Being into drugs often breeds innovation.
Wait, we’re not junkies — but psychedelic experience has been a fairly consistent encounter throughout our now over-a-quarter-century hill lives. Lets not mince ideas: This is a blog partly dedicated to an ancient fermented grain juice that gives you the happies, gimmies, and giggles.
(After all there’s an illicit activity behind our blog name: Google it already and look at what other Web pages come up (yes, there have been people who didn’t get the double entendre.).)
One such innovation was met and mastered by a younger Alex Brown and his cadre of hoods in high school (i.e. five bowl-cut tweens wearing trench coats before it was cool, and then uncool) when two common and sub-par chemicals (shitty brick weed and cheap gin) were married and aged in the bowels of the young Knife’s closet.
Before brownies and THC ghee there was “Green Dragon;” a lesson in chemistry where chemical extraction via alcohol was streamlined into ecstatic, albeit disgusting, perfection.
The brutish elation of a gin drunk,
augmented with a concentrated log jam
of THC: Teenage Power // Teenage Prowess.
The seemingly endless stash of single serving Tanqueray that used to be complimentary on airplanes, was silently expropriated from its dusty shelf in a virtually unused wet bar, relieved of two small sips of gin, and then stuffed to the brim with the finest “orange-hair step-down” that 20 dollars could buy. Thirty to 65 days later, the bottles were drained, the liquid purified via coffee filters and toilet paper tubes, and the remaining marijuana left to dry (only to be smoked in what were essentially useless and extremely painful joints). The tincture was then returned to its original bottle and reserved for social events, used mainly for impressing older girls into hopefully fruitful rendezvous and/or disgusting/generating respect from the older guys who thought we were rad/insane. That was then, this is now…
A few weeks back, a shady deal landed us two $20 bottles of brewed homebeer with no labels. The ingredients, however were clear from the onset: These were weed IPAs…
So the following is an account of a self-admitted ‘Green Dragon O.G.’ named Alex Brown meeting his match: a sophisticated concoction of THC extracted and imbued in a piney IPA. Early accounts of this concoction by an official Medical Grade Connoisseur were: “Shit man, fucked all day.” (Note: in this instance, ‘fucked,’ refers not to the widely used idiom for coitus, but the situation of ‘fucked-upped-ness,’ often associated with drugs and/or drink).
Place: Darchuck Residence, Glendale.
Situation: The Party Joke Gets the Better of Our Man
Details on imbibing:
Upon entry to a celebration of birth for one Peter “Sam I Am” Darchuck, and after gifts were presented, my 16 oz. of beer was offered to just shy of everyone at the event (I spared the birthday boys’ Pops and Ladyfriend), which may result in a lower dose…(in retrospect, this is a silly concern).
The brew, cloudy with either beer sediments or Sativa globules, tasted exactly as it was expected to. Thankfully, there was a total lack of the cloying flavor of weed infusion usually present in lipid based suspensions.
When you tell everyone that you’re imbibing some goofy novel weed-thing, they all seem to watch you like a baby pending some kind of adorable and potentially fragrant accident.
Place: My Girlfirend’s Echo
Situation: Things Get Pretty
A sunny day on Sunday is a great time to exit Glendale (not a dig).
The vines underneath the 5 are like giant plant dreadlocks (ouch).
The sounds of a Police firing range waft over the hill to my house (eep).
Driving at the onset is swell, but slightly intimidating.
A trip downstairs for refreshment has resulted in a conundrum: upon return my cellular phone appears to be missing. This is not good. A friend may or may not be arriving, she may or may not be a she, I may or may not be wearing any clothes…its downstairs.
“It’s not downstairs. It must be back at the pool.”
(It’s not at the pool. This routine repeats itself three times.)
“Where the shit is the goddamn phone?”
(Enter Cocoa the dog.)
(Rumination on the dog being covered with dead grass, dirt, and wearing a more than usually goofy grin.)
“You’ve done something with it haven’t you”
(…) (She had.) (…)
(I’m suddenly very hungry.)
After hours of Young Money music videos, an unnatural concoction of tortilla chips, peanut butter, fish sauce and sriracha, and yes, digging my phone from its shallow grave, I took a nap.
Drinking a bottle of THC infused IPA inspired many symptoms commonly associated with smoking weed all day: sloth, paranoia, ecstasy, strange desire for shameful snacks and basic social alienation.
Drinking pot beer will prevent you from taking photos for your blog, and force you to fill memory cards with pictures of bugs.
Was imbibing 12 oz. of untold chronic power dissimilar from cereal-smoking some kind of pot named “Truth” or “Kilimanjaro?”
Does that really matter?
Beverage: (after the weed beer) Eagle Rock Brewery’s Equinox.
Soundtrack: Punky Reggae Party, “Halloween”
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