Giveaway! 5 copies of Marijuanamerica

In honor of tomorrow'a 4/20 festivities, Abrams is giving away copies of Marijuanamerica: One Man’s Quest to Understand America’s Dysfunctional Love Affair with Weed, by Alfred Ryan Nerz (reviewed here) to five Boing Boing readers. If you are interested in getting a copy, please share your true dysfunctional-affair-with-weed story in the comments. I'll select five people and put them in contact with the publisher, who will mail out the copies. Deadline: 4/20 at 11:59 pm PT


  1. One time when in junior high school, I was walking through town during the 4th of July. One of the surfer kids was sitting on the steps of a catholic school smoking a joint. This was about 1978 or so. He was my age so that’s about 14. While I was walking by, a cop was coming the other direction and simply told the kid from afar to put that thing out. I remember the kid looking all mad and hassled by the man. Crazy times.

  2. Hey Pink – great story and you are getting a copy for being first! Please email me ( so I can pass your email to the publisher.

  3. Early 70s, I’m 16 and despite all the warnings about what would happen if I smoked pot I started.  Results?
    My GPA in high school went up a quarter point.
    My boss at the radio station (I was a high school DJ for a small station that didn’t want to pay for adults) congratulated me on how “creative” my shows were.

  4. Before it was quasi-legalized, I used to buy my bud from a friend of my friend’s brother.  The guy had lousy Mexican ditch weed and his prices were horrible, but he was also a one-level-below-professional disc golfer and aspiring DJ… so visiting him to replenish my supply was always a treat, because I am neither of these things.  He introduced me to Kruder & Dorfmeister and the staggering variety of Frisbees that are used at different times in his sport of choice.  Now, I just visit the dispensary.  The weed is much better, but the transaction is quite a bit less interesting.

  5. I was a teenager in Virginia in the early 90’s.  There was a meathead bully in my neighborhood who used to beat up kids half his size a lot.  My friends and I were all laidback potheads and we couldn’t stand him.  One day he came around with a new bong and wanted to hang out with us so we could show him how to use it.  We went into the woods, got stoned to the bone off his stash, then told him it was customary for the owner of a new bong to drink all the bongwater after it’s first use.  He chugged it right down.

  6. Me and some of my fellow buddies planned to meet up at a local park to imbibe on the wacky weed for the first times in our lives. We had planned it out pretty well, allotting for time at the mall to allow the effects of the weed to dissipate before heading to our homes. After we all arrived, my buddy pulls out a deodorant stick. In an effort to hide the contraband from his parents/cops my friend had put the tiny bag of crumbly weed and a folded up paper towel inside the deodorant stick; both absolutely reeked of the deodorant. We were a little skeptical about the whole operation but we preceded to fumble our way through rolling a joint out of a paper towel, finally getting something that at least seemed smoke-able, we lit it up. Terrible decision. The deodorant residue gave us horrid headaches and I don’t think we even got close to being stoned. It’s funny to think how cautious we were about in the first place as the park we were in was pretty busy, being a sunny weekend afternoon. Not to be deterred  we gave it another attempt a week later, minus the deodorant, to much more enjoyable results.

  7. I grew up in a conservative family where I ended up more conservative than my parents.  I hated smoking of all kinds (years of catholic school will do that to you.)  My mother was a smoker and I tried every way imaginable to get her to quit.  Fast forward to collage I’m 21 and trying a cigarette for the first time in my life.  Fast forward again to 28 and I’ve had my first hit off a pipe and several weeks later here I am trying to figure out how to get a new job as quickly as I can so I can try smoking pot again.

  8. I’m ineligible, so I’ll share an anti-story.  I’m 55 and I’ve never tried it.  Not because of any objections to drugs (oh, no, precious) but because I can barely breathe as it is.

  9. I’m 16 or so, stuck in traffic on the East River Drive in Philadelphia. What else is there to do than roll a joint? I can use my knee to keep myself facing more or less forward as I move a half car length every 20 or 30 seconds, right? No problem.

    So, I finish rolling — I was quite proud of my skill, hardly dropped any — and I put the bag of grass and the papers in the glove compartment, push in the lighter, and fire ‘er up.


    What the heck? Oh my God it’s a cop! Right behind me and getting out of his car!

    Joint out and into ashtray. Window open on other side first, hope the smell will die down but there is no way. I can’t believe it, I’m going to get busted.

    Knock knock on the driver’s window. There isn’t much I can do except open up…

    “What day is your birthday?”

