Editor’s Note: We are an official media sponsor for February Fire which will be held February 28th at Homegrown VA.
Weed has been the diadem of rebellious youth for generations, a product so diametrically opposed to the capitalist urge that its use conjures images of human driftwood lounging in bathrobes. And yet, all over the country, soccer moms and CEOs, artists, musicians, day laborers, and professionals get stoned on the daily.
I just finished texting everyone I know who might be slightly impressed that I’m a judge in the upcoming February Fire, Richmond’s Homegrown Cannabis Cup, which wraps with the main event next month. I’ve also just been handed a neatly printed gift box containing eleven generous samples of Virginia’s best homegrown submissions for this year’s competition.
The gig is to rate each strain by a surprisingly detailed and structured formula that will be collated with my dozen-or-so peers’ assessments to arrive at a crowning – a dank laurel of sticky icky for the best garden product from the Appalachians to the Bay. I have the added honor of getting to write about the experience for RVA Magazine. Go, me!
Much has been written locally by this publication and all the others recently in response to pending legislation that would unclench the destructive grip prohibition has on its trade and enjoyment. We’re going to leave those conversations where they are, in those articles. You can read about all of that elsewhere. I’m going to focus on the joy of weed, the cultures it infuses, and the lives that benefit from its embrace.
For the next couple of weeks, I’ll be filling this space with a daily stoned conversation with someone dear to Richmond and or myself. We’ll come into each convo sober, smoke something incredible, and try our best to describe what magic lies within each leaf. It’ll be blind too, no labels, brand names, logos, nothing. Just a naked eighth in a jar, keeping its secrets like a stoned wizard arriving in The Shire.
Each of the people I’ve conscripted into sharing this bounty with me brings some art to their own existence that I admire, so we’ll talk about them too. I’m as interested in the subjective relationships we have with the plant as I am in honoring the efforts of the growers who’ve blessed me with the product.
Translation: I just got a motherlode of premium greens, and I’m going to smoke up my friends and call it work.
I have a penchant for strained metaphor, see everything I’ve ever written. When I’m stoned, it’s full-on synesthesia. My correlation of descriptive experience tends not to make any real sense if you don’t live in the crowded, Kowloon-esque neural pathways of my brain. None of these reviews should evoke the joy of a clever one-liner delivered to a skeptical acquaintance or a long drive into the country without GPS, but I am prone to go there. I’d promise to do better, but I probably won’t. I’m just letting you know ahead of time that I know how I sound sometimes.
I come to the subject with some experience. I smoked my first joint during lunch on the front lawn of Douglas Freeman High School in the West End, circa 1992. I didn’t like it. It was around sometimes, often while taking a break from skating with my friends, a passed joint on the sidewalk between band sets outside The Metro, the old Laurel and Broad punk venue, and in various VCU campus-adjacent living rooms. I played along to be cool, I guess. Not a lifestyle, just a social happenstance.
It wasn’t until I dated a lovely lady in my mid-twenties, who had been enjoying marijuana since she was 13, that I picked it up as a habit. From that point forward, my eyes were opened to the benefits of chilling tf out. Food was better. Music was better. Sex was better. Not unrelated, but the weed was better too. Sunshine, rain, art, conversation, everything seemed to shine under its influence, something whiskey and beer never managed to elevate.
Other drugs, which I welcomed into my experience recklessly, always left a mess in my world. Weed never did. It became a hug without awkwardness. A loan of happiness easily forgiven by the universe, with no collection schedule. Alcohol and cocaine always chose the next morning to render their debt for an advance on serotonin. Rude.
Once ingrained into routine, weed became a refuge. My best friend in NYC celebrated the leaf consistently but had little discrimination for its quality. I enjoyed it anyway, but mostly treated it like shots of plastic-bottle vodka. Something you choked down to get through. A lift was inevitable, but the high a bit rusty.
Then I started dating a weed delivery cyclist in Brooklyn. The ‘serve’ she worked for only got named, high-quality herb from notable California growers. We had liberal access to anything we wanted in the stash, and we were not shy about indulging. This changed everything. All of a sudden, the difference between a sativa and an indica became relevant. The distinction between Sour Diesel and an OG Kush was obvious. The cheeky little names of the strains weren’t arbitrary but contained legacies related to specific euphorias. The brands had meaning. The genetics of the plants were intentional.
The curation of the product reminded me of wineries and the experience of being a connoisseur. I wasn’t just reminded of the similarity; I was watching an economy blossom around the artfulness of ‘varietals’ so very like what popular culture had bestowed upon grapes for hundreds of years. The aficionado culture had arrived well before I saw it, but it’d be silly not to notice a very real change in the way society interacts with marijuana in the last decade.
While I’m enjoying the company of erudite stoners helping me write this series, I’m going to be grading each strain on a few key components of its character. Its overall appearance, density, moisture (or dryness), quality of storage, and curing. Is it moldy? Has it been trimmed properly? The scent profile – fruity? Astringent? Piney? Meaty (gross)? Then the fun part. How does it taste? An unlit drag followed by the green hit. How does it go down? Harsh, silky? Does it have a burn? How does it blossom into the bloodstream? Where does the mind go? Does it elicit calm, laughter, intimacy? Does it cause undue anxiety? “What was I just talking about?” or “I just figured out how to solve world hunger!” I am stoked.
All preamble aside, let’s get down to the task at hand. That bike delivery lady I mentioned earlier with the great weed? I married her. She is my first test subject here, and I think you’d dig her. I let her pick the first strain out of the box.
Here goes…
DAY 1 | THE WIFE. Melissa Detres
For context, we’ve been looking forward to tearing into this stash for a couple of days now. Melissa is a NYC>RVA transplant. She got one taste of Richmond over a decade ago, and it immediately became her Xanadu. True Yorker of the Lower East Side, gleeful Fan resident since 2021. She spent most of her career as a baker, having worked at the original Magnolia Bakery in Manhattan, been the special orders cake artist at Momofuku, and has had her work published internationally and featured in broadcast television. As I mentioned above, she delivered “branded” weed for years on her bike in Brooklyn, and knows her way around a good nug.
