THE DANGERS OF MEDICAL MARIJUANA...

            I consider myself a bit of a professional when it comes to herbal remedies. Having my degree in marijuana, California was a brand new experience with this magic herb. Out here on the West Coast, we have this lovely thing called “medical marijuana”. Considering my high level of anxiety, I was eligible for this cosmic treat. Once acquiring my prescription, I discovered a brave new world more exciting than my first penis. The only reason I would ever consider weed better than cock is because my first adult experience with another man led me down the path of micro –penis. Anyone who’s been there knows what I’m talking about, however if you have a micro-member, my apologies and condolences are all yours. There are plenty of people that enjoy a pocket-sized penis, I’m just not one of them. Weed, however, is always good. It doesn’t matter what strain of natural herb I inhale, I enjoy it all. Penis, while I greatly love, is not quite as exciting as weed in my world. If I was on a deserted island and could only have three things, weed would be one, diet coke my second, and some form of stoner food would fill my bag. Sadly, I’d have to say goodbye to dick. Luckily for me, I live in San Francisco, California – the birthplace of homosexuality (by my report), so I don’t have to make that decision and I’m not moving to a desert island anytime soon.

            Back to my love of weed and medicinal marijuana, I found myself in awe of everything once I received my first prescription. Essentially I was able to walk into any number of pharmacies and legally obtain a filling for my pipe. Coming from the East Coast, I never knew such a world could exist like this. Walking into my endless supply of stores, I found more selections than had ever been offered to me. After being buzzed through a private waiting room, you would be escorted into a private room with no windows or ventilation, able to explore the possibilities. You could buy any number of strains, all with a lengthy story to their origin. The worn and tiring eyelids of their sales staffs suggested good product. Additionally, each salesperson had tried the assortment of product with great knowledge to educate me on where/how to spend my money. For years in Los Angeles, I had the opportunity to purchase whatever I wanted. In addition to the many strains of marijuana available to me, I was also able to purchase an endless assortment of edible products. Anything you can think of, they had. You want Rice Krispy Treats laced with weed? Done. Pot cookies? How about ten different flavors? Done. Weed Popcorn, lollipops, caramel, you name it – they had it. Over the years, I had purchased many an edible, but nothing ever seemed to happen. I seemed to be immune. Years ago – in my early twenties – I took edibles to euphoric highs. I can remember the days when a THC laced brownie would set me in a psychedelic craze for eight hours – easy. That was a number of years ago and times seemed to have changed for me. No matter what I ate, the results were always questionable. On occasion I felt something, but it was never anything close to the many cookies I ate years before.

            Arriving in San Francisco, by way of LA, everything changed. I’ll get into the edibles in just a moment, but first I’d like to paint a picture of my new home. Never having been to Amsterdam, personally, I have heard many a story about the progressive and free attitude towards marijuana there. Moving to Southern California, I encountered the closest parallel, being able to purchase my weed legally. Still, you didn’t smoke in public or anything like that. In actuality, Mary Jane – as they call it – has quite the stigma in Los Angeles, at least from what I observed. And it’s definitely not something you want to do in public. San Francisco is the closest thing I’ve known to Amsterdam. I’ve been at bars and smoked weed during open hours with the bartenders. Smoking joints throughout the streets with various friends, this is considered acceptable. Coming from a childhood plagued with a judgmental, dry household, this was the furthest leap I’d ever taken. I never imagined myself outside on a street corner smoking weed in the open, let alone in a bar. A day or so into my move, I was brought to a level of awareness with this green lover of a plant. People up here don’t even turn a side eye at you when you smoke weed. It doesn’t matter where you are, this plant is socially acceptable up north. Still, I find myself battling with my own inner goody-two-shoes (someone that’s been long-gone for years upon years) whenever such a thing comes up. Every time a friend offers me a joint, I look all around, paranoid as hell, like Lindsay Lohan should be doing before getting behind the wheel. Unluckily for the other driver son the road, when Lindsay’s in tow, that ain’t happening. I get nervous and crazy that the cops are going to arrest me. Funny enough, though, I’ve found many a police officer enjoying joints of their own or walking by as I am without batting an eye. I guess this is the closest to Amsterdam you can get without travelling across the sea.

