It is no longer Sixties Damage Grass, or Forgotten Seventies pot, or even Eighties Without Hats weed.

Marijuana is now legal in Seattle. Some of the regulars smoked weed before it was legal, of course; the difference now is that no one needs to hide it. Now people come into the bar smelling strongly of the no-longer-illicit weed. They are almost prideful of the smell: they have been smoking the Good Stuff.

I said the difference now is that no one needs to hide it. But there is another difference: the legal stuff is stronger. More potent. Growers are working diligently on this, because there is open competition. Now it is like the proliferation of meticulous craft beers: you are aiming for a choosy market. People care about where the hops come from, say: they are discerning.

It is no longer Sixties Damage Grass, or Forgotten Seventies pot, or even Eighties Without Hats weed. It is no longer what just happens to be available from shady guys on the Ave. It is like the steroids era in baseball: everyone wants the stuff that lets you hit seventy home runs. Everyone wants to slowly trot around the bases, kiss their fingertips, and point them at the sky.

The advent of legal marijuana has another effect on some regulars at the bar: nostalgia for the old days. When there was a thrill in buying clandestine goods. Memories of the dude you bought weed from, the shady guy with the limp. Furtive smoking. The time your regular connection disappeared from town, and you were left dry: you can laugh about it now, but it seemed catastrophic at the time. Those Days.

The Ave Kids can't afford this new legal stuff: there are taxes now, taxes that the City Government loves. So they still buy the illicit stuff. Clandestine. Furtive. And the shady guy with the limp stays in business, or at least someone like him. They have no need for craft beer; they do not care about where the hops came from. Fuck Heineken: Pabst Blue Ribbon. Of course, those who love the craft beers turn their noses up at Heineken, too, but you get the idea.

Meanwhile, some of the College Girls at the bar are still trying to score cocaine in the evenings. Clandestine. Furtive. When they are older and suburban they will probably have nostalgia about Those Days. If they haven't turned into crack whores. Always that possibility.



- james james

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