She chose a dusty purple-flecked clutch, dense, laden with crystals. It whispered a sweet aroma, not like candy, but more in a bakery sense. Something maple-adjacent with hints of a late Fall petrichor in a lowland wood. Not piney, not cedar, but in the realm of elms and acorns, maybe almond. The nug we chose was closely trimmed, and compressed under thumb and forefinger with a sticky, slow recoil. The scent and visual presence were not flashy, not in a “used to be vibrant and since faded away” way, but demure and modest, like it would reveal its mysteries only inside the pipe. The burnt sienna and orange hairs decorated the purple leaves and betrayed little of the green substrate beneath. It looked highly functional without much flair.
I gave Mel the green hit because I’m a good husband and followed closely after. Despite the slightly moist feel of the nug in hand, the toke went down drier than expected. I coughed like an idiot for what seemed a performative amount of time. I think she agreed it was a little dry to save me some face. It was probably just me being wack.
The flavor of the hit seemed in tune with the other characteristics’ volume levels, nothing overpowering. It was just enough jazz to avoid lo-fi hip-hop status, but not enough to require a horn section. It did not insist upon itself. Then it went to work.
Have you ever seen that video meme with the dancing Spider-Man at that kid’s birthday party, where Spidey just goes ham on his twerk game, like out of nowhere? I know that kid’s mom did not pay for that. This is what this weed did to me. It came at me at 120 BPM and just daggered right into my dome, in the best way.
I felt a shot of energy, less a peal of feedback and more like the horns at the beginning of Gorilla Biscuits’ “New Direction.” Now it decided to announce itself, unwrapping its robe and swinging it wide, chin up and confidence forward, exclaiming, “I’d fuck me…”
Contrary to reasonable expectation, I actually felt smarter in the moment. Conversation came easily. We made valid points on a range of topics that don’t shrink in the rearview mirror. Had I a Rubik’s Cube nearby, I think I could have solved it with a hard stare. Melissa described her state as being as close to a mushroom high as weed can bring. Euphoric but with balance. In fact, I’m gonna take a short break right now while writing this and have some more. Just a sec. Be right back.
It’s two hours later. I made tacos and watched an episode of Severance. I’m glad I had some more of this because it brought a couple more things to mind about smoking this with Melissa. After we finished filling out the scorecard for the official judging, we went outside (it was a beautiful day) and shared a cigarette on the balcony.
The original plan was to discuss her personal relationship with weed and to describe some hijinks of youth inspired by, or at least accompanied by, marijuana. In the blazing haze we both now occupied, Melissa opined that she’d rather not share her experiences with her tribe in turn-of-the-Millennium
Manhattan. Those were her stories, and you have to be present to hear them. Not fit for print.
She mentioned how all of her fun memories in this realm simply add up to kompromat in society. The morality police, the pearl-clutchers, are always out there to turn your good time into shame. The world is a killjoy. I had to agree with her. Buy her a drink, and she’ll tell you all about taking Steve from Blue’s Clues to a rave in Brooklyn Heights. She’ll tell you all about the graffiti and skate crews you watch documentaries about.
When you partake, protecting your identity as more than just a “stoner” is a thing. Society still demands its most upstanding citizens betray no actual relationship to marijuana. Have you smoked it before? Yes? Sure, that’s fine. Do you advocate, indulge, and represent its advancement as a positive cultural tool? “Slow down, Lebowski. You’re slurring your words.” To wit, the “stoner” is still a joke. The “stoner” is infantilized and held as unreliable in the halls of corporate industry. Even when the pervasiveness of its presence is the most outed inside joke there is. Even post-prohibition. You are not going to see an insurance commercial, or bank pamphlet, or job board with an image of a nice middle-class family smoking weed at a picnic. A bottle of wine? No problem. A fatty J passed to the left? Insane. We have a ways to go.
After getting deep in that mental cut for a good hour and a half, this strain left me in a snuggly afterglow. Like a polite guest, it didn’t devour all my snacks. It didn’t leave me in a formless heap, doomscrolling for peace. I just went on with my day. Easy peasy. I’ve made a little check mark on the tester jar to make sure I come back to it once the judging is done.
There, I broke my judging cherry. Tomorrow I’m inviting my landlord over to come smoke. Yup. My landlord.
DAY 2 | The LANDLORD. Rex
Rex Scudder is my landlord. The word “landlord” has such a medieval vibe. Like, one day I may be called into battle for him as a bannerman or something. For Rex, I might actually show up. He’s a tall, rangy man with a strong Tom Skeritt (ALIEN, Cheech and Chong’s Up in Smoke) aura. He’s often spotted with a tool in his hand, tinkering on his properties just west of Hell Block. I’ve lived in one of his beautiful apartments on Grace Street for the last four and a half years. He’s the landlord you want – kind, responsive, generous, and often a little stoned. We’ve traded stories and nugs before, but never sat down to actually smoke together. That changed a couple of days ago when I asked him to join me on this project.
Clearly, he agreed, but I found out a few things in the invitation. He’s been using weed consistently since he was a teenager (he’s in his early Zaddy 70’s now), a product of the late 60’s and 70’s boom in ganja popularity. “All you need is love” and all that. As such, he describes decades of weed being weed – nameless, formless, a monolithic experience as reliable as how bad a McDonalds hamburger can suck, consistently the same way, no matter which one you go to. Boutique strains are a bit of a foppery to him – not enough to eschew trying something that purports to be special, but enough to elicit an eyeroll when we get into breaking down the quality of this specific strain of herb. I also found out he’s been growing his own in the sprawling English garden backyard behind his row of houses that I never noticed.
Ha gave me some. I ain’t mad.
First on the list of things to gently scoff at is the premise of the flavor/nose profile. He was convinced the bud he chose smelled exactly like… weed. My job here is to dig a bit deeper than identifying the aroma of marijuana as itself. When you walk into a coffee roastery and smell their beans, it should do more to the senses than what you get from walking into a Waffle House at 7AM.
Whether you decide to stand there and pick apart the specific notes you smell in a bag of weed when you’re handed one, you do likely smell it first. Think about the last glass of good wine you had. I’m gonna bet you stuffed your nose in that glass and took it in first, even if you didn’t actually stop and notice the blackberry hiding behind the leather. It’s right on top of the cocoa, just before you smell the vanilla. But you probably open the bag you just bought (or were handed by an enthusiastic friend) and smell that thing. Maybe ìt’s just a ritual to prompt a comment on the overall quality of the experience. Scent is key to fully enjoying flower, weed or otherwise – even metaphorical ones.