    My birthday? “My birthday? It was the 23rd. Yesterday. How did you…”

     “Are you aware that your registration expired on your birtthday? I could give you a ticket right now. And you aren’t supposed to be driving with commercial plates here on the Drive. I’m going to let you go, but you make sure you get that registration taken care of first thing on Monday, all right?”

    “Yes Sir! Thank you, sir.”

    “Yeah, yeah. Happy Birthday.”

  10. Around 1969, Manhattan, visiting a friend in her skyscraper office after work hours… About half a dozen people, and somebody lights up a joint. Someone else remarks on what a cool place it is to smoke, because we’re on the 30th floor where nobody can possibly see us.

    No sooner is that said than we hear a strange clanking… And at the bottom of one of the windows, looking in from outside, there appear two heads, slowly rising! They’re window washers, hoisting themselves up on a scaffold! The joint is hastily hidden as they go by, while we marvel at how wrong we were.

    A few minutes later we’re stoned… And impossibly, things get even weirder. We see a corner of the scaffold descending at a steep angle, followed by the rest of the scaffold and one of the window washers, who knocks on the glass, panic-stricken, holding on to the ropes tightly. He points to one side… A window, outside the office in the hall, that can actually be opened, unlike the one inside.

    We all go out, and while the faint-hearted (me) look on, one of us manages to open the long-stuck window. The window washer creeps down the swaying scaffold and crawls halfway in the window, his legs dangling 30 floors above Manhattan, until he’s pulled inside. He babbles to us about how his partner got off at the roof, and somehow stranded him… Meanwhile the elevator he rang for arrives and he gets on, still shaking, and takes the recommended route down to street level.

    So a word of advice, kids… Even on the 30th floor… you may not be alone.

  11. Cannabis has opened a world to me that I heard existed but only visited in my dreams.  Straight edged until I was in my late 20s, I’d climbed the ladder pretty high. Got good and up front in the rat race without even really trying to hard…just lucky and a specialized nerd. I never judged cannabis users, but because of the legality issues and something James Randi once said about maintaining clarity, I avoided cannabis. Eventually deciding that sharing a bowl with my best friend and my girlfriend was akin to breaking bread, I said what the hell and took my first toke.

    I’ve never looked back or regretted any of it.

    My best friend and I laughed like we’d never laughed before. We had spiritual conversations rivaling those of the greatest of philosophers.  Cannabis contributed to the break up of his marriage, which left him pursuing and finding the woman of his dreams.

    My girlfriend and I bonded in new ways and the sex was never better (even without the cannabis). I was running marathons, self medicating with Earth’s natural remedy. I was able to destress at work, finally getting some peace and clarity that it was all bullsh*t. So I quit to pursue my dream.

    Cannabis has allowed me to bond with many of the employees and co-workers I’ve had over the years from ex-cons to vets, to fundamentalist evangelical Christians.

    I’ve worked diligently to change the course of my industry and it’s only because I pursued my dream that we are making waves for the greater good.  What we are doing is having a major impact on society, and it’s only through the cannabis bond that we’ve been able to discover our calling.

    I feel like we’re on the forefront of a civil rights movement.  The prohibitions, the hypocrisy, the blatant disregard for civility ~ all are manifestations of a greater problem within our government and society.

    Cannabis has opened my eyes to all of it…and helped me to be at peace with it as well.

  12. Was in grad school in biology in the 80’s. Also had a kid in grade school at the time. His school happened to be across the street from the University. Late one afternoon I went up to the roof to smoke with a friend, then had to go across the street to my kid’s school’s open house, meet with teachers, etc. It wasn’t until I was actually trying to have a conversation with one of the teachers that it slowly and dimly started to occur to me that maybe getting baked beforehand hadn’t been the best idea. Then I spent the rest of evening suspiciously eyeballing all the other parents until I came down enough to drive home. And yes, my kid was with me. Ten years later my karma caught up with me and my kid became a conservative political science major.

  13. I would love to talk about my life with cannabis but its still federally illegal so I will buy my book thanks a ton, jah bless. I wish I had a good story protected by the statute of limitation, but suffice it to say I have pictures of me standing in greenhouses filled with weed as a toddler.  Really though your looking at the academic’s real fall back career, cannabis cultivation, my family is full of Ph.D.s, and little ‘ol me the liberal arts guy that decided that their academic pursuits would lead to a life of unending poverty and stuggle whereas decent semi skilled work and cannabis cultivation would pay the bills and provide more satisfaction then blending monkey brains for research or explaining the second half of world history to undergrads ever could. its all a lie I made up for a book.

