A couple of months ago, Adam and his mom visited a marijuana dispensary in Ojai. He had planned on going without her, before or after the three of us had lunch, but I thought it would be amusing to tell her about the expedition. It was! Naturally she wanted to come, and I was happy to wait outside with her dog.
Adam appears not to have been all that interested in the drug itself, because he never got around to opening the bag of edibles. He was more intrigued by the experience—now that one can legally buy pot, one should know what it's like to do so. (In Santa Barbara County, unlike Ojai, you still have to have a "medical" "reason.")
Last weekend, my friend Allisson perked up when we told her about the pineapple-habanero gummies. As gracious hosts, we offered her one; I went the extra mile and joined her, sort of. I was always a lightweight on those few, long-ago occasions when I drove in the fast lane.
About 20 minutes in, I had a giggle fit that may or may not have been related. Adam was driving us to the beach, with Allisson in the front seat and me in the back. As he made a U-turn to parallel park, the three of us noticed a woman standing on the grass next to the space, talking into her phone, and scowling.
Allisson: Is she trying to save the space?
Me: Are people allowed to do that?
Allisson: I'm going to roll up my window so she can't try to tell us she's saving it.
And then, in order to avoid making eye contact with the woman, Allisson and I turned our heads hard to the left. I thought it was incredibly funny, and as apt a parable as any for how big-city people are more ruthless when it comes to things like this. (The woman could have stood in the street if she was serious about saving the space.) I laughed hard—at the time, at dinner, and while waiting to falling asleep, for which I think we can blame the drug. No, credit the drug.