I don’t disagree 100% with him, though. So much of our dissembling comes from an intentional will to analyze and elevate our own opinions over less-trained palates. This urge has been the butt of every joke on snobbery surrounding weed, wine, film, art – you name it. It’s the critics’ masturbatory impulse to imagine melon or lemon in the wafts released from a jar fecund with the aroma of, well, weed. But it is also the critic’s job. It is my duty in the moment, and I intend to make good on it. Even if that means trying a little too hard to smell snozzberries where there are no snozzberries. The value of sensitivity to nuance is debatable, mostly to those who don’t have it. The value of being able to isolate notes of influence is subjective – but objectively fun. If you’re looking for a “why” to do anything, fun will always be the best answer. So here goes.
Rex sniffed every jar and couldn’t genuinely find a “favorite”, so we went at random. The one we ended up opening had a lot of character. The first impression it made on me was the absolute frosting of diamond-like crystals that obscured the generous red hairs peppering the dense and spongy nug. I believe this is what “sticky-icky” refers to. I can sense resistance between my fingertips and my keyboard after handling it just now. On the nose, it felt crowded. It smelled like an orchestra tuning strings on first whiff, and didn’t resolve into an overture until I was damn near snorting it. Once the conductor in my septum flicked his wand to organize that cacophony, I was alerted to a relatable sense memory. I imagined a bag of spices and dessicated citrus, fit for a mulled wine recipe. Mandarin orange rind and apple, dappled with nutmeg, cardamom, clove – with something held back in the space of a subtler melon or dragonfruit. I reached deep for that description, but I’m sticking to it as much as the nug itself is still sticking to my fingers.
The three of us, Melissa included (because she lives here and everything) were ready to take the first hit and lean back into it. Staring down the barrel of my bong, I noticed once again how the bud’s abundance of crystals caught the afternoon sunlight shining through the window and the glass of the piece. I didn’t say anything about it at the moment, but I made sure I remembered to write about it here.
The flavor was creamy, full of warm spices and felt round in the mouth. That’s a thing. The personality of a strain is introduced at different moments to different degrees. The way you can meet someone five times and never remember their name until that one time you end up oversharing over a bag at 5am. The next noticeable facet was the gentle grip of a headband, less Rambo, more Karate Kid. Fitted. Not aggressive.
The physical sensation spread through my neck and shoulders to produce a body high that the previous entry had none of. It had a massaging quality, not a release but a steady pressure you can relax into. The product was a relaxing cheerfulness that imbued the conversation to come. Rex was delightfully flushed and glassy-eyed as we laughed about his stoner friends who would 100% enjoy this. Overall, we had a quality chat, laughed at momentarily funny things, and forgot this was for work.
As I was woolgathering at the whim of the smoke, I imagined this would be a great strain to take with you on a walk to the park. Preferably with a dog. It’s a stress-peeler, intensified in motion. It also pairs well with headphones and music, as I found out when I did the walk I’m recommending. The only thing missing was that I wasn’t going to the park, nor did I have a dog. Wished I did, though. I chose Fugazi’s Instrument Soundtrack as my drummer boy.
We smoked some more in search of the ceiling and found a vaulted dome high above the clouds of our own making. The elevator goes to the top floor, my friends. The more I smoked it, the more I enjoyed it. The more I enjoyed it, the more I wanted to pillage the snack pantry. Rex left after a bit, responding to his wife Sue’s (we love Sue) texts asking how long this was gonna take. Melissa and I put on pajamas and raided the kitchen. Rex showed back up unexpectedly about fifteen minutes later with a gift bag of his own homegrown (can’t wait to try it) and the most stoned chuckle I’ve ever heard from him. Gift received, Mel and I went back to destroying the groceries we just stocked the fridge with.
Tomorrow I get to do this with my best friend, one of the OGs of third-wave feminist, iconic publication BUST magazine, a VCU alum, and a prominent style catalyst for the entire Bushwick, New York experience, Callie Watts.
DAY 3 | The BESTIE. Callie
I’m getting the hang of this, I think. Today, I get to share the adventure with Callie Watts. Our friendship makes Han and Chewie seem awkward together. She’s the kind of friend capable of ending your political campaign with a fraction of the compromising stories she vaults for you. She also happens to be an icon of a life/style movement that defined Bushwick in the first quarter of this century. Find a nightlife photographer in Brooklyn from the Aughties and Teens that doesn’t have a folder dedicated to her outfits and/or lack thereof. She was a regular item in the VICE “Do’s and Don’ts” for a decade, and seemingly a cheeky inspiration for several archetypal Bushwickian TV “characters” of the time. She was the last holdout of the OG crew at BUST magazine, an indispensable media outlet that has shaped third-wave feminism since the early 90s. She’s been the publisher of Liger Beat/Candy Rain magazine (a hilarious porn magazine for women who love the D) and a rapper in several Brooklyn-based groups (Faces of Weed, Drunky Brewster, etc.).
I met her on the dancefloor of Wreck Room (RIP) in 2008 and became hermetically bonded in hijinks to her. She was the Best “Man” in my wedding, and I was the “Maid” of Honor in hers. She introduced me to Melissa. She started writing remotely from Richmond in 2024 (she’s a VCU grad originally from Hoodbridge, VA) after traveling the globe for a couple of years in search of Animal Chin (actually, just because she could – but I wanted to make old skaters happy with that reference). We have smoked ALL the weed. We drank the lion’s share.
Callie comes over to our place with the understanding she’s probably crashing here tonight. It’s not even late, but once she’s here, that’s usually a wrap for the night. She’s been looking forward to this as much as I have. We have spent the last eighteen years smoking weed in the most unlikely company (Wu Tang, David Cross, and Macaulay Culkin for starters), in the most ironic venues (The French Embassy in NY, on a boat we built ourselves in the Rockaways, abandoned churches (plural)) To do this ceremoniously with my personal Cat in the Hat is the best.
I explain the rules to this, and she ignores me. She tells me how she would do it instead. I ignore her and start doing it my way anyway. She’s still explaining her irrelevant idea as Melissa is cleaning the bong, and I’m finding my pen to take notes. She grins and does a little shoulder shimmy while rattling the glass jars in my judge’s box. She is a frequently published critic as well, so she’s got something to say about each strain as she smells the samples. I patiently yell “Pick one already!” and she does.