  14. After years of hating hippies and
    loving the Viet Nam War and believing wholeheartedly in everything
    the trusted government of the USA said, I smoked my first joint in
    1970. My younger brother finally talked me into trying it and I was
    surprised to find it, not only harmless, but enlightening. In one
    night, I realized that killing people, which the government adamantly
    defended as good for the country, was simply wrong and weed was not
    the dangerous evil the government claimed it to be. My world was
    turned upside down, which turned out to be right side up. Thank
    goodness, my brother, and the flying spaghetti monster for bringing
    me to a realization I couldn’t find in the news. The truth is still
    very well buried for most people. Today, medical marijuana relieves
    me of pain that legal Tramadol barely touches and the side effects
    are awesomely better than constipation.

  15. After years of hating hippies and
    loving the Viet Nam War and believing wholeheartedly in everything
    the trusted government of the USA said, I smoked my first joint in
    1970. My younger brother finally talked me into trying it and I was
    surprised to find it, not only harmless, but enlightening. In one
    night, I realized that killing people, which the government adamantly
    defended as good for the country, was simply wrong and weed was not
    the dangerous evil the government claimed it to be. My world was
    turned upside down, which turned out to be right side up. Thank goodness, my brother, and the flying spaghetti monster for bringing
    me to a realization I couldn’t find in the news. The truth is still
    very well buried under hateful propaganda for most people. Today, medical marijuana relieves
    me of pain that legal pharmy pain killers barely touches, and the side effects
    are awesomely better than constipation and throwing up.

  16. I knew a very unique sort of guy in college.  George was from a long line of good ol’ boys from–and he’d grin at the irony when he told you–Hickman County, TN.  In recent generations, his family’s highest-grossing crop was weed.  George recognized me as a fellow turned-on brother among the squares in our freshman dorm and we would hang out a good bit as I navigated finding my crowd that year through copious clouds of reefer.

    One day at the dorm I found George in an agitated state of excitement, and he hurried me into his room.  “Look what I got,” he said in a lilting, sing-song voice as he brandished a bud about the size of a strawberry.  It looked like it hac been rolled in sugar and it shimmered in the light.  I was incredulous and already thinking about leaving.  “What, is it laced with PCP?”  Sotto voce, but with that same lilt in his voice, he told me “No, man.  That’s the resin oozing out of it’s pores!  It’s THC, brother!” and he held it up for inspection.  It sure looked like it, and I’d never known George to take any other drugs; well, acid, sure–but nothing hard.  And thus began the session.  In all candor, this shit was *wayyyy out*.  Aside from getting me the most stoned I’ve ever been, it’s the only weed that ever gave me hallucinations.  I would close my eyes and could still see the room.  I’d turn my head and the perspective would shift accordingly, then I’d open my eyes to see that exact perspective in front of me.  George’s lampshade depicting an autumn scene undulated to become a drama that unfolded over the course of the evening.  Time vanished.  I know the effects lasted a long time because when it wore off we stumbled, bewildered, to the dining hall for a breakfast of epic proportions.

    About five years later George recruited me for a guerilla grow he wanted to get going.  He’d gotten topographic maps from some government office and we set out in his truck for some hilltops he’d targeted.  Luckily, George knew to bring some fishing rods with us.  When we were cornered by some very mean looking rednecks, George intuited that we had got to close to their grow and was able to talk our way out of it, while my naive ass played just as dumb as I was in the passenger seat.  The tackle gave us enough credibility toward being lost fishermen that they let us go.  George, if you’re out there, I love you, you nut.

  17. I graduated from medical school in 1994 and got my license to practice in California in 1996. I had no interest in practicing medicine; just got the license because it seemed like a good idea. My mom, a hospice nurse, calls me up and asks me about helping her get some marijuana for one of her patients. The patient was in a lot of pain from the cancer, plus he was hugely depressed and anxious, and hadn’t been eating. I found some marijuana that I could recommend (and provide) to him and drove the 350 miles up to where my mom (and her patient) were. California is a big state. Mom and I went over to see her patient and got him started on Grand Daddy Purple. He calmed down. All 3 of us went for a walk. I bought everyone ice cream. He was so happy with the way the ice cream tasted that he cried.

