Maybe you shouldn’t do drugs before figuring out what you are getting into, you jackass:
The caramel-chocolate flavored candy bar looked so innocent, like the Sky Bars I used to love as a child.
Sitting in my hotel room in Denver, I nibbled off the end and then, when nothing happened, nibbled some more. I figured if I was reporting on the social revolution rocking Colorado in January, the giddy culmination of pot Prohibition, I should try a taste of legal, edible pot from a local shop.
What could go wrong with a bite or two?
Everything, as it turned out.
Not at first. For an hour, I felt nothing. I figured I’d order dinner from room service and return to my more mundane drugs of choice, chardonnay and mediocre-movies-on-demand.
But then I felt a scary shudder go through my body and brain. I barely made it from the desk to the bed, where I lay curled up in a hallucinatory state for the next eight hours. I was thirsty but couldn’t move to get water. Or even turn off the lights. I was panting and paranoid, sure that when the room-service waiter knocked and I didn’t answer, he’d call the police and have me arrested for being unable to handle my candy.
Yeah. I’m an old woman who is hallucinating or living in an alternate reality already (seriously, read her column and remember where she lives and her circles), so I’m going to fly to Colorado, sit in a hotel room by myself and try the most potent strain of weed possible, and then write about what a shitty experience I had and condemn it because kids might eat it.
First off, why did you do this alone?
Second, why in a hotel room? (*** Updated to elaborate ***- You’re in fucking Colorado. One of the prettiest states in the country with a vibrant community of artisan chefs, brewers, foodies, and well, pot growers. Why would you not venture out, walk around, meet some people, have a drink, ask them where to eat, walk around some more and find a smoke shop, strike up a conversation and say “Hey- I’m new to this and writing for the NY Times. Wanna give me a fun, safe, and happy experience?” They might take you to the mountains to a nice little hole in the wall bar or bistro and and you could have your first experience surrounded by nice people.
That makes so much more sense than flying across the country to eat weapons grade THC and sit miserably in a hotel room, although karmically (sp?), it is what you deserve. My best experiences in my life have been when I was traveling and just went off on my own, left my traveling companions behind, and met a couple of random people and partied with them until the wee hours. And I’m a loner shut-in, but I cope. *** END Update ***)
Third, did you consider researching what you were about to take?
Fourth, was there any Floyd or Dead on your iPhone?
I know I will regret writing this, if for no other reason than it will make my parents cry, but I did a lot stronger drugs for eight days in a row in 1988 sitting around NYC at MSG when the Dead were there (it ended with a benefit with Suzanne Vega for some charity on the final night- my google-fu sucks atm but look it up on the archives), drinking dollar tall boys and generally being a filthy degenerate for a week, and I had some pretty traumatic internal mental experiences, but I didn’t fucking get home and think “Man, that shit should be banned because parents might leave it out for their toddlers to consume.” I thought to myself, that’s a really bad venue and I have no one but myself to blame.
Five, if some asshole leaves potent cookies out for kids to eat, it’s not the marijuana, it’s that they are an asshole. The kid would probably be dead in a few years anyway, because the callous douchebag parent probably also leaves around loaded handguns (his Constitutional fucking right), owns a pit bull, drives drunk with the kid in the car, or soaks all the carpet near power outlets with water and conveniently drops a fork near each.
Six, fuck you Maureen Dowd. Go back to sniffing Lewinsky’s panties.
*** Update ***
Seems to be a mild debate about labeling. Legalization HELPS that, because you know what you are going to get and things will be regulated. That doesn’t excuse this idiotic Mo-Do column. I’ve been to thousands of liquor stores and never once seen an Everclear grain alcohol bottle with a label that said “Don’t chug this on an empty stomache, Maureen.” I’ve sipped quite a bit of moonshine run through the finest radiators in West by God Virginia, and never seen a warning label. You know why? I don’t put shit into my body without knowing what I am doing.