Callie settled on a strain that recalled a ginger kid with a temper. Red rairs unkempt with a fringe of winter leaf didn’t give off the best impression, but first glances are frequently liars. If I weren’t literally engaged in the process of dressing this nug down like a cop, I would never have stopped to notice the unnecessary stem and browning where green should be. Oh no, am I about to review one of these strains poorly? I’m withholding judgment for the moment.
On the nose, it comes off a bit pheromonal in a good way, like your partner’s neck, just under their ear, after a shower. A little powder, maybe? Certain scents recall environments, foods, perfumes, and some just trigger a boner, evidently. This one seems a little like “Stop, I’m trying to get ready” and I’m all “We’ve got some time before we have to leave…” Wistful fantasies aside, the aroma is more than pleasant, and I’m glad I stopped myself from negging the strain when I did.
I’m finding that one category of criticism has no bearing on another, so after taking a good long pull from the bong, I’m not surprised that it tastes nothing like it smells, and fares much better than it looks. The flavor is woody – hickory, oak? It hits on the back of the throat like a deep inhale in front of a campfire and could pair very well with a great whiskey and a cigar. We argue this point long enough for the high to kick in, and when it does, it’s a nostalgic revelation.
This strain does everything TV told you weed would do to you. While Callie and I are predisposed to rampant silliness, this took us to the classic incarnation of ‘stoned’. Our postures slump into the wide couch we’re lounging on. Everything was funnier than it should have been. Bemusement overshadowed calm, nonsensical jokes preempted targeted wit, and a great time was had by all. Callie, Melissa, and I truly did not want to stop smoking this, so we didn’t. We got blazed af. Just ripped it, and ripped it some more. There was a distinct sense of days gone by when no one had classes on a Wednesday afternoon, but you were armed with a fresh bag and several friends. This feeling pairs well with watching The Price is Right on a sunny afternoon when there’s a project due. I imagined some cheap beer and a nap in the near future. We smoked some more. This weed is fucking excellent. It wasn’t until Callie was a little slurry that we decided to ease off the bong. By that time, we had started reminiscing about our Brooklyn years together and all the stories – the hundreds of stories – that we’ve woven together.
There was a time when we both worked at BUST, and our pay schedules were offset. She got paid the first and third weeks, me the second and fourth. As we were both financial imbeciles, we would often be broke by the time the other one got paid. We traded a relief $100 bill like a ping pong ball between us for months before we lost track of who paid who last and decided to just let it go into the ether. We have seen each other through breakups, sickness, losses, everything. When my father passed away in 2013, I was having a birthday party in my East Williamsburg apartment. 200+ people, four DJs, a tattoo artist doing their thing in my bedroom, a Grammy winner on the decks, etc. Madness. I had to leave hastily to go back to Richmond to see my family when I got the news. When I got home to BK the following week, Callie and a couple of friends from work cleaned my entire apartment and stocked my fridge. I carried her dying cat in a papoose bag to the vet for her final visit. Callie and I held hands and soothed Wanda to sleep together. She is family in a way my blood relatives rarely are.
This strain was the reminder of why we smoke weed in the first place. Perfectly accessible and 100% a callback to easier times, before MAGA Wars, Episode One: The Orange Menace or Episode Two: Attack of the Chodes. I wanted to be in this haze longer than it would let me. Not that it fell off quickly or anything, I was just content with the ride we had already been on. I didn’t want to ruin it. As I presumed earlier, Callie was now debating whether or not she could move her listless carcass off my couch successfully enough to reach the guest bedroom upstairs.
Tomorrow is either going to be a session with another RVA grower and deep time homie of mine, my Kramer, Bryan “Pelican” Edwards. We’ll just have to see which one shows up.
DAY 4 | The KRAMER. Pelican
I am convinced Bryan “Pelican” Edwards is actually the Richmond Vampire of legend. He doesn’t age, he is mainly found at night, and would look totally comfortable at a basement blood rave explaining alternating current to Wesley Snipes. If you’re into karaoke around Richmond, you’ve definitely at least heard him growl some Green Jello or Amy Winehouse on a weekday night. The man loves to sing. If you like live music, you’ve definitely seen him at one of the many, many shows he somehow finds the time to go to. I don’t know where he gets the energy, but he’s out a lot. He’s been a staple in Richmond’s bar scene for decades and, at this poin,t has established minor local celebrity status.
He’s also one of the most solid dudes you’ll ever meet, and one of my best friends.
He also grows weed and has the mind of an engineer. Which means he has opinions on everything – especially weed. He’s not really a Kramer, btw. That would imply he’s constantly taking stuff from my house, which is the opposite of reality. He’s a very generous human. While he may show up at my door at 3AM on a Saturday or 3PM on a Wednesday, he always has either weed or whiskey in hand to go with the dozen or so new adventures to regale me with. He’s a gifted electrician and lighting tech, and the most trusted gaffer at my production company, See the Tree Productions. I also make movies when I’m not writing about weed. Or is it the other way around? Who knows?
The routine was the same for this visit. He came over and was primed for the ritual. He chose a strain with a very dense bud, well-manicured and with a satisfying crumble under the fingers. While it displayed a healthy crust of crystals, it yielded between thumb and forefinger into a fine shake I wasn’t really expecting. It didn’t smell or visually present itself as dry, but it sure acted like it. The aroma was a surprise as well. We first identified honeysuckle and wildflower, but noticed a resin signature giving a little blacktop tar overtones you’d get in summer as the roads bake under the sticky sun. The entire miasma recalled a roadside patch of flowers on a hot day, sweet and acrid. You could almost hear the cicadas screaming in the whiff.
Like everything else he puts his hands and mind to, Bryan is taking this seriously. He grows his own plants and gives me his horticulturally relevant opinions. I think he’s secretly miffed he’s not the one judging this thing. I have a ton of respect for his attention to detail, so I’m here for his criticisms. We’re locked and loaded in the bong, so here goes…
The first pulls revealed an earthy flavor, as if you were now sitting in that roadside patch, pulling those honeysuckles off the stems and munching them whole. Bryan asked if I had recently cleaned the bong as he was picking up some bongwater notes. The thing was sterilized before he got here, so I’m a little miffed he said that. Nah, that’s in the ganja, my friend. I run a tight ship over here. It’s not pleasant, but it’s not offensive. It’s just where this strain lands. The overall everything of it all recalls urban development. In this case, the aroma predicts the flavor completely.