            Within this world of open freedom to smoke, I have found the weed shops to be on a whole different level than those in Los Angeles. In Southern California, you have an intermediary room where you must be buzzed in before entering the counter to purchase your greenery. This was always freer than I could have ever imagined moving out west, but SF is different. Most of the shops will have open doors to the street, still with bouncers, but no intermediary room separating you from the gold. Here you can see just how busy each establishment is before entering the door. It’s just way more open. While I thought Los Angeles had so many different strains, San Francisco has menus when you walk into their stores. The sales staff are strangely far more professional – by my experience – and way greater in knowledge. And the selection is far greater and better managed. It’s astonishing to walk into a store here. Walking into my go-to shop in the City, I planned to purchase a few joints a month or so ago. As I spoke to the sales person, I began craving the possibility of an edible treat. Over the years, I have purchased these many times, but never once has it had an effect like when I was younger. This visit I wanted to try an edible anyway. I knew this would be wasted money, but I had just acquired my first job up north and it seemed worthy of celebration. What better way than enjoying an edible? Again, penis was not quite as exciting as weed. I asked the shop help his recommendation for an herbal treat to eat. Explaining my lack of success with ingestible medical marijuana, I was open to suggestion, but pessimistic. “Are you lactose intolerant?” He asked. “Excuse me”, I thought. “I’m in a weed shop, not a doctor’s office. What does my tolerance for dairy have to do with anything?” He explained this is a regular problem for patients when looking to achieve a great high. Never once had anyone ever optioned this as a reason. Growing up, I never had issues with dairy, but since the age of twenty-four or so, I have had issues with dairy. I have never been diagnosed as lactose intolerant, but I’m aware that I am. Aging into my later twenties, it has come to my attention that most people become intolerant of dairy. Shortly after I wrapped my head around his question, I confirmed my status with dairy. “Well, that’s the problem, Raanan.” My weed shops in Los Angeles never went that deep, but this is part of the draw from SF proprietors. New Amsterdam – as I call my new home – is full of many tidbits about marijuana and this was just one of them. As the sales rep went on, he explained that dairy is the reason I haven’t gotten high from edibles. Suggesting a vegan option, I could only confirm that this was a first world problem. In third world countries, they’re good with the drugs ripped from the ground, but here we have so many options to please the senses. Standing in this weed shop, I was offered a vegan coconut dark chocolate macaroon made with coconut oil, rather than butter. Promised this treat would “blow my mind”, I purchased the macaroon skeptically.

            Before returning home on the BART (public transportation service in SF), I stopped at a Starbucks for a glass of milk to wash down my new treat. I really didn’t think this treat was going to do anything. Despite the salesperson’s certainty that dairy was the issue, I had been promised a great high from so many shops in Los Angeles, leading to a lackluster nothing. Sitting in Starbucks, right outside the train stop location, I drank my large glass of non-fat milk with my vegan treat. The irony was that I purchased a dairy treat to wash down my vegan edible. Defeating the purpose of pleasing my stomach, I swallowed up the concoction rather quickly. I despise the taste of weed, despite loving the smoke of it. Edibles are never pleasant going down, given my innate gag reflex. Relating back to sex, my gag reflex has always been a problem in a relationship outside the micro-penis. Trying to hold back from vomit, I will chew an edible down and swallow in one big sip of a glass of beverage. Washing this gross taste down my throat with milk, I quickly got myself together and boarded the train.

I had been advised to eat only half of this THC treat, but that had been the case with every edible consumed prior to no avail. Swallowing the whole macaroon, I anticipated nothing. Well, fifteen to twenty minutes into my BART ride, I realized the sales rep at my favorite weed shop was far smarter than I. I began to feel the same sensation from so many years prior, feeling an insane full body high. From my experience, the best highs from an edible delectable treat will deliver a series of vignettes, all of a psychedelic nature. I grew giggly on the train and became super paranoid, convinced everyone knew what I was feeling internally. Not only that, but I was insatiably high, barely able to stay seated like a grown adult. I became like a six year old, unsure of my surroundings. The best parallel I can draw is to whatever Paris Hilton feels day in and day out through her own haze of a life. Laughing hysterically from my seat, I could barely look in any one direction for more than a moment or two without seeing a visual play on the eyes. Attempting to focus every few seconds, I became determined to make my train stop home. When I was a few stops from my destination, I rose to my feet and positioned myself by the train doors, in an effort to ensure my exit. Incoherent, I never considered my balance to be a possible concern. Within seconds of standing, I fell to the ground in an aggressive manner, planting my face on the unsanitary ground floor of the train. Rather than cry from the numbing pain, I let out a highly inappropriate level of laughter. Paranoid already, I became convinced everyone was looking at me. I believe this was not actual paranoia, but the fact that I was becoming a cautionary tale for an anti-drug organization. Had anyone caught it on camera, I would be part of a documentary shown to middle school children on the dangers of marijuana.

