into another tunnel. All I could hear was Gene Wilder belting, “Is it raining… is it snowing, is a hurricane a-blowing!” amidst the thunderous rowboat and images of Slugworth… “Harris. Yo, we’re here.” e others had to pry me from the car. We’d arrived but I was struggling to move. Was this…? Yes. e trip was not far away. I could feel it kicking in. We had limited time before madness took hold. Vision… trailing. Wobbling knees. Hot-wired skin. Distractions in every direction. What were we doing? Was this absurd? Count- down to the party aside, we were mere minutes away from metamorphosis into slobbering creeps. Hazily we said nothing and kept mov- ing. Explorers on winter safari, we were headed due south. at much we knew. Out there, beyond the herculean guitar, was our haven at the Flamingo. Desert Inn Road. I shuddered as we reached the rst intersection. Instant recalibration. I knew exactly where we were, and what stood just west; I could see it out of the corner of my eye, and how not? It shone like a colossal brass toilet in the sun: e Church of Trump. We’d seen it before. at golden castle, that dumpster of madness… and with it, the ines- capable truth of the moment: We’re living the Bi Tannen timeline, a giant Lombardo experi- ment played to the end. e entire fabric of the universe has been cranked and fried to crisp,
the life and beauty and hopes of a once great nation now all but faint memories destined for folklore. Survival is the new American Dream. at, it seemed, was the ultimate nail in the co n for Big Cannabis, in a year when the na- tion's annual convention felt like an overplayed hand. e orange elephant in the room weighs heavily, and with him, the Age of Uncertainty. Nobody knows whether to let it ride or quit while they’re ahead…. So it's pretty hard to muster any patience for supercial bullshit. But that's exactly what I found the moment I arrived. e industry mating ritual was in full swing Tuesday aernoon, on the eve of the expo, when I rolled in. Per instruction, I’d met Huxley, photojournalist, and Ford, assistant of sorts, at NuWu Dispensary, where North and West Vegas converge along the tracks. We took pulls of Wild Turkey in the parking lot and roasted joints so fat they were falling apart. It was the only way to prepare for what was inside: “Media Day” … where brands would court the royalty of cannabis social media. It was a three hour ordeal. NuWu was a fortress on the hill, the kind of place you’d want to take refuge during the coming siege of Vegas. e store was essentially a wide cement corridor staed and stocked on one side like a long Macy’s jewelry counter, with product types, and brands, all separated
32 MARCH/APRIL 2026
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