    Now here it is 2013 and I’m still seeing patients who benefit from safe legal marijuana. God loves us and wants us to be happy. 

  18. I wish it was dysfunctional. I lived in a large share house with about six others, teh usual body count was higher though. It was a “shop top” – above a large store – and difficult to get to from the street – a couple of alleys and you needed to know about the third to get there.

    Hence, ordering pizza in was a chore – someone would need to stump out into the cold, through the three alleys and sit on the corner waiting for the man. 
    The next shop across however, was a bong shop. And it’s owner’s lived upstairs. We could purchase weed by reaching out one bedroom window and knocking on their bathroom window. It was literally easier to get weed than ordered pizza. 

    While we were at the same house – all chronically poor and on the welfare or student loans – we ran out one day and there was despair in the air. Luckily for us, the two Poms that had left two months previously for Adelaide decided to go to NZ. I went and got the mail that morning, opened the big package, and there was a small pipe and about a half ounce of weed. Through the mail. 

    I think we waited about 20 mins to make sure we were not about to get busted before skinning up.

  19. While in the US Navy back in the ’70s, they didn’t yet have a piss test for pot and yet I still managed to get busted. Went to Captain’s Mast (non-judicial punishment) and told him “I love pot and there’s nothing you can do to change my mind.” He said, “30 days in the brig” but I stayed true to my word. I got busted several more times but still got an honorable discharge. (Different times.) 
      Despite having used a fair amount of acid (with accompanying disintegration of self-identity) it took marijuana for me to (start) understanding the Zen-Advaita implications more deeply. Perhaps that’s the true reason for the antagonism towards it?

  20. I do realize that pot stories are (much) more interesting to the one telling them than to the ones listening/reading. Nevertheless…

    In the 70’s I spent a year abroad at an English university, and I thought I would introduce my new friends to pot brownies. One of these new friends was delegated to get the pot, and came back with hashish. I’d never seen it before, had no idea how it worked, so I just went ahead and put it all in the brownies (I don’t know the right unit to use to describe the amount, but maybe the size of 1/2 of a small cigar. Very dark and sticky – hard to mix into the batter).

    We all ate the brownies…an unknown amount of time later, I came to, listening to the record player go skritch, skritch, skritch at the end of a Van Morrison album and one of my friends slurring “turn it off.”  Everyone was semi-comatose — a guy who arrived late to the party took a look through the open window, swore and just turned and left.

    Thus I learned about the difference between pot and hash…

  21. Summer of 1998. 

    I was at my roommate Betty’s 40th birthday party. It was a 1970’s theme party. A mutual friend brought a plate of brownies. I ate two of them. I couldn’t help myself – they were covered with three different kinds of frosting (vanilla and butterscotch and chocolate).  

    I decided to go drag for the party (something I did a lot more of back when I could fit into those cocktail dresses… sigh).  I was in her bathroom putting on my face when the brownies took hold. I kept forgetting what I was doing, why I was doing it, and occasionally who I was. Neither the melting walls nor the stranger in the mirror were of any help.  Instead of the ten minutes I thought it would take to do my makeup, I didn’t crawl out of there for at least an hour. 

    The scene that greeted me was like a Dionysian coma-torium. People in costumes, most of whom had a brownie, had stopped moving wherever they were when the brownie hit… and there they sat. And stayed there. For hours. 

    Not many people walked… they just sort of crawled. To the kitchen, to the bathroom, the living room… there was more crawling than a daycare center. 

    And there I was… in a dress. 

    Ah, good times. 

  22. Here is a story that would have blown my younger mind. This afternoon I hopped in my truck and drove to my dispensary where a very pretty clerk helped me choose a strain of weed. Then I went to the pay window and used my credit card to buy my 14 grams of marijuana. Everyone loves me there. I am a good regular no fuss customer. Did I die and go to heaven?

  23. Well, here is the story of my first encounter with weed. I was celebrating New Year with my friends, back when we were all were in university. We decided to try it. First, there seemed to be absolutely no effect, but then suddenly we got a genius idea – the wall of the balcony were we were smoking was discriminated! No, really, it HAD NO BREASTS, which correlated nicely with the fact that it looked quite lonely, naturally. We formed a commitie, made a poster, held a meeting and declared that we would help this miserable wall with it’s image problem. We had big soup bowls, we had glue, we had grapes – that would be nipples. And we liberated that part of the house from the lousy otlook.
    Guess waht we thought of ourselves in the morning, while struggling to recover the soup bowls.