Somehow by the grace of Oprah (God), I got off at my scheduled stop. Lucky does not begin to explain this event, given my incoherent state of awareness. Walking home from the train stop, I had one of those moments where I thought: “I got this.” “You’re okay, Raanan. You can do this.” Arriving home, I had forgotten my plans for the evening. In addition to eating an edible in celebration of my new occupation status, I had made plans for the night’s meal. Staying in the suburbs outside the city of San Francisco, I don’t have all the same luxuries afforded to the urban environment. What do I have? Shitty chain restaurants. Growing up Kosher in the suburbs, I dreamed daily of the chain restaurants around us. ‘Applebee’s’, ‘Chili’s’, and ‘T.G.I. Friday’s’ were all fantasies as a child. When I finally did eat “gentile-food”, I was brought to Jersey diners and said chain restaurants. My favorite of these low-scale crap-on-a-plate meal houses has always been ‘The Olive Garden’. Once or twice a year, as an adult, I venture out with friends to the Italian-like slop joint. Making sure to wear loose fitting clothing, I leave at least two pant sizes larger in the waist band. Staying outside the city in Concord, California, I have all those shitty restaurants within my sphere. I had made plans to go for a fat-girl fest of binge eating at ‘The Olive Garden’ that evening before choosing to swallow the macaroon of mess.

I plopped myself into the bed the moment I arrived back in Concord. When my host – Unicorn – arrived home from work himself, we had agreed to stuff our faces. After a few minutes lain catatonic on the bed, I arose to experience a brand new vignette of my edible. Getting into said friend’s car – Unicorn as his friends call him – I thought we’d be at the Italian knock-off chain in no time. We had gone to plenty of meals out at ‘Applebee’s’, ‘Chili’s’, and ‘Panda Express’, enjoying our fair share of heart-attacks on a plate in Concord. ‘The Olive Garden’, it seems, was about twenty miles or so away. Sitting in the car, I became horribly paranoid that all other cars on the road knew I was stoned. This was ridiculous as I wasn’t even driving and Unicorn was stone cold sober. I became convinced Unicorn was unprepared for the drive, swerving side to side, when in actuality, he was driving normally. “Can you stay in our lane?!” I pleaded, but I was the crazy one in this scenario. After an extended car ride of giggles and paranoia, we arrived in Antioch, a town I had never heard of. I asked what stop this train was on the BART, being all too familiar with this form of transportation at this point. Unicorn explained that Antioch was way further down the line from SF, without a stop on the BART. For whatever reason of my current state of high, I became hesitant as to the safety of this town. Growing up with an overbearing Jewish mother, when it came to my safety, I quickly become fearful of just about any new area. Beverly Hills presented fears to me, given the new nature of this town when I got there five years ago. Antioch was not Beverly Hills, not by any means, but I wasn’t in a town like Compton. I then asked Unicorn about the safety measures of this town and its crime rate. “Are we in the ghetto?” I asked. “Yeah. This isn’t a very safe area.” In reality, Unicorn was screwing with me, but I didn’t know. Being high and experiencing my surroundings on a whole other platform, any little word could trigger a mess of thoughts. Hearing that this foreign place was “ghetto”, my mind began to race. As the psychedelic nature of my high was blurring my vision, so too it was clouding my mind. I became convinced this would not be a safe meal for us. “Why don’t we just go home, Unicorn? I’m not hungry anymore.” This was a lie, but I became fearful like I was walking into a KKK rally with a giant Jew cap on my head. Or even worse, having dinner with Ann Coulter. What in the world could be worse than that?! My fears were chilling my body.