This phase of judging has to happen quickly. I want to move on to discussing the effects before the high leaves us on the shore, debating the taste. Before it sails away with our minds and memories, we lean forward into the experience, elbows on knees and brows furrowed. It shouldn’t be that difficult to recognize the state you’re in at a top-of-mind awareness, but it’s proving to be a challenge. That’s when it hits me. This strain made us dumb. A few minutes of silence (literally unheard of when we are both in a room), and I could only describe this submergence as a quiet hour in a backyard pool, draped over a floatie. It’s intense and immobilizing.
Melissa was on her way out the door to go to a friend’s birthday dinner. I motioned halfheartedly for her to get in on this strain before she left. A couple of bong rips and an obligatory, but kinda over-it-already, weigh-in on the merits, and she was off on a 12ish-minute walk to Helen’s. For a New York Pedestrian who’s been Sagarmatha-level high for a sizeable portion of the century to text you how difficult that trip was is a testament to the lead blanket this tucks you in under.
Bryan and I are still sitting on the couch and haven’t really moved in the last half hour. We’re still trying to be clever about descriptors of the weed, but abject laziness has won. We decide to just put some music on. I request some doom metal. He picks “Rhinoceros” by GRIEF. He’s not wrong. Perfect pairing to the weird, warm grave my body is currently interred in. This isn’t exactly uncharted territory in the weed smokers’ experience, but it is definitive for this type of experience.
If you absolutely must tune out everything that annoys you and be entertained by your heartbeat for a couple of hours (yeah, this stuck around for a while), this is your jam. I can’t wait to find out what strain this actually is, so I can put a hazmat sticker on the jar next to the name.
Christ. I need a palette cleanser…
DAY 5 | THE BREATH OF FRESH AIR: AFFIA
And now for something completely different.
I haven’t really hung out with Affia in a while, minus a brief cocktail at Bamboo recently. We’re busy. She travels a lot. I start to miss her around the three-week mark of not seeing her, and this project was a great lure to get some hang time. We met smoking a joint in the back of a van somewhere in Carver a long time ago. I think after a day at Hadad’s or Slaughterama, can’t remember which. She’s been adjacent to my life for at least fifteen years. In that time, we have wound up at the same parties, found each other randomly in the same (non-RVA) cities, shared the same close friends, and at one point, were briefly roommates. Our bonds have definitely grown in that time from recognition of proximity to full-blown homiedom, but at every stage, her presence was the harbinger of a great time. She’s so much damn fun.
Here’s the thing about Affia and why I wanted to smoke with her for this. I know what it’s like to know too many people, be in too many stories, and not be able to project facts past the inevitable third-party fictions being social creates. Smack gets talked when you’re memorable. I am unimpressed with gossip, and between the two of us, we’ve been (independently) the center of a lot of it. I’ve never had a bad time when she’s been around. I hope she feels the same. Our friendship includes wild parties, afternoon mimosas, bingeing TV in silence, and deep conversations in safe spaces. She’s one of the few complete ‘hall pass’ people in Melissa and I’s home – welcome anytime. In some Marie Kondo type of way, she “sparks joy”. She’s just a face I love to see, even when I feel like punching one.
She’s spun the career wheel as much as the best of us, and at the moment, is repping artist-forward greeting cards to gift and curiosity boutiques all over the Eastern Seaboard (while hustling brunch at Joe’s Inn on the side). Even after being involved in any number of RVA activist and community projects and starring in a full history book’s worth of RVA local lore, what makes her stand out to me is less accomplishment-oriented and more for the light she brings into my living room.
It’s mad cold when she arrives at our home. She’s bundled up and rosy in the face. It’s all smiles as we’ve been looking forward to this for a minute.
Fast forward to when she’s picked her jar, and we’re giddy about the process ahead. Everyone seems to love the little “tea ritual” of examining the buds for all the competition-focused one-to-ten number ratings of aroma, flavor, etc. I’m getting into a rhythm with it as well. After completing the must-dos, we got to business.
This one presented itself as a finely-tailored (perfectly-trimmed) Kelly green shift dress under a tulle layer of fine red hairs. The crystals that clung to both bedazzled the entire bud like diamond dust. It dented under compression without a bounce back, like a flourless cake. On the nose, it gave off a vegetal aroma you’d experience in a backyard garden. Tomato, cucumber, greens on the savory side. Unlike some of the previous entries, this one was consistent in flavor. The garden notes lingered on the tongue and revealed a row of peppers we missed when smelling it. A little spicier in the lungs, but still in the realm of a visit to your neighborhood produce co-op.
We discussed enough of our first impressions to drop the work and just catch up. The weed had an immediate elevating effect, creating a talkative environment. We rambled on about random shit, job moves, exes, kinks we don’t understand (but don’t neg), and hopeful plans for visiting friends in Puerto Rico this Summer. It took a minute to realize that the high we were supposed to be documenting was keeping us distracted with its effects. It had bounce, levity. It was stimulating in a very gentle way. Conversation wasn’t a compulsion at its command, but an open doorway made easier by atypical access to your vocabulary. It graciously left our ability to communicate intact, a quality weed will often borrow from you under its influence.
I also noticed that the back pain I carry with me like a stabby albatross eased up on the shiv. Put this one down for pain relief remedy number one. I went back and increased its effect score by a digit. Then we noticed something different. Maybe this is a ladder effect where the more you smoke, the more an emergent spacey high settles in. Ability to chit chat intact, the high blossomed into an indica river delta where the silt is flecked with gold. By the time we were giggling about the crazy about-face in the high and calling it out, the original sativa-bent feelings came back. We joked it was like a gobstopper, layered and unpredictable. Maybe all the talking had something to do with it, but this gave cottonmouth like “whoaa…”
Mel got home and joined the party late. We hung and laughed for another hour before she had to feed her out-of-town friend’s cats. We had a blast. I’m setting the alarm for three weeks from now, but I hope I don’t have to wait that long. Tomorrow I get to smoke with my son. Yes, he’s an adult. And yes, it’s the best thing in the world that I get to smoke with my kid.
Day 6 | THE SON, Tony
Twenty-eight years ago, I had the pleasure of being the first person to ever see his face. It was a bit messy, cone-headed, and quite possibly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever witnessed.
A few hours after he was born at Chippenham Hospital, I was walking my sister to the newborn viewing window where a baker’s dozen of pink to brown screamers were waiting to be handed back to their parents. I had this distinct fear I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup. They were all so squishy and new. We got to the viewing space, and there he was. There wasn’t a single child there like him. There was no chance I could ever mistake him for someone else. Fear went away completely as I jabbed my finger towards his bassinet and declared, “Tony. That’s my son!”