  24. It was 1967, my first year of college at a state university in the midwest. I was with 5 other dorm friends walking around campus collecting donations for the  UglyMan contest. We had dressed one guy up and added makeup and silly clothing, just an excuse to goof off, really.

    We came up to a small group of the only real hippies on campus at that time, who were demonstrating with signs against the VietNam War in front of the student union. So…totally straight laced dorm dweebs in a meet and greet with older and wiser and worldly hippies. We explain the contest and hold out our fish bowl for a donation. They look at each of us for a long minute, and one of them reaches into his pocket for a small package which he tosses into the bowl. “Here you go”, he says, “here’s a nickel bag”. 

    We rush back to the dorm and open it to find the small collection of herb and seeds and stems that was common at the time.  After a long discussion about what we might be getting ourselves into (addiction for life, hallucinations, possible insanity, etc.) we finally lit up.  

    40 some odd years later, I still do.  But now I use a vaporizer, and the product is infinitely better.

  25. Within six months after moving to a new state I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. I had run out of the little bit I moved with. After a few MS meeting and during the round table discussion I was asked about medications I used. Due to chemical sensitivities I am limited on what I can use for my spasms/spasticity,
    I mentioned that I use Cannabis when it is available. A sweet lady in her 60’s that runs the meetings (I was the youngest by 15-20 years),  piped up and said “we cannot say who can get what from who, but if anyone wants to help him after the meeting, please do so”.
    After the meeting I had 5 people out of the dozen there approach me and offer to help. One person handed me a couple joints worth outside.
     I was able to find some relief in my symptoms for the rest of my time in that city and am forever grateful for their kindness. It provided me some light in a very dark time in my life.

    I moved to another state years later (for specialist) and found myself in same situation where I had trouble finding the stuff. I tried the same trick mentioning Cannabis at multiple MS meetings in a row. I was finally meeting people my own age only to find out that due to whatever circumstance be it religious reasons or not, they had not ever tried it.  I kept striking out.
    On a visit to get steroids pumped in me a nurse asked about medications, I said “none”, and she pressed  “you don’t take anything for symptom management??”. I told her that I use Cannabis but recently moved, so it was unavailable to me.
    She asked “Is this your cell number?” And that was that, within a week I had met a patient with another disease that benefits from Cannabis..
    She risked her job/career for me and again, forever grateful of the kindness people have shown me in my time of need. 

    Next state will be one with a medical laws in place. Being a criminal is too stressful.

    These two instances highlight the dysfunctional laws more than a love affair.

  26. I was a recreational user for many years, although I didn’t start until my early twenties. I’ve never been fond of stupendous amounts though, which eventually earned me the nickname Cheap Date from a close friend with much larger appetites. Over the years I smoked less and less, although still enjoyed doing so.

    A few years ago circumstances forced me to walk away from my career and go freelance in a small town without much of an economy. (Which effectively meant scrounging for work all day while eating away at my savings to support us.) With no office to go to and client meetings desperately few and far between, there was no reason I couldn’t have a toke at lunchtime if I felt like it.

    I soon realized that this wasn’t the best possible pattern to settle into, so I put a stop to it. Only then did I piece together various clues, some stretching back twenty years: I had been experiencing moderate anxiety since at least my late teens, and the pot had helped to keep it in check.

    I was then faced with a truly sobering realization: even though I very much did not want to be that guy sitting around smoking dope on a Tuesday afternoon, if I was to have any hope of being a useful and effective human being I was going to have to get over that and take my meds, whether I liked it or not. I had gone from light but frequent recreational use to being forced to smoke pot to keep my anxiety at bay. But when I would smoke even the smallest amount, an amount whose effects I could just barely perceive, that hellish feedback loop would end and I could sit down and work fruitfully for the rest of the day.

    My life is now going much better in all regards (thanks for asking), and as a result I experience very little actual anxiety. So no self medication is required and I don’t even own a proper bowl anymore. If things go sideways again that will likely change, although I would probably resume my experimentation with foodstuffs instead.

    A lot of the reason for that though, is market forces: today would be a perfect spring day to get high and go play in the sun. But all that can be had these days is high-test, i.e. KGB, and I just don’t like getting absolutely fucking baked. To me it’s like doing keg stands with vodka, as opposed to having a glass of wine with dinner. And no, it’s just not a question of quantity; last year I had the opportunity to do some science, and even large amounts of “cheap” weed don’t hit me nearly as hard as very small amounts of the good stuff.