Unicorn insisted we would be fine. Seeing as he was my ride, I agreed to proceed inside. As anyone that lives in any suburb will tell you, ‘The Olive Garden’ is always busy. For whatever reason, people in the suburbs love an endless assortment of carbs and Antioch was no different. Putting our names in with the host, we were told there would be at least a forty-five minute wait to be sat. Walking outside to smoke a cigarette, I could barely inhale the smoke. I was barely composed enough to stand up straight, let alone manage a cigarette in hand. We’re talking about far too much responsibility for me to handle at this point. Across the street was ‘Red Lobster’, the sister restaurant to ‘the Olive Garden’, owned by Darden Restaurants. While the parking lot where we sat was jam packed, ‘Red Lobster’ was nowhere close to filled. I called the seafood chain restaurant to inquire about the wait. They informed me it would only be five minutes or so and I gleefully hung up, accidentally throwing my iPhone to the cement ground. While I had moments of coherence, I was a mess and overly anxious to stuff my face. As we walked across the street, I became excited for the famous cheddar biscuits from ‘Red Lobster’. They must cook them with crack, because shit is addictive. I live for those biscuits any time my waist line can use an expansion. This night was the perfect time.

Walking into the restaurant, we were met with what appeared to be a gay host. I felt a little more at home, despite believing us to be in the least tolerant/safe place by account of Unicorn’s words and my insane level of high. As we were led to our seats, we passed a number of filled dining rooms, only to find ourselves sat in an almost empty room in a booth by the fire exit. Uncontrollably high, my mind began to race once again. “Why are we being sat all the way out here?!” I didn’t understand the placement, considering the filled rooms we had passed. Never once did it occur to me that those rooms were once empty as well, prior to being filled with people. All I could see was what my tricky mind was telling me. Moments after we were sat, so were an incredibly white trash table of three right behind Unicorn. I sat there, intently listening to their conversation which got heated rather quickly. As my mind raced, unable to decipher their words, I became convinced they were talking about us. Somehow, given the unsafe nature of this place that my unreliably intoxicated mind had built up, I felt like we were in a place that didn’t want us. “Is this a gay-friendly area? Are they like San Francisco here?!” Unicorn quickly responded: “No.” I sat on my side of the booth in horror. “What do you mean? That host who sat us was gay.” Unicorn quickly responded: “No. You’re high, Raanan. He wasn’t gay. They’re not very gay-friendly here. Actually, it’s better if you don’t let anyone know you’re gay. We aren’t accepted here.” I became overcome with a panic sweat. Why were we here then?! None of this made sense to my already erratic brain. All I wanted to do was leave, but also I wanted cheddar biscuits. Unfortunately this high had delivered both an insane level of paranoia and hunger. Neither was subsiding.

I sank into my seat uncomfortably. As the waitress approached, she was tall and pretty with day old lipstick and a displeased look on her face. Most similar to an overworked and disinterested diner waitress, she was not overly pleasant. This was entertaining in a “2 Broke Girls” kind of way, mirroring Kat Denning’s character on the show. Still, I couldn’t get past the table that “hated” us right behind Unicorn. After taking our extensive order, our waitress left us. In that time, my newest vignette began. Somehow, given all Unicorn had said and my racing psychedelic mind, I became convinced that we were offending this establishment just by being there. There was no question in my mind that we were going to be punished. I am no stranger to gay-bashings, but I hadn’t been in a scenario like this in many years and here I was – off my rocker. Trying to decipher the words of our neighboring table, I became convinced they wanted to hurt us. Shortly after this, another table was sat in this empty dining room, just to the right of us. Now there were only three tables sat in this area of the restaurant and they were all in close proximity to us. As my mind was racing, I couldn’t help but think they were the town discipline committee. This new table presented more problems for me as they were backwoods white trash. ‘Duck Dynasty’ had arrived, essentially. The table of three sat a woman and two men with beards past their chests, heavy metal jackets, all the while chewing tobacco and cursing. Now this was prior to the ‘Duck Dynasty’ controversy of recent, but given all of that, you can understand my fear of these new guests. The truth is that this was all in my head, but I didn’t know this at the moment. I thought these backwoods looking bearded diners were the infantry brought in to deliver the pain. All of a sudden, I became convinced that this was far more than a gay-bashing or some harsh looks. We were about to be part of a town’s divine judgment lynching at the hands of prejudice. Every word spoken around us seemed to ring in my ears as hatred. I couldn’t get past Unicorn’s words. We were in a place where gay was not the norm, nor accepted. Our eatery was in a less than safe area and we were offending the townspeople by being present.

