guessed, I’m old. Not Honeymooners, Ed Sullivan, moon landing old but Yakov Smirnoff, Zima, Challenger explosion old. Quick test to see if you are Gen X: What does NASA stand for? If you answered:
National Aeronautics and Space Administration– You’re too old.
Need Another Seven Astronauts– You’re Gen X! “Congratulations”
Alexa, what’s NASA? – You should stop reading this right fucking now. You’re either too young or the President of the US and either way this ain’t for you.
Sure, I shopped for cannabis in stores before, when I lived in New York in the 90’s. There was that video store in Spanish Harlem or “Hamilton Heights” as it is known by real estate brokers and college kids who don’t want their racist parents to worry “It’s not Spanish Harlem, Mom, it’s Hamilton Heights- yes, like the musical. Of course it’s safe- it’s quiet uptown”. This video store had like two copies of Quiz Show, a bunch of empty boxes and $30 eighths if 
you showed the “green membership card”. Sorry, did you hear that? It’s the sound of 10,000 former Blockbuster owners kicking themselves at once. Seriously, how did you guys miss this? Block-BUD-ster? Eh? Eh? It was right there for you and now Yakov Smirnoff and I are gonna open one in Branson.
And there was Juice & Juice in the Village where for $12 they sold you a small juice and a dime bag. This place still exists, which is cool, but now they charge $15 and you only get juice.
But New Amsterdam was the first store I ever entered that sold cannabis unabashedly. Clean, bright LCD screens advertising the specials of the day. Free pre-rolled joint with purchase of $100 or more. Small plastic purple jars brimming with luscious green buds available for connoisseurs to smell and compare. Young women behind the counter with t-shirts, name-tags, nose-rings, and knowing looks eagerly waiting to fulfill your every cannabis need. It was crazy – all my life marijuana was forbidden fruit and now- instead of offering me the apple, the serpent brings me to an Apple Store. Fantastic. I sauntered confidently up to a young lady behind the counter whose name tag identified her as “Ariel” and said, a little too loudly, “I would like a vape pen, please.”
Nothing
I tried again
“I would like a disposable vape pen, please.”
Nothing.
Ariel just gave me the kind of expectant and slightly terrified look you get when you walk into Starbucks and just say “coffee” and the barista is staring at you and just praying to Howard Schultz that you’re not some crazy person cause she can’t remember under what circumstances she’s allowed to call the cops.
Finally, Ariel realized she was going to have to give me my cue: “Indica, Sativa?”
I was frozen. I had heard these words before, but never bothered to learn what they mean- it never seemed to matter. Like Yakov Smirnoff would have said “when you wait in line all day for toilet paper, you don’t ask is it Charmin?”
So I relied on my old “I have no idea what to choose” standby. I gave Ariel what I hope was a probing look and said “What do you recommend?”
She asked “Do you get paranoid?” Which is a terrible question to ask a paranoid person, but I resisted the urge to say “Who’s been saying that about me??” and said instead “Yes, a little.”
She reached under the counter without hesitation and pulled out a little white package and said “Try an indica blend, this one’s Bananaberry. $47.95. Plus tax”.
And so, $52 later, in cash (they don’t take credit cards. THANK GOD. At least something about this transaction was shady) I was back out on the street with Punky, Lauren and an Indica Blend Bananberry Disposable Vape Pen.
Later that night, after a couple glasses of rose, I decided to test out my new purchase. After spending only ten minutes figuring out how to open the package, a pulled out the slim black rod. One end was flat, the other had a pinhole. Remembering the Dead show, I put the pinhole in my mouth and sucked and…nothing. The tip lit up bright green- but nothing seemed to come through. Still, I held the nothing in my lungs and breathed it out. Could it really be this smooth, this effortless? Sure I didn’t feel anything, (suck) but maybe it creeps up on you. (suck, suck) Like…slowly (suck, suck, suck) Like….really slowly?
Nothing. Like the girl in Chorus Line, I felt nothing- no matter how much I reached deep down to the bottom of my soul and tried.
Maybe there was something I was missing? I opened up the packaging and peered inside. Was there something I was missing? A book of instructions with the Ikea dude showing me the do’s and don’ts? A bag of little screws? An allen wrench?
Nothing.
I scrutinized the vape pen- was there an on/off switch, home button, fingerprint pad? Maybe it’s voice activated “Hey Vapey, get me baked?”
Nothing. How could I possibly be failing at this? It’s technology and weed- I should be crushing this! Hell, I’m the one who first taught my mother how to program the VCR and later introduced her to Emoji (MOM EMOJI PRO TIP: Ghost pirate is the closest to Axe Murderer). And I’m the one whose mastery of Microsoft Access once made me feared by men and beloved by women (specifically the women at Apple One.) And I’m the one who made a bong out of a coconut cause there was a coconut in the apartment and why the fuck not? 
I used to be a genius- how could I suddenly be so dumb? And if I am so old and dumb- where will my help come from? Clippy, Clippy- why hast thou forsaken me???
Noticing my struggles, Lauren asked- “How is it?”
“Oh, it’s good, you know. Really smooth.” – Oh don’t look at me like that- of course I lied. How could I admit that the vape pen was a bust, that I’d wasted $50, that the emperor has no buzz??
Turns out, it’s surprisingly easy. The next day, when my friend Scott came over after brunch, I handed him the vape pen to see if he would have better luck. He took one suck and said “dude- this things broken- take it back.”
Right.
Brain go boom.
Of course – I can just take it back for a refund.
Channeling Yakov Smirnoff: “At New Amsterdam- when drugs not work- you take back for full refund. In college, when drugs not work, you lie to your friends about how awesome they are – ‘oh yeah, dude- I can totally feel the acid kicking in…it’s reeealll mellow.’ What a Dispensary!”
And so, we leashed up Punky and took the 0.2 mile walk to New Amsterdam. When we got there, Scott played Mr. Roark with crazy little Tattoo and I went inside.
I walked up to Ariel and pulled out the package with the vape pen.
“Hey – I think the vape pen that I got here yesterday might possibly not be working.”
“Sorry to hear that- can I see you hit it?”
OK- here we go- the moment of truth – I pulled it out- sucked and….
“Oh yeah, that’s not working. Let me get you new one” She took the package and in seconds replaced the broken vape pen with identical one. “Try this”
Skeptical, I put in in my mouth, took a big suck and
COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH
COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH
So that’s what Bananaberry tastes like. It tastes like VICTORY.
And so I left New Amsterdam the proud owner of Indica Blend Bananberry Disposable Vape Pen that actually works which I’ve used exactly twice. Cause like the title says- weed still makes me paranoid as FUUUUCCK.
Now- who took my goddamn Cap’n Crunch? Sic ’em Punky!