    So for me it’s a study in ironies: When I decided that smoking dope in the middle of the day probably wasn’t the best choice I could be making, I was forced to admit that under those circumstances, it actually was. And now that I could use it recreationally again (legal issues aside), I don’t because all the pot is just too “good.”

  27. Back in uni there was a bunch of us pot enthusiasts living in a large house.  We were creative lads, and had a number of home made bongs, pipes, on hand.  One was made from Capt. Morgan Texas mickey and ended many a fine night.

    One of the guy’s cousin came over for a party on a Saturday, Jim told us he was a cop and that we should play down the drug paraphernalia.  We cleared every out of the living room.

    So the cop walks in, takes one look at the living room, and says ” Chr**t, I could get high licking the resin off of the walls!”

  28. Weed used to make me feel great. I’ll never forget the first time my friend Sean convinced me to smoke. We were stranded along the expressway in Michigan, waiting for a tow truck. All around us was a corn field and an abandoned house. As we waited for the truck, which took hours, we would walk around the house, talk, make sketches of the stuff surrounding us in an old notebook in the back of his car. He kept saying “This would be so much better if we had some weed,” but we didn’t and I had never smoked.

    Fast forward a few hours, we get the tow truck, we’re back on campus in my car going to get my first bag of weed. We get it back to my townhouse, I smoke and play the best game of Red Dead Revolver in the world. And this would be the common thread. Sean and I would get high together, we would play video games, or just listen to music, and it soothed me.

    But there were the times it didn’t sooth me. Like the time I decided to fix my bike, order pizza and watch A Clockwork Orange while stoned out of my brains. In what in real time took 20 minutes (from ordering to getting the pizza) I went through hell, watching disturbing images on screen, trying to fix the bike chain, and forgetting then reremember that I had ordered a pizza. I was paranoid and freaking out, and changing the movie to Futurama, with an episode with the Devil Bot, didn’t help.

    I gave up weed because of shrimp. I at at a restaurant, the shrimp platter, went back with Sean and we drank coffee and smoked a lot of week. Food poisoning and getting ripped on strong weed doesn’t mix. I remember laying on the floor, begging Sean to take me to the doctor. He wouldn’t. The next thing I knew I had decided to go home. The cold autumn air hit me like a stack of bricks and I vomited on his front stoop in front of some girls on my way home.

    The next is foggy; puking into a trash can, taking a shower, getting into bed soaking wet and freezing, walking back to Sean’s, being in his bed shaking begging for an ambulance. Later that night I came off the high and the sickness and just sat there at 5 a.m. eating saltines and wondering what the fuck I had done wrong. My “friends” called me and made fun of me for getting sick. Weed was never the same. I would have it a few times since the “incident” but I always got too scared something bad would happen to me.

    It’s been more than a decade and a once proud and happy weed smoker has turned into a grown man afraid of what taking a little puff will do to me. Someday I hope to enjoy it again.

  29. I am a 50 yr old lifelong smoker since I was 17 or so. I use cannabis to help with anxiety  and depression. Depression so bad it made my sister kill herself last year. I have a comp sci degree and 30 years of consulting for fortune 100 companies on database tech. I have raised 5 children, 2 my own by blood, 3 of them my 2nd wife’s. 
    After my friend and connection died from cancer, I grew my own cannabis in a small  room hidden away behind a workshop in my basement. Last year my 15 yr old son decided to destroy all our lives by calling 911 and giving the cops a tour of my soon to be harvested crop. This was after I grounded him one day for staying out late on a school night. I got a felony which resulted in two weeks in prison, 4 months of house arrest and two years parole. My wife got two years probation and since she is a chiropractor she has to go for daily random drug and alcohol tests for the next three years. She has to go to weekly counselling  sessions where they try to get her to surrender to her addiction. An addition she does not have. If she refused to do this stuff she will lose her licence to practice. I also lost my job but have since gotten some new work after a few tough months. All told this cost us about $30,000. Money we had been saving for the kids college fund. It was also one of the reasons I grew my own so I would not spend money on it. After we were arrested my wife’s ex demanded custody of their 3 kids he got it and stopped paying child support and left them with us anyway for three months after that they were over his house 1/2 the time for a few months and recently decided not to go there anymore because of the way he treats them. He never buys them anything and when he has them he picks them up at 8pm and drops them at our house before school so they eat all meals with us. We still don’t get any child support from him but maybe someday. My son went to live with his mother the day he called the police. She checked him  into a mental hospital about seven months after this happened when he threatened her life and to kill himself. He has issues with his emotions and mental health. This was not the first time he had acted in an impulsive evil way. I have not spoken to him since this went down because I am afraid he will try to have me put in prison again.  In his own words he described the incident to my lawyer. “Dad held the gun to his head all I did was pull the trigger.” have a better 420 than me and stay safe. 

