Going All the Way on My First Date with Alice B. Toklas
By: M. K. Jackson
Tags: Humor, Education, Marijuana, Marijuana Legalization, Cannabis

This article is part of my Over 50 and Over It series. Having passed the half-century mark, with less living in front of me than behind me, I no longer suffer lightly the residual folly of a world constructed upon a foundation of madness. With a lifetime of swallowed bullshit piled up in the back of my throat prohibiting me from verbally expressing my disdain, I am now forced to articulate my indignation by the only means available to me: writing…

1976. I was in the sixth grade at Saint Searles Catholic School in Hayward, California. On this day, our teacher Mr. Andersen informed us we had a guest speaker who was going to talk to us about…DRUGS. It was an ambush! I was 11 years old; all I knew about drugs is they were bad. And now, I was going to find out why.

Mrs. Case, The Drug Lady

She was a short, squat woman with short, squat hair who wore a pants suit. Mrs. Case, The Drug Lady waddled into our class with an air of authority carrying a large fold-out display case which she placed atop a table and opened. There, mounted on the boards, behind protective glass, was every drug imaginable (at least that could be imagined by an 11-year-old kid whose only exposure to narcotics was Starsky & Hutch and Baretta): cocaine, heroin, PCP, LSD and pills — uppers, downers, goofballs, bennies, black beauties and B-bombs.

I remember thinking that Mrs. Case, The Drug Lady, had a case of drugs. Whoa! Did her name pre-destine her purpose in life? You know, like how people named Carpenter become carpenters? Or Cooks become cooks?

She recounted horrifying tales of broken dreams, lost lives and well-deserved deaths all thanks to these evil chemicals. But the drug she was most solicitous about was cannabis, known by its street names: pot, weed, reefer, Dinkie Dow, Jolly Green, Bobo bush and wacky-tabacky. But there was nothing wacky about the devastation wrought by this assassin of youth.

Mrs. Case called Marijuana a “gateway drug.” One even accidental whiff of this God-offending noxious weed and next stop: “skid row” where my 11-year-old self would live out the rest of his abbreviated life focused solely on scoring his next fix of Big H — HEROIN!

Mrs. Case, The Drug Lady had fulfilled her duty that day, at least on this impressionable youth. Marijuana? No thank you. Only dopes use dope.

Thank You, DEA, For Keeping America Safe from Itself!

The Controlled Substances Act of 1970 classified cannabis as a Schedule I drug.

As defined by the US Drug Enforcement Administration (AKA “The Government”), substances in this schedule have 1) no currently accepted medical use in the United States, 2) a lack of accepted safety for use under medical supervision and 3) a high potential for abuse.

Other drugs joining Mary Warner in the Schedule I rogues gallery include heroin, LSD, ecstasy, methaqualone (Quaaludes) and peyote.

UPDATE: Ignorant and nihilistic attempts to remove cannabis as a Schedule I substance first began in 1972 (and rightfully denied after 22 years of court battles). A second petition citing obviously dubitable “clinical studies” (no doubt hippies getting high in their basement “clinics”) was denied in 2001. As recently as August 2016, the brass-balled DEA doubled down, refusing to remove the Schedule I classification, veraciously citing cannabis has no proven medical benefits.

A Promise to My Father

When I was 16, my dad asked me to promise him I would never use marijuana. In retrospect, it seems like a lot to ask of a 16-year-old, but I promised him I wouldn’t because I loved and respected my father.

My dad’s request had nothing to do with the psychobiological destruction on me sure to be caused by cannabis. It was because it was illegal. His father, my grandfather, was a police detective. And as his father taught him, so too my father taught me to obey the law. Even if I didn’t agree with a law, or thought it questionable, it must still be obeyed. It’s the law. Decades of this conditioning made me a habitual law abider. And for the next 36 years, I complied, remaining cannabis-free.

Yes We Cannabis

On November 8, 2016, the state of California held an election. On the ballot was Proposition 64, a voter initiative to legalize the recreational use of marijuana. It passed with 57% voter approval.

When I went to bed on election night, cannabis was the scourge of society, on par with heroin and LSD. When I awoke the next morning, cannabis was now safe and the solution to all our problems!

I was confused and disillusioned. For over 40 years, The Government told me how bad that shit was for me — how it’s the “gateway” that leads to heroin, suicide, the loss of eight IQ points and Cannabinoid Hyperemesis Syndrome, whatever the fuck that is, and now all that was magically gone in a single vote — and a 15% excise tax plus $9.25 per ounce of flower, $2.75 per ounce of leaf.

In my vexation, I at first failed to see the silver lining in all this hypocrisy: since weed was now legal I could see what all the fuss was about. At age 54, I finally had a date with Mary Jane.

Layin’ Down the Hustle

Dispensaries are a cross between liquor stores, cigar bars, jewelry stores and porno book shops. Entering a dispensary is like boarding an airplane; you’ll need ID. Inside’s a lot like a strip club: no touching, no photography and you gotta bring cash.