All the hopes and scenarios that played out in my mind that morning in June of 1997 paled in comparison to what was to come. His mother and I fell out of our post-adolescent romance a few years later. We split up. I wound up saying goodbye to his excited screams when I would walk through the door after work every day. I made do with saying hello on the phone regularly, talking about his days playing with toys or going to school. He always asked when I was coming home. I spent a lot of time reassuring him that I loved him, even though I wasn’t there to hug him.
I’ll skip over the horrors of losing a future and having to backtrack to a diverging path. It was bad, and I resented it greatly. I ventured forth in my career, hoping to at least be an example of determination, creativity, and self-sufficiency to a boy who could very easily grow to resent my absence. His visits in the years to come would be exultant moments tinged with shame. I never seemed to have gotten ahead in life enough to lavish the gifts and experiences I dreamed of making his. Life happened. Years went by. Disappointments and misunderstandings festered.
He became an adult. We never lost contact. I was always available for a phone call. It wasn’t what I had planned, but it was our story. As he grew into a man, I could see the parts of me that I tried to instill in him blossom. He got into photography, film, and video games (as a gamer and an aspiring creator). He loved Anime, Tom Morello, and Tyler the Creator. He had a solid group of friends. He was close to his cousins. He found love in a beautiful woman with a wonderful soul. We started hanging out like friends who had been through everything together. We both enjoy good weed, and that helps a lot.
He drives over to our place one afternoon in anticipation of doing this project with me. I’m all grins that I have this opportunity to share this with him. His long, curly hair sits above a sardonic smile that he was doubly gifted – from his mother as much as me. I can see her in his face sometimes, and I remember good times.
I’m Puerto Rican, so I don’t do hiding emotions well. Big hugs and kisses block his path to the living room. I’ve explained this process to him already, so we get to it. I’ve become attuned to a curiosity for why my guests pick the strains they do, but this time I can see his aestheticism working in real time. This strain is beautiful, almost lime green in its color intensity. Flecked within that greenscape are dottings of purple and a thinning of red hairs. The bud is bright. The occlusions of darker tones merely break up the field, but never dominate it. It’s striking in its appearance, not like a poisonous toad as much as the exotic mushroom it perches on.
I love watching him break this down. I can see my face in his. The way he tilts his head, the failed urge to conceal an eyeroll, the smile that curls one corner of his mouth just before he says something smartassy. His notes on aroma hit the nail on the head. Floral, very perfume-y. A little sourness in the realm of a pomelo, but closer to a Marc Jacobs eau de toilette when your nose isn’t jammed into the jar. We settle on potpourri as the overall sense, once we remember the word for it.
After we pull on the bong a few times and set it down, we wait for the effects to kick in. We tend to talk about the media we like. I watch a lot of movies, and he plays a lot of games. I’ve been using Apex Legends as a stress release timekiller game for years now (he introduced me to it), and I finally got him to finish watching Andor. I raised him on Star Wars, as a responsible father should. He gives me his recommendations for games I’d like (they’re always on point), and I’m selling him Severance and Pluribus. I genuinely love talking to this guy, so it takes a minute to remember why we’re here.
And then it dawns on me, this is why we’re here. We just did about twenty minutes, just chilling out on my couch, talking about what inspires us. I look at him and see a human I helped make – with opinions, loves, hurts, dreams, and secrets all his own. He’s here of his own accord, telling me about the things that matter to him. I spend so much time appreciating him that I forget to enjoy his joy in sharing with me.
I’m literally crying a little while writing this right now. I’m such a sappy fuck.
We went for a walk. It was one of those gorgeous days right before our half-stack of a snow/ice storm at the end of January. We decide to get some ramen at the Ramen Spot on Grace and Harrison. Our love for ramen and pho may actually be genetically encoded. The weed is there with us, helping us communicate with each other, helping us take a silent dozen steps in security before a new topic presents itself. This strain was right on time. Happy, mellow, a sherpa to a contentment I didn’t expect. I felt whole in a way I hadn’t planned for. I recognized the smile I wore in that moment as the culmination of never giving up, or going away, always loving and giving this boy all the nurturing scraps this old, rusty man has left to give.
I’m going to cut off here, because I’m gonna keep the rest of this to myself.
Next, we’re going to do something fun and a little experimental. I’ve been obsessed with the curious intersection of music and marijuana forever. John Morand at Sound of Music is, too. So is Soraya Teschner of IONNA. We even got Ian Marburger to join the band. We are going to get blazed and then make some music on the spot.
It’s a good one. Come back and hear that story too.
DAY 7 | THE MUSIC: John Morand, Ian Marberger, and IONNA at Sound of Music Studios
I play music constantly. By play, I do not mean an instrument. I am a terrible musician. I’m a genius with a playlist (self-proclaimed – I’m often told by Melissa to surrender the Bluetooth speaker whenever we have people over). Even with my astoundingly prominent handicap with a guitar, one of my favorite memories is a late night in Brooklyn, at a recording studio with some very talented friends. We’d been tearing up the neighborhood all night and decided to fall back to Rob Granata’s rented space for a jam session after last call. We got really stoned and just started hacking away at a mood, musically.
I got on the drums.
I have rhythm and limb independence, but only when I’m not thinking about it. The moment I can see myself in my mind’s mirror, I fall to shit. But for about 12 minutes, I put down a hot beat and did some sonic calligraphy with fun fills that amazed even my homies. I was stoned, in a zone, and I loved it. As soon as I realized I was in that lane, my house of confident cards collapsed into a self-consciousness my body couldn’t rebuild. It was gone. I turned into a pumpkin again.
It got me thinking about the transcendent creative properties of THC. I want to believe that there is a musician deep inside every one of us (even me). Weed seems to awaken the Pan in our Peters, Pauls, and Marys. Philosophers and stoners have pondered this in fuller detail than I’m going to get into here, and I suggest you do some deeper reading on the subject elsewhere. I decided to take this project off my couch and bring it to a space where we could explore the phenomenon to completion.