  30. I was raised in a family that condoned and used marijuana for various reasons. My mother and father would hot box the downstairs bathroom and return glossy-eyed and speaking about things with a calm, almost spiritual tone. As a 15 year old this angered me and solidified feelings of isolation from my peers in school. I felt we were a dysfunctional drug-addicted family surrounded by squeaky clean upper-middle class soccer moms and white collar dads. 

    I harbored this frustration and embarrassment alone until one beautiful day. Over AIM (AOL Instant Messenger), I shared with a new friend and classmate that my parents smoked weed secretly. To my joy, she informed me that her parents did the same, and that she was equally as frustrated and angry. Her mother suffered from MS, but it was difficult to understand the context for illegal drugs as medicine at this young age.

    By confiding in each other about our parents’ behavior, and by merely growing older, we came to accept this secret aspect of our family lives. Eventually, our group of friends found marijuana together, and experienced many beautiful and carefree summer days smoking in a friend’s backyard, laying in the sun, listening to Sublime, laughing to the point of near-seizure and facial dysfiguration. 

    I now smoke occasionally, and treat it as a special occasion. Today in my current town there will be countless major 420 festivals on the university campus, everywhere downtown-everybody- all hours.

    Let’s celebrate this unique gift!

  31. Well in the June of 2012 I had gone for a long 20+ mile dehydrated bike ride. While on my return home I stopped at my friends house.  I got off my bike went inside where they were all just about to light up. Since I hadn’t been over in a few months they decided to just smoke me out. We went onto his enclosed porch. After smoking I had gotten extremely thirsty. I got up, took two steps and I was now playing on the beach with my brother,  joking around and having fun on a nice summers day. This would be short lived.
         I soon felt as though I was just waking up from a long sleep. My face was numb and everyone was talking but I wasn’t really paying any attention to them until they picked me up from the tiled ground. They asked me if I was okay multiple times. I had thought this was dumb question due to I felt completely normal. That feeling of normality quickly left when I looked down to where I was just laying and my dark blood covered the step that led out of the porch. I started to taste the blood in my mouth and began to feel around with my tongue. I could feel where the blood was coming out from my bottom lip and my gums as well as my misplaced teeth, loose and pointing in all directions. After being helped onto a bed I was given a wet washcloth witch over time became a nuisance due to my wound sticking to cloth every time in began to dry and making me painfully pull it off of it. This was consistent for the few ours I rested on the bed.      
    I got home and  looked into a mirror where I could see that my braces tore through my bottom lip and my teeth were only held in by the braces. After telling my parents I had only fallen on my bike. I received a lovely lip scab and three root canals. All  I can recommend to fellow smokers is stay hydrated.

    1.  *winces*

      Not weed related, but bike related:  I got dehydrated once on a hot evening after racing to two different theaters on my bike trying to get tickets to the midnight premier of Avengers, then drinking a bunch of beer at the theater, riding home and drinking more alcohol (not totally unusual amounts, though) then going to bed.  I remember reaching for my water bottle at the start of the evening and realizing it was out, but didn’t think about it.  I woke up the next day and couldn’t make sense of what I was feeling.  I called my boss and told him “something is wrong.  I dunno what.  I feel like i’m coming down off an acid trip.”  Luckily, he knew what was up and told me to stay home and immediately force myself to drink a gallon of water.  Don’t play around, kids; stay hydrated.

