canadian weed enthusiast – indica vs. sativa

Canadian weed enthusiast

 

Indica vs sativa

 

‘don’t ever write in first person and don’t write about getting hammered’ is the message I’m reading while trying to shake off my hangover with a half-cold moosehead. I’ve recently asked a very reputable writer about breaking into the world of professional writing, rather than doing this shit every couple weeks for nothing, other than stress, peer judgment and an impending lawsuit. Besides, judging by how fast I have to chug these moosehead to stave off my hangover, i don’t think I’ll be putting out any article pitches anytime soon, so I might as well just get comfortable here with you guys.

Feeling the effects of 6 beers, that sour kush thc capsule I swallowed, some b12 supplements and a pint of black coffee, I’m asking myself just what I’m doing to my organs, as I tend to question my mortality quite often these days. Honestly, chugging almost warm 5$ moosehead beside my personal bodyguard(whose also lost in a pill frenzy)to offset my pulsing hangover is only to set the tone for the dayglo abortions concert I’m about to witness. again, I’m in a tiny bar with a bunch of freaky people and acting in an absurd way that I usually don’t when I’m around people who recognize me. The crowd tonight is decent; there’s a dude with a lead white painted face, whose wearing a sleeveless vest, a grey tie and a bowler derby(derby bowler?), who will be the opening act; a psychobilly band that covers the misfits, sings about satan and death, and they even sample in a pipe organ into their songs for depth of sound. There are a couple skaters, punkers, a slew of hot chicks with shaved heads and long bangs/sideburns, blue Mohawks, some fucking idiots with nicely trimmed haircuts and long beards, but all the while, I can’t find my little punk fetish; the girl with the long straight blonde hair, army fatigue jacket that hangs over the knuckles, black dress and 20 hole black doc martens. There’s one at every show and if you know anybody that looks like that, let them know I’m a big fan.

As the second opening act warms up I see a kid stretching in the mosh pit. Stretching? What the fuck is this kid going to do? Oh. He’s waving his arms and kicking his legs in a wide, sweeping circle. He’s a crowd killer. Crowd killing is simply waving all your limbs in a spinning circle and deliberately hitting people on the edge of the pit. Kids do it. they have been since the ultra embarrassing band lamb of god came around and it’s the vile plague of new age moshing. It’s the newest wave of the metal/punk scene, and its what divides generations of headbangers. To be honest, there are a lot of youtube videos of these crowd killers getting punched in the face, throat, or back of head by the older generations of punkers. I know I’m getting old, grey, bitter, fat and bald(as my bodyguard likes to remind me), but there is no excuse for such public displays. Mosh, pogo, slam or be damned. Ha! Oh look, he just bumped into a mic stand and the entire band just told him to get fucked. That’s an embarrassing walk out the door.

Well, I guess 8 moosehead is the magic number. No longer feeling ill, just drunk and worryingly so. Chugging beer and ingesting heavy indica downer pills seems to not be a winning combination. The dayglos haven’t even started yet and I’ve shifted the balance from getting started to starting to fade. I grab my body guard by the arm and haul him outside to drag on some heady sativa honey oil. Phew, I’m coming back to life and clearing room for another 8 beers. You see, indica is the type of pot that brings you down and melts your body. Indicas make you tired, slow and mellow. Indica is a great way to kill the pounding throb of a dehydration headache and settle the churning of inflamed intestines. On the other hand, sativa is the energizer; the one that clears the slate of those 8 warm beers and stimulates the brain into clarity of thought, stabilizes the body back into equilibrium and makes vision enhanced, to a point of layering distance and then, hallucination. Sativas are the game changer for middle aged punkers who binge drink at concerts.