Like a kismet machine, John Morand of Sound of Music Studios (see: GWAR, Lamb of God, Clutch, Sparklehorse, Honor Role, Burma Jam, Four Walls Falling, Cracker, Labradford, and Hanson (yes, that Hanson)) texted me his appreciation for this series of articles and his desire to be in an episode. Making the easiest decision I’ve made this year, I accepted. He is a weed grower and enthusiast. I knew he would get a kick out of this process.
Soraya Teschner, or as Richmond music fans know her, IONNA, is a dear friend to Melissa and me. I asked Soraya to come with me to this smoke/jam session and see what happens when we get loose.
When we all arrive at the studio, and to little surprise, John has mic’ed up all the instruments in the studio space. He’s invited his intern, Mallie Schneider, to film the whole thing. We make her smoke with us. Ian Marberger (Roughshod, TV Battlestations, and more) shows up kind of by accident, and we recruit him too.
Business first, however.
I break out the bong (that I thankfully remembered to drain before I put it in my bag) and the slowly dwindling number of glass jars in my judge’s case. Cameras rolling and giggles peppering the small talk, we get down to it. John and Soraya agree on a jar. It’s a curious choice. This one is very different from the previous strains. There’s something a little morning-breathy about it. A sour smell. Cheese? A spicy mustard even with some lemon and tarragon shoved into the back of its fridge. We laughed about it being like a really strong, exotic IPA that an annoying friend might demand you try. I’m not going to pretend I enjoyed the aroma. I didn’t. I also can’t stand IPAs. But as I have learned already, and commented on several times here, these strains are layered like onions – even if this one smells too much like one. Donkey knows what I’m talking about.
It looks like it’s gotten a fresh haircut. Like it’s going to a weed job interview. Very green, trimmed meticulously, not a hint of darker undertones. The hairs are short on top of short leaves, and the concretions of crystals are so small they merely refract the colors underneath, without the diamond dust sheen others have presented with. It’s very tidy.
Nice to meet you, Mr. Chronic. Have a seat here in this bong stem.
I broke out the strain again while I was writing this to refresh my memory (and because I ain’t got nowhere to be right now). Anyway, my notes held up. Betraying its fetid aroma and the contradiction in appearance, the weed surprised again with its flavor. There was a very short window in which to enjoy it; no lingering aftertaste. What I got from it was in the realm of tobacco. Not a Parliament or a Pall Mall, more like a Cohiba or Romeo y Julieta. It was peppery with a little of that tarragon backbeat I noticed on the nose. Maybe because we were trying to pinpoint the flavor, we ended up smoking an unreal amount. This worked in our favor.
When she first arrived at the studio, Soraya half-sarcastically thanked me for always finding ways to stretch her comfort zone. By the time we’ve picked out our adjectives for the strain, she’s as comfortable as a me in my living room. John is puttering about with the microphones. Ian is tuning his bass and guitar. Soraya’s pacing the studio, making jokes.
I got the sense these three were really looking forward to this, and I was with them all the way. We’d entered a zone of pure spontaneity, prepped for unnecessary creativity for fun’s sake. The strain was carrying us into this mood very well. There was an air of playfulness in the room I had been so stoked to facilitate.
Ian led with a bassline that provided the scaffolding on which John’s drums would build. Soraya, at the piano, nodded along, finding the groove and the chords. Sixteen or so bars into that groove, the mist of possible paths coalesced into a discernible alley of sound and rhythm. Soraya played a simple chord progression to dance with the bass. That formerly misty alleyway’s lights came on. The textures of the road became HDR. Stream-of-consciousness lyrics complemented Soraya’s chanteuse voice. Her lead invigorated her accompanists to find melody and progression. A song began to take shape. And then another one. And another. As I said, John recorded this whole session, and I’ve included it below.
The best thing about a jam isn’t perfection. It’s not about completing anything. The journey is the thing. The weed we smoked didn’t make anyone better at their craft, but it made art their plaything, not their job. For a good half hour, I got to see three musicians just play. I mean that in the playground sense. This was fun. The weed was fun. Superfun. Heady without sluggishness. A little dance-y. This is definitely a feel-good strain. It is stimulating the maker side of my brain, even now. It’s really helping me write all of this. I give it very high marks for the good time it shared with me, and I really hope I get to get some more of this when this is all said and done.
These fuckers at the studio smoked almost all of it.
Now here is the music.
Come back next time when I get snowed in with Melissa and decide to explore the singular joys of the Wake and Bake.
DAY 8 & 9: The WAKE AND BAKE SNOW DAY and HOW TO NOT BE KILLED BY YOUR SPOUSE
Snow days change flavor as you get older. What was once the realm of pajamas, cartoons, and sugary cereal on a Wednesday morning in January has morphed into… actually, it hasn’t changed much at all. Regardless, we stocked up for this storm. Snacks, ingredients for stews, whiskey for toddies, wine, video games, and movies in a prepared list (that we don’t have to doomscroll streaming service home screens for). We are geared up to take on Snowpocalypse with a resistance built on coziness and sloth – and a side of inebriation.
One of the greatest joys in the weed smokers’ experience is the classic wake and bake. It is a symbol of reclamation. Your day, your speed. It says to the universe that there is no Zoom meeting or errand that may demand your time today. You’re already fucked up, and it would be irresponsible to attempt responsibilities in this condition. It’s putting your foot down when the world would have your ankles behind your ears. It’s a wonderful experience when you’re alone for sure, but having a partner along for the vibe is all the tits.
Melissa and I woke up to an underwhelming snowfall that would turn into an icy nightmare in the days to come. We didn’t know that yet. For now, everything was “Gates of Heaven” bright and white outside, and the radiators were pumping out that sweet Fahrenheit in our Fan townhouse. I held off on the coffee and snacks until we got today’s weed sample down. I didn’t want to influence the flavors of the herb with breakfast and coffee smells. The mood recalled the only thing about the Covid quarantines I miss. Waking up every day with my best friend on a mission to exist peacefully in a small space should have been harder than it was. Leaning in on the cuddles, and conversely, deliberate quiet times when we’d keep to ourselves, was the trick. There is an art to conflict avoidance, and weed is one of the best tools to use in search of it.
So, how did we do? I did the choosing today as I was up and out of bed early. I popped open the jar lid that was stuck to the rim of the mason jar to find a densely packed, dry, and crumbly bud. It had the hand-feel of loose stucco or popcorn ceiling. It had the appearance of a dusky stormcloud, purples and greens with very short red hairs and unremarkable crystal structures. It randomly brought to mind a shopping mall with 25% storefront occupancy with 75% off sales in all the windows. It was like there should have been more to it, but there wasn’t.