  32. My dysfunctional affair with weed story is that I have no dysfunctional affair with weed stories. I’ve tried it only a handful of times and have never understood the attraction – I hate the way smells, tastes and makes me feel. I do however have friends who smoke pot, some only occasionally and recreationally, others who smoke it around the clock and seem to require it to function, much to the detriment of their coherent thought capacity and meaningful contribution to society. In any case, this book sounds like a fascinating read and I would love to enlighten myself on what continues to be a drug of choice for many – I myself prefer alcohol ;)

  33. In college I used to perform in an acapella quartet with 3 other guys (who remain my best friends.)  We traveled all over the country and do our schtick for various functions and earned some extra scratch along the way.  …oh yeah, we all were daily tokers. 
    It wasn’t uncommon for us to have a celebratory joint following a gig or, on the rare occasion, even partake prior too ‘enhance’ our performance. 
    One particular outing found us in the same cityy as my sister and her husband.  I informed her we would be in the area and she invited us up after our show for burgers and beers.  So, the day arrive, we did our thing at the ‘various function’ and then proceeded to my sister’s house, but not before stopping a local park to partake from our previously rolled celebratory joint.  
    There we sat, the four of us and a friend who had tagged along, in a two door ford tempo, smoking and toking away.   Windows rolled down, sun shining, change in our pocket, getting high and thinking about the homemade food that awaited us.   #doesntgetanybetterthanthat
    When we were sufficiently baked, we ventured out and had more than a few laughs along the way.

    When we arrived at my sis’s house, sure enough there was more than enough food on the grill and we were all more than happy to be there.   As continued on our mellow high, some of us resorted to playing video games and others started playin some b-ball.   #okitdidgetbetter

    (OK, hindsight being what it is, I’m sure we all reeked of ganja to some degree or another.   Sure we used some cologne and the required visine after we smoked out, but, I mean, Come On.  5 guys in their early twenties boxed up in a two door Ford Tempo…how could we NOT smell like a dirty bong.)

    When the food was ready, my sister called us in and we all gathered around the table and bar and eagerly waited on the feast.  We were all still pretty buzzed from our smoke, but as far as we were concerned, it was alllll gooood.   …that’s when it happened.   

    As we all know when you’re on a great high there’s nothing that blows it more for you than a swift kick of reality.  Just when you think you’re on top of the world, the world reaches up and smacks you in the face.   On this particular day the ‘world’ was my brother-in-law.    He thought, as a joke, it would be great to come in and ask us all, “HEY!  Who left their sack of weed on the car outside?”

    …….     …….   ……..  ……..  silence.  No. One. Said. A. Word.    In our drug riddled mind we didn’t know if he was joking or serious.  For a split moment, we didn’t know if there was a sack or not.   Panic.   Weed Paranoia.    Of course there was no sack.  Of course we didn’t leave anything on the car.  However, weed….messes with your memory.  What seemed like 13 minutes was probaby like 7 seconds where we didn’t utter a word.  Until I finally musted up a nervous laugh and murmured, “Oh yeah.  ha ha…that’s mine.”  Slowly my other friends chimed in w/ nervous laughter to support my stance at playing it off. 

    My brother-in-law never mentioned anything more.   My sister nervously laughed it all off.  We all sat down for some grub and there was no more talk about any ‘maryjane.’

    To this day I’ve never brought up this story to my brother-in-law or sister.  My friends and I still talk about this incident and are still dumbfounded by it.   It was just moment when all seemed right in the ‘weed world’ and reality knew better and decided to have a laugh at our expense of being high. 

  34. It was the late ’80s, and I had my first job as a reporter in a Rocky Mountain ski town. It was a time when it seemed plausible that Gonzo might be an emerging form of journalism, which would make Hunter S. Thompson a role model. So I found sunny spot in a Main Street plaza to wait out the space between deadline and happy hour with a book on a spring afternoon. As an aspiring literary miscreant, I wasn’t very discreet sneaking hits while I read.

    After a bit, the police chief stopped to say hello. It wasn’t out of the ordinary; I worked for the paper, and I knew most local officials. 

    “Hey, Ron, what’s up?” he greeted me.

    “Howdy, Frank, not much. Beautiful day–I’m just waiting for the beer to get cheap.”

    “That’s great. Me, I was just having some pizza,” he said, pointing across the street to the pizza parlor with the big picture windows.

    I looked at the windows, then back at him. He laid his finger alongside his nose, tipped, his hat, and walked away.

    I did learn a lesson from that encounter. That is, there are more Franks out there than you might imagine. That’s not the only time I’ve experienced a benign intervention with a cop, and I’ve never been arrested–although I’m incorrigible when it comes to sunny afternoons and public plazas. We’re talking about decades of dysfunction (if we really must call it that), with no official consequence.

    I know my anecdotal experience doesn’t stack up against the casualty count in the drug war, which needs to end. But I think one thing we’ve had going for us all along is there are plenty of Franks, conscientious objectors in an unjust war.

Comments are closed.