Convinced that this would be the second coming of the Matthew Shepherd story, I was transplanted to Laramie, Wyoming within my head. As our food began to arrive at our table, I was overwhelmed with the options. Being stoned, I ordered most everything on the menu. We had a list of appetizers, salads, entrees, and endless biscuits. I was shoveling food into my mouth, sure this would be my last meal. Better make it count, right?! Each component of our indulgent fat-fest meal was delivered by a different member of staff. My mind was racing, keeping within this current vignette of the high for far too long. I became positive that these different hands delivering our food options were all trying to take a peek at the victims of a town’s lashing. They all had to get an eye in on the gays invading their town before we were dragged to slaughter on the wheels of a four-by-four truck. I stayed silent in my seat, partially because far too much food was invading my system, but also out of fear. Oprah forbid I say something our neighboring diners dislike, I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire. I was attempting to prolong as much time as possible to life.

Unicorn began telling me a story about some difficult elderly customers at his retail job earlier that day. Seeing as the ‘Duck Dynasty’ kinfolk sitting close by were edging late in age themselves, I grew beet red at Unicorn’s admission. I began trying to shush him, asking him quietly to “shut the fuck up”. There was no way I wanted to offend any of these ‘Red Lobster’ patrons, fearful it would bring our impending fate sooner. Unicorn didn’t understand my silence, but he was not inside my head – where all the crazy was occurring. I still can’t look back at this evening and see it any other way than my warped mind imagined. Seated in our booth, I began saying my goodbyes to the world internally as I finished my meal. This was surely my final meal, seated at a ‘Red Lobster’ in Antioch, California. I couldn’t help but believe this was sooner than I had ever planned to leave this world, but felt like the choice was not my own.

As our meal came to a close, it became time for the desserts we ordered at the meal’s start. Unicorn asked that we take the brownie sundaes to go, but I knew better. “They’re going to be trashed with our bodies…” As sordid and twisted as this all sounds, it was way worse in my head. I couldn’t help but blame everything on my edible macaroon. Had I been sober or normally stoned by smoking the herb, I could at least have given up a fight or ran into the night. Given my incoherent state, I knew I wouldn’t be capable of a fight, for any reason. When our waitress brought the bill, the brownies were still yet to be delivered. I couldn’t help but think she was prolonging our visit in order to better prepare the infantry. They didn’t want us to leave early. At least that was what I thought at the time. As our waitress dropped the bill, she handed us both surveys to fill out. “Can you go on your smartphones and fill these out before you leave? I need perfect service points for your dining. Rate me the highest options possible before you head out.” Firstly, our service was not great. Whether I would have been stoned or not, Unicorn confirmed that she had about as much interest assisting us as Sarah Palin would have marching in a gay pride parade. That mess of a ‘Fox News’ talking head would prefer to take part in our neighboring ‘Duck Dynasty’ diners’ plans for us. Unicorn began filling out the survey online on his android phone. I quickly grabbed the survey from his hands and motioned he wait. Somehow in my warped interpretation of our evening, this survey was a ploy when the police would come to discover our destroyed bodies. “Well, officers, they had a great experience dining at ‘Red Lobster’. Just take a look at the surveys they filled out about their meal. Tens across the board.” How my brain has a mind of its own… Unicorn didn’t understand my reluctance, but respected my demands. After we paid our bill, we left in a hurry. This was mostly due to my fast nature. I couldn’t help but feel sure a group of white trash hicks were waiting for us with a group of pickup trucks and some uncomfortable rope. Walking to the car, I was sure we were going to be attacked.

It wasn’t until we arrived back in Concord that I was able to come down, finally convinced that we would not be meeting death that evening. Shortly after arriving, I proceeded in the door and passed the fuck out on a bed. The following morning I told Unicorn everything I had experienced, none of which he had been aware of at the time. All the while, I was nursing a hangover like I had finished a handle of whiskey the night before. Despite the fun nature of my ridiculous story, the night was pretty horrific to endure at the time. I didn’t smoke a pipe for at least a week following this evening of insanity in Antioch. Looking back, this is a cautionary tale for me, all about the dangers of medical marijuana and ‘Red Lobster’.

I’m back to smoking weed like the professional pot-head I’ve been for all of these years, but I have kept my distance from edibles and ‘Red Lobster’ – for now.

Xoxo.

R.