That’s it, no more edibles – san diego citybeat electricity consumption


I can’t seem to find the pizzas that I want in this grocery store. I look in other sections to see if maybe they’ve scattered the pizzas throughout the store. I want to have something to offer to my friends when they arrive—two good chums are driving down from Carpinteria to watch the livestream of Coachella, and they’re bringing their young daughter.

I pick up a 30-pack of Miller Lite because this is what my brain deems an appropriate amount and quality of beer for four responsible adults enjoying a low-key weekend with a two-year-old. I didn’t take the drugs because it’s 4/20. In fact, I hate the whole thing with 4/20. I hate every holiday that celebrates vices, because being a grown-up means you don’t need a special day to do anything. St. Patty’s Day, 4/20, Cinco de Mayo—all amateur hour.

The preceding week had been long—one of those weeks where I thought it was Friday on Wednesday. I decided to treat myself to a haircut at Barber Side in Normal Heights. It’s the type of place that offers each customer a beer upon entering, which seems to be pretty standard practice among most ye olde barber shoppes these days, but it still makes me feel like a tough guy.

But since it was 4/20, there was also a box of candies out on the table. Free drugs! Despite years of being warned by DARE officers that strangers are itching to give me free drugs, it was the first time that it’s actually happened. I couldn’t not take one. The package was a sinister little black and red thing with “CANDIES” printed in inconspicuous, large font across the front, and then “Indica—50mg THC” underneath. Honestly, it looked like something you’d buy at a gas station for a better boner or something, and for that reason, I didn’t take it very seriously.

I ate the candy. It was watermelon-flavored. I sat silently during my cut, which could’ve either been the drugs kicking in or just my natural aversion to conversation (I constantly dream of owning a business called Quiets™ which provides barbers, rideshare drivers and dentists—all of whom won’t talk to you).

At home, I remove the vegetables from the crisper in the refrigerator to put the beer in, which seems like a normal thing to do. No reason to tell anyone I’m high—not my wife, not my friends, nobody. I’m amazed at how well 30 beers fits in there. This awe does not feel like a symptom of being high, but my own spatial ingenuity.

Then, the candy kicks in. Hard. And three successive events send me into a shame spiral. First, I have trouble connecting the computer to the TV. (Wires. Too. Confusing.). Then, I find out that Coachella isn’t even streaming the second weekend. Then, I get a text from my friends: They’re only an hour away.

Our friends arrive, and it’s the first thing I say: “I’m high.” They’ve driven four hours in the night to be with us. I know I should be social, but all I really want to do is retreat into a dark space. I tell stories, which fizzle out when I get distracted by my shoes. I try to talk about CityBeat’s recent reggae-appropriation article controversy, but end up making reggae guitar sounds: wick-ah, wick-ah, wick-ah. When my friends tell me that at least my haircut looks good, I say: “Yeah, but the barber was being so precise!”

When their daughter starts talking about her imaginary friends, I imagine them at our front door and thoroughly creep myself out. It’s all too much. I know it’s drug-induced projecting, but I can see the regret in my friends’ eyes from bringing their child into this drug haven. I excuse myself and go to bed, where I lie alone like a vampire, and wonder if my friends are actually at our house or if I had dreamed the whole thing. I remember the scary imaginary friends and cover my head with the blanket. I fall asleep breathing through a little hole in my blanket cocoon—a protective maneuver against monsters that I haven’t done since I was a child. Tags May 9, 2018 Issue