One of the coolest things about cannabis culture is that people of all ages, sizes, sexual orientations, ethnicities and eccentricities peacefully co-exist in celebration of the sacred herb.
This sweet unity was very evident at the WHEE2 Cannabis Culture booth. Ours was but a simple encampment, just a tiny awning with table and chairs, backed by sleeping bags and tents. The searing global-warming sun beat down on CC’s intrepid crew, as daytime temperatures soared over the 35?C (100?F) mark to bake the beautiful guys and gals who’d made the risky journey south from British Columbia.
It’s a sign of international pot peace that CC was greeted with open arms by WHEE2’s sponsors, who just happen to be the publishers and honchos of North America’s other marijuana magazine ? High Times.
Members of the HT consortium sauntered to CC-land, telling us they love our magazine. One HT’er even told us: “Your magazine is better than ours, dammit!”
We appreciate the compliments, but we also give megakudos back to HT for keeping the bongs lit all these years, and for giving us WHEE and the Cannabis Cup.
One of the biggest differences between HT and CC is that CC has seedmeister Marc Emery’s full-colour seed catalog. Many visitors told us Marc had saved their life by helping them sprout monster crops laden with gooey resin.
Highly-opinionated but good-natured arguments broke out as visitors and crew debated American versus Canadian cannabis. The eldest member of a trio of African-American men threw down the gauntlet by saying “Blueberry ain’t shit, neither is White Rhino or Romulan.”
A clever statement to make if you want to get smoked out! We practically forced those guys to take hit after hit of potent smoke, but they remained unfazed, still on their feet.
CC writer and photographer Barge, barraged by non-stop hits of primo hash and herb as he attempted to photograph dozens of buds brought in by proud growers, finally uttered the riposte: “So what god-like pot do you have for us to smoke?”
The man snorted and said he’d bring his killer bud back, and we all rolled our eyes, expecting never to see him again.
An hour later, during which Barge nearly went bonkers trying to photograph glass pipes which were clothed in photo-killing reflections, the men returned. Their pot, which they described as a combo of Kush, Herer, Jamaican and swampweed, was good, but it wasn’t better than Emeryville cannabis.
Other images which somehow penetrated memory cells: a nude guy wheefully walking around with his weenie hanging out, claiming he could inhale pot through his penis and blow the smoke out his ass. None of us asked to see his alleged prowess. Later, a woman wearing a thong and nothing else strolled by, carrying a phallic bong.
The world’s most delectable Lolitas, baby-soft hippie chicks wearing halter tops and pants that hung so low they might well have been socks, sashayed by, eyeing Barge and other CC staffers (including Tia and Suzanne) with carnal intent.
Some people had never heard of CC, and were impressed by its intellectual and graphic attractiveness. They gladly purchased copies and filled out subscription cards. Of course, some visitors needed geography lessons: they thought we were from Columbia in South America!
A most welcome guest was Professor THC, a white-haired gent who told us he made hash oil for celebrities, for which he charged $150 a gram. We couldn’t afford any, of course, but the Professor was in a sharing mood.
He carried his wicked oil in little tubes disguised as cosmetic lotions. Uncapping the tubes, he placed a few drops of amber oil on a long needle.Then, he lit an incense coal which rested on a can, and placed the oil on the coal. We inhaled the resulting oil smoke through a thin glass tube.
The hit I took knocked me to the ground. The Professor smiled as he looked down on me.
“Is that the most stoned you’ve ever gotten on marijuana?” he asked.
“Goo goo, gaa gaa,” I mumbled.
Satisfied that he’d crippled another victim, he galloped off. I saw him frequently that weekend, dropping people with his crafty concoction.
A group of Hells Angels thundered up on their macho machines, daring anyone to call the police. They swaggered around, staring at little girls and making crude comments, finally firing up their Harleys and driving through the most crowded parts of the venue to make their ominous exit. On stage, Crazy Ken Kesey incited revolution and evolution.
At 2 o’clock in the morning, I was sitting on the ground next to a fire pit, listening to a fantastic live band play rave/trip music. Suddenly, budacious Barge sat down next to me. He was covered in resin. We fumbled around loading a bowl, and finally succeeding we silently sat entranced under the wheeling stars, ganja brothers sharing THC’s timeless nirvana. I closed my eyes and joined the Cosmic One. When I regained consciousness, the band had unplugged and gone home, the sky was getting lighter with dawn’s first rosy glow, and Barge had vanished.
My watch said 4:20 am.