Welcome to another installment of my ongoing odyssey in the job market, in which a befuddled geezer seeks a regular paycheck, part-time fulfillment, and maybe just a shred of dignity on the side. After the soul-grinding chaos that is the US Postal Service, the transition to selling premium cannabis products at a busy dispensary has been smooth as velvet ribbon.
I am currently in my fourth month as a “budtender” at a perfectly legal pot shop. Oddly enough, It’s become a satisfying routine, once I’d jettisoned my outdated preconceptions about working in Weedville. Instead of hippies in beanbag chairs gawking over black-light posters, and zoning out to Ravi Shankar tapes, our humble business is a clean and efficient operation located in a snug little shack in deep Southeast Portland. We boast a loyal (and sketchy) neighborhood following, thanks to an amiable staff and reasonable prices on excellent smoke.
No, we don’t smoke at work. No, we don’t get free weed.
About 75 percent of the job is shooting the shit with hardened stoners, medical patients, and curious newbies looking to spice up their lives. And much of that time is taken up listening to old-timers reminisce about the glory days.
“Well, I’ll tell you something, Jim, nobody grows anything as good as the Thai weed I used to get back in the ’80s. Me and my buddies would go over to see Carlos the night manager at Shakey’s, and get us some of the good stuff. Man, I was annihilated.”
This is most likely total bullshit. Marijuana is way, way better now, and certainly more refined than it’s ever been. But everyone likes to tell their fishing stories, so we nod along, contributing the occasional “nice,” “wow,” and “that sounds awesome.”
I’m not trying to rain on anyone’s parade here, but there are about a zillion strains of pot out there, with new hybrids appearing on a daily basis, each with their own distinctive properties and flavors. Go bag yourself a gram of the White or puff on a little Death Star and see how they stack up against your flickering memories.
For that matter, fire up some of the soon-to-be-legal concentrates; shatter, wax, resin, crumble, distillates. This shit is on a whole other level from the shwag we used to covet and fawn over, valiantly convincing ourselves we weren’t burned on lawn clippings again.
It’s the 21st century, folks. We’re now boarding starship Freakout, and there are brilliant new ganja galaxies out there awaiting discovery.
Doomed Again 