My bodyguard seems to be perking up too. Its about time; as ive said before, he’s the brawn between us and I am unfortunately the wildcard who is utterly unpredictable at times. And it just so happens that as a duo we lack the brain we so desperately need. My bodyguard is my big, big friend, and if I haven’t mentioned it before, he is simply a hunkering mass of muscle. He has the build of a refrigerator reinforced with steel bars. This man doesn’t even work out and continues to get stronger every time I see him. he has the physical exercise regimen of a tree sloth and has the worst diet I’ve ever seen a grown man survive. Matter of fact, he was an inspiration of the most unhealthy thing I’ve ever cooked in my life; the poutine donut. Which is an all American recreation.

The poutine donut was something we whispered about in secrecy, making sure nobody could hear us talking about our dirty curiosity, the taboo notion of having gravy and melted cheese curds on deep fried potatoes, all placed on top of a fatty, sugary donut. How would we bring it up in conversation? People who opposed it would shun us, exile us. The very notion of recreating this dish in a public setting was dangerous enough to our social inclusion. We would have to find like-minded people who would be open and accepting to the idea. This isn’t just asking if they’d like to take part of a meal, this is like proposing hard intercourse with your step-sister.

We gathered a small group of cooks and put our heads together to craft this monstrosity. This was only going to happen once, so we better nail it the first time. Donuts, no, timbits, the small circular donuts bites would be the choice. Plain, glazed, sour cream glazed and birthday cake. 10 of each. We needed neutral, spicy, a tough glaze to ward off drenching of gravy, we needed sprinkles.

Timbits lined the bottom of the pan, paired with handfuls of cheesecurds, and the pan was placed in the oven to melt the cheese while the crispy potato wedges fried in hot oil. We couldn’t risk fries going mushy, we needed the sturdy exterior of wedges. The wedge, the original machine, the fulcrum, the medium which would help elevate the entire dish. The wedges topped the cheesy donuts and we topped that with more cheese, back into the oven.

We pulled out the dish of hot pastry and starch and poured hot gravy over the pan, so hot that it would simply melt skin if it splashed onto us. The brown viscous sauce thickened with flour would melt the cheese and bind the entire dish. A small group of us took pictures, videos on our phones, the rest just stared in silence.

When the spoon dug in and pulled up fries, sauce, and donut, long strings of melted cheese pulled along, as far as we could stretch. I placed my 5 timbit portion into a shallow metal insert. A porcelain bowl or dish is far too high brow for this. If it were allowed, I would have eaten this out of a dog dish with just my mouth and no hands.

We gorged.

Some went for seconds, thirds and when it was devoured, we all sat in perfect silence. We stared at each other, ourselves, our hands, our stomachs with shame and indigestion. Nobody spoke for a few minutes; we all sat in grief like stranded crash survivors who just ate the festering, decomposing corpse of a crash victim to sustain ourselves for just a little longer.

Finally, I spoke, ‘well, we have something to tell our grandchildren…’

The vegan who witnessed the whole atrocity replied, ‘you’ll never grow old enough to have grandchildren.’

Keeping that in mind, we headed back in time for the dayglos to start; their warm up is making sure they’re plugged in and the lead plays half the show unplugged anyway. ‘blarc’, the blind drummer is the only one to actually warm up and all he does is play the same drum pattern he’s going to hammer out during the entire show. good thing that sativa has cleared my mind because the bands been on for 2 minutes and the shoes, water bottles and fists are already flying.

Sometimes I worry about what my future holds; will I be forever hooked up to a dialysis machine, or nursing after a liver transplant? I shouldn’t be so worried when I look at the dayglo abortions; the only original member that still tours looks like frank Gallagher after a bad day, and that’s how he looks all the time. Murray ‘the cretin’ is the sole original member of the dayglo abortions, canadas best punk outfit, and I watched him swallow 5 shots of jack daniels and rip a jimmy page guitar solo with every string out of key, so, in theory, compared to them, I’ll be juuust fine.

All in all, this show is just like any other ive attended; the dayglos are out of key, the bassist is pissed off and shoves or kicks anybody who comes too close to his mic stand. Im high as fuck, barely staring through slits for eye holes and smashing beer necks with my big, big bodyguard.

Goodbye hangover, goodbye professional writing career.