And just as you can’t go to Starbucks, a coffee shop, and simply order “coffee,” you can’t go to a cannabis dispensary and simply order “cannabis.” What kind of coffee? Indica or sativa? How big’s a venti? How much is 3.5 g? THC potency or dark roast? I have trouble ordering tacos. This was too goddamn much to learn just to get high so I pussed out and asked an experienced friend of mine who’d been threatening for years to “smoke me out” (like I’m a trout) to accompany me.

When we got to the dispensary I tried my best to relay what effect I desired from My First Cannabis Experience. The best I could muster was: I Am the Walrus rather than I’m Only Sleeping. “Yeah, I think you’re thinking more about acid than weed,” my friend told me. “But we’ll see what we can do.” Before I knew what had happened, I was given a “newbie doobie.” Money changed hands. And I had officially scored my first skunk.

My friend asked if I wanted a bud buddy for my maiden voyage. I appreciatively declined, concerned that the pot could unleash the criminally insane in me and I might attack her. Worse, what if I became a sexual deviant as is often the case with reefer? No, this would need to be a solo venture. If any harm should come to anyone, let it be me. I alone deserved it.

The Point of No Return

Returning home, I snuck in the back door so my neighbors wouldn’t see me. Taking proper safety measures, I removed all the sharp objects from my bedroom, lined the floor with pillows and secured the window (if I were to jump out, I could easily sprain my ankle). Finally, I called my mom and told her I loved her — I needed to say my final goodbyes should the marijuana cause me to forget who she is (Mrs. Case, respect).

I was now ready.

I put on The Beatles Revolver album, side two, track seven—“Tomorrow Never Knows”—and set my computer to its trippiest screensaver. I sat back, sparked up, took a toke and let the show begin…

First came uncontrollable laughter. Then dangerous hallucinations… space expanded, time slowed down. Fixed ideas came next, conjuring up monstrous extravagances… followed by emotional disturbances — and the total inability to direct my thoughts. I lost all power to resist my physical emotions which lead me to acts of shocking violence. Finally, it all ended with INCURABLE INSANITY!!!

Actually, that’s the opening warning from the 1938 movie Reefer Madness. When I was high, I smiled a lot, laughed a little, thought my life was going great, felt relaxed then dozed off. I woke up the next day at 5 am, refreshed and did three times the amount of writing I normally do in the morning — after eating three bowls of Peanut Butter Cap’n Crunch.

Living the High Life

Being under the influence of cannabis for the first time was wonderful — not earth-shattering or life-changing and certainly not worth waiting 40 years for. But it was another magical sensation, like love, sex, creativity, pain and pleasure, that’s available to me for a limited time only using this canister I’ve been manufactured within.

I continue to smoke on occasion and yet somehow manage to maintain my job, pay my taxes, remember who my mom was and not jump out any windows. I later discovered that my subdued reaction to my initial high was likely due to my newbie doobie being packed with the indica variety, the effects of which are feeling relaxed, happy and sleepy. Having subsequently educated myself, I’ve grown especially fond of sativa strains that crank up the THC and lower the CBD for that euphoric, creative and focused “head high.” I particularly like to get stoned and watch episodes of Bewitched (seasons three and four). It’s a completely different show when you’re baked.

There’s Nothing More Pathetic Than a Middle-Age Doper

Discovering grass in my 50s is like discovering masturbation in my 50s; it’s a pity it took so long and it’s something I could’ve done better, and more often, when I was younger. I’m an adult now. I have responsibilities — things I can’t do if I’m high (or jacking off, for that matter).

Do I have any regrets about having smoked dope? Yes. Definitely. I regret starting so late that I’ll never make up for lost time. Nor will I ever fully and joyfully experience the “gateway” into H, coke, acid and PCP the way I could’ve in my teens when my pristine, restorative body could handle it. It’s too late now for all that at my age. My body can’t even handle too much cheese.

And for the record, I am in NO WAY suggesting that children not of legal age should take pot. Of course not. That shit’s like heroin and Quaaludes. Instead, there are legal, FDA-approved prescription pharmaceuticals like Prozac, Ritalin and Adderall that informed, medical professionals can prescribe to treat depression, panic attacks and ADHD/ADD in children. Besides, we don’t need to exacerbate the childhood obesity epidemic by giving our kids the munchies. JUST SAY NO TO CORN SYRUP!

A Final Disclaimer

Look, I know Smoochy Woochy Poochy is still a dangerous Schedule I drug along with LSD and ecstasy. And just because 57% of the potheads in California got out the toke to make loco-weed legal doesn’t make it safe.

In retrospect, perhaps I should’ve held off on getting down with the bambalachacha and waited for the DEA to make it safe by removing it from Schedule I. Until such time I can always restrict my recreational substance abuse adventures to non Schedule I substances with accepted medical use and no potential for abuse. You know, like alcohol and tobacco.

© 2021 M. K. Jackson