The aroma played hide and seek with my nostrils. It took a long while to derive any real flavor from the whiff. Impressions ranged wildly from grapefruit to something more gamey. A swing from tang to oil without the journey. It was confusing. It wasn’t bad, but I can’t say it was good either. It just was. Sometimes that’s the way it goes, though. I’ve found that a number of these strains impress immediately with a miasma of spectacular notes, and some hide in the shadows and wait for you to get into attack range. I wasn’t about to write it off as being shy. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, well… you can’t fool me twice. A great (/s) man said that once.
So we smoked it. And we waited. I was about to make some unkind notes, and then the lights came on. It entered my brain center stage and threw its arms wide under a hot spotlight. It had all the subtlety of Frank N. Furter suggestively eating a frankfurter. Which just made me giggle a little. Then Melissa giggled a little. Then we were both laughing, and loving the fact that our wake and bake was going to be chaperoned by this silly bud. Finally, a great laughy weed. My favorite!
We made breakfast and smoked some more. I had coffee and smoked some more. We shared memes and videos while ignoring a movie and smoked even more. Mind you, we’ve been indulging in all of these with gusto from the get, but this one we inhaled, literally and figuratively. And then, like a painted tunnel on a brick wall, my gluttony crashed into my biology. I greened out – hard. I don’t know if you’ve been in this spot, and I hope you haven’t. It’s not fun. One deep pull led to a coughing fit and a faint. The fainting led to a near-epileptic response that had Melissa creeped all the way out, and the bong was put away for the rest of the day. I was better in a matter of a minute, but the hot stove had been touched. I was done.
All in all, the strain was GREAT, but must have been supersaturated in THC. Enough to put me on my ass anyway. The only upside was that my wife went into full mommy mode and took care of me for the rest of the day. I may be swaddled in a blanket and seated in front of snacks and a giant glass of water, but I would have really liked not to have considered a doctor’s visit today. I was a little miffed I didn’t stop while I was ahead. I can only say this strain ain’t playin’. I felt like a vampire that just bit Willie Nelson. Which also makes me giggle.
NOTE: I came back to this one a few days later, the way the apes were touching the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Puff, and run away. Puff, and run away while shrieking. Puff, and maybe just hang a bit. Puff, and wonder what all the fuss was about. It’s just a monolith. I was fine. It’s a sipper. I can sip. Problem solved.
Harrumph. It’s the next day. This fucking ice, dude. Seriously. I’ve nearly eaten it half a dozen times on this shit. Melissa and I are squarely in the “you stay upstairs while I play video games in the living room” phase of being on house arrest. If we don’t, we will find literally the most idiotic thing to argue about. It’s a weekend night, but the idea of going out is laughable. We’ve got mad leftovers from a beef stew Mel made yesterday. We just bought Red Dead Redemption 2 to pass the time. We are both pretending to have forgotten our fruitless (and mostly pointless) screaming match from earlier that I’m sure our neighbors enjoyed.
After a full day of making each other miserable, we decided to get back on the stick with this project. I won’t lie. I was a little gun-shy. The whole greening out thing yesterday was legit scary. We will be putting some respect on this session and taking it a wee bit slower. It’s a bit of a quieter exchange because literally everything is annoying right now.
The first impression this made on me was the army green of the bud. It is distinctly olive in color with abundant crystals. Depending on the angle from which you view it, there is a bit of a rusty brown that hazes over the very consistent green underneath. It’s nice to look at in an optical illusion kinda way. I raise the dimmed lights in the living room to full brightness to get the best view of it. Melissa and I examine it together. I notice we’re sitting a little closer to each other, knees touching as we hunched over the specimen.
The nose on this thing was surprising. Do you remember Necco wafers? If you’re under 40, you probably don’t, and that is fine. It’s old people’s candy. It was old people’s candy when I was a kid, and that was well before the internet. The first whiff reminded me of trying this confectionery abomination out of curiosity sometime in the 80s. That smell remained ingrained in some fatty, folded ridge in my brain where I keep “nope” responses. It was a chalky, noxious, fruit-adjacent aroma that pinged loudly with nostalgia. The weirdest part was that it morphed into something more ammonia-driven when I stuck my nose deep in the jar. The only thing I could correlate it to was pink prison soap. I’ve never been to prison, but this is what I imagine it smells like. Like the powdery soap you find in a construction job site bathroom. Like Necco wafers, if you crushed them and needed to get oily tar from under your fingernails before handling your lunch. Melissa said it smelled like pee, and we laughed.
This is where it gets weird. We didn’t expect much of this one, having already associated it with piss and gross candy. We discovered, on the first few pulls from the bong, that the flavor was very pleasant. We leaned back on the couch, and I posited “dried apples and hickory?” with very much emphasis on the question mark. She raised an eyebrow and countered with a taste of rubber. I wasn’t getting rubber per se, but I wasn’t exactly sold on my apple/hickory response either. If we lost out on consensus for the bud’s outfit and cologne, we definitely agreed on its sick dance moves.
We went quiet for a few minutes. Mel nestled in under my arm that was resting along the back of the couch, and I pulled her close. She fussed with the blanket we keep there and covered us both. Before we got too comfy, I finished what was in the bong and packed another for seconds. It was quiet, and she was warm beside me. The first commentary on the effects was a very Beavis and Butthead exchange of chuckles. The blanketed nest we built felt luxurious under the influence of the bud. Relaxation blossomed and soon smiles, apologies, and kisses replaced the side-eyes and grumbling of the day. There was an instant switch in attitude. We were a team again. This strain had the calming effect of a Jedi Mind Trick or a strip mall massage on a bad day.
That second round in the bong was gone by the time we got around to really talking about the weed. To be honest, we didn’t spend much time doing that, because this felt soooo good. We fell into conversation, alternately goofy and deep, but mostly goofy. A good twenty minutes in, and we were in top gear as a couple, as friends. I felt like it made it easier to access abstractions that underlie the nature of humor and heart. We were having a great time. This was the best outcome possible for a smoke session. This was the pinnacle of experience you could expect from a session, and I was grateful it coincided with a desperate need not be at odds with my wife. We joked and snuggled, snuggled and joked – and smoked. The rest of the evening got a little rated R, but that’s nunya business…
Best strain so far. Hands down.
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