“All good, dude. I’ll just take a Sprite.” He pulled out a half-empty can from under the shelf and handed it to me. “Here,” he said. “I’ve been llin’ up drinks with this one. I don’t even need to ring you up, you can just have it.” Yes, I must be that out of place. A hobo in Carnegie Hall. “Can I… actually buy a Sprite?” “Oh yea, yea. You can totally do that…” I met the others near the food truck. Ford had ordered one of the few remaining pizzas, baked on the brick. We sat quietly, chowing hard, passing a doobie between bites. “Fuck yea,” he raved. “You gotta love a Neapolitan that doesn't get soggy on the bottom, yes?” “For the last four hours we were trying to get something to eat,” Huxley pointed out, “And all we did was drink more.” “Why does stu like that always happen when you’re tripping?” “Man, Ross… at guy kept fucking up our shit! He sent us on a huge path… ” “ ere was something about that disco joint–” “You think there was some kinky shit going down?” “I just can't help but wonder ….” e cocktail shmoosing became background white noise. What felt most real and organic was here at the table as we pued. Despite the computerized, industrialized, nancialized version of this ancient thing, cannabis … a clas- sic symbol of good will, shared among friends. And it’s come a helluva long way since bonding us around lava lamps and vinyl records in wood-paneled basements. It’s not that people aren’t buying drugs. It’s that nobody ever really needed the help. Even if the tradeo is a full galaxy of award-winning, lab-grade selections… At the end of the day, a tiny, ve-dollar bag of decent ower at check- out in an unmarked plastic bag will sell. No marketing, no gimmicks, no bullshit required . e real thrill of ganj used to be in the wait- ing . Like those of us huddled around an ounce of brickweed when it came in during the sum- mer drought. e black market wasn't always safe but it created a community. And what's now part of the click-the-button, straight- to-doorstep, instant-gratication world, has sucked the soul right out. Cannabis, just like all things pure, has always thrived oscreen, in the underground, out of the mainstream, o the beaten path. Two roads converged in a wood, and yet here we nd ourselves hellbent and out of shape on the one most travelled. I think that's where the national madness is rooted now – that road, starting with the
golden standard of 1980s “peace” we thought we’d attained, was so feckless, so fake and simply there to sell us everything – from Pepsi to War – that we took the bait, hook, line and sinker only to gure out now – now we can’t continue, much less survive any longer, in this stupid farce. e gri is up. Right to Le there’s a 50% chance that you not only disagree with the next voter, but hold each other in such high contempt that resolu- tion isn’t worth the peace pipe. We disgust each other, divided by design. Is all this worth saving, knowing what you do about your neighbor? Is it even salvageable? September 11th hit this country like John Wayne o a horse. Wounded egos, masked in despondent fear, hardened over time along the same lines of prejudice as before. We millennials who grew up listening to “We are the World”, had no idea how close we were to the era of seg- regation… that a baby born in 1981 had missed MLK’s assassination by just 13 years… no, when we saw everyone coming together as a giant melting pot those days it felt like there was no way to topple the great, “healed” USA… which is why today, a quarter century aer that fuck- ing attack, we’re eating ourselves from within. No longer duped by the notion that we'd moved on from the sins of our past… ose of us still clamoring on as we medicate and doom-scroll daily are but half-comatose survivors, traumatized by our collective guilt, hoping with our gumption we can make it a couple more months, maybe years. But the hammer, the horrors, will surely come for us too. is must be what the Donner party felt aer that rst “meal.” It all goes downhill from here. I don’t remember much of the ride back… the reluctant return to the Linq that very night to gamble Huxley’s $20 card on more digital roulette – cautious never to venture further than a clear view of the exit… Collect- ing and packing as many substances as we'd thought would make it onto an airplane (they all would)... Blacking out on my king bed, cur- tains open to the ominous Vegas night…. A few hours later, I would thank the legacy line of ready-when-you-are, double-the-cost taxi drivers. Well worth making the ight with only minutes to spare at last boarding call… no agony, no games, no wait. Only when I took out my hotel key to leave on the counter as I le, did I realize “Disco Show” was written all over it.
120 MARCH/APRIL 2026
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