They call them the good dope days, but that’s a complete misnomer. There was very little good about it. The quality was inconsistent, there was never talk about pesticides or growth hormones, and to use the words Sativa, Indica, or Cannabidiol, you may as well have been speaking Icelandic.
And often it was dry. Meaning, there were tense times of archeological searches beneath couches and between car seats for rogue crumbs that may have been fumbled in the careless process of rolling a doobie or packing a bowl during previous times of bounty. The last resort was to scrape the pipe.
Concentrates did not exist.
Except hash. If you were lucky, about once a year, hash would eek its way into town. You might get a golf ball sized chunk and it was like Christmas morning. This specialty item, generally from some exotic corner of the globe, had to be flaunted. And the confidante who witnessed this rare luxury fashioned a requisite taste to not only validate their curiosity, but their baller status for possessing it.
“Guess what, I’ve got hash.” Your palm would slowly open to uncover the cannabis equivalent of the Hope Diamond.
“You’ve got hash?” Their astounded eyes popped wide for a gander at this mystical gem, instantly overcome with the servitude of an obedient dog, pandering for a treat.
But you had to be very diligent and calculative in how you portioned the rations because If you spread it too thin, in 3 short days this beauty would be whittled down to the size of a booger. Then Poof, gone.
And in blew the dessert winds.
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