Being a marijuana critic necessarily entails some risks now and then. In this case, the danger is a hyper-alert German Shepherd named Fritz, who’s standing guard over a bong loaded with bright-yellow bud like I’ve never seen before. I’m itching to light up, but Fritz and I aren’t on good terms. He snarls every time I make a move toward the bong, and so we remain at an impasse.
This is Max’s House of Magic Weed (not its real name), owned by Max (still not his real name), who is master grower for a consortium of wealthy pot fanatics who pay him to lovingly recreate the greatest of the lost heritage strains of yesteryear – like this bowlful of old-style Acapulco Gold sitting just out of my reach.
You can’t buy Max’s weed, you have to be a member. But occasionally he allows a taste for review purposes. And since this is as close to the best of 1960s-era pot as you could find, I had to try it. Is it as strong as our modern-day strains? Today I’ll find out.
Max grudgingly agrees to leave me alone on his patio with the bong, the bud – and Fritz, his former combat dog. He warns me not to make any sudden moves.
“Enjoy,” he says to me. “Kill him if he gets up,” he tells Fritz, then leaves.
I eye the Acapulco bud, which is a remarkable color. It’s literally yellow, almost no green in it, hand-trimmed to perfection. Be forewarned: Max’s artisanal version bears no resemblance to the tepid, commercially average greenish-brown strain that dispensaries sell today under the label “Acapulco Gold.” Max’s shit is expensively cultivated from original seeds, carefully husbanded, grown in small batches in conditions recreating the original soil makeup and hot, windy growing conditions of Mexico’s Pacific coast, then dried and cured by the old methods.
Fritz watches closely but doesn’t move as I take the bong and spark up. I inhale deeply – once, twice – and then I break down into a massive fit of coughing and near-retching. When I recover, Fritz is right in my face. He has the most beautiful eyes. He yawns, and I see the sunlight gleaming off his sharp white canines. It’s captivating. Whoa. I lay back, one of 8 billion sentient creatures on a giant watery rock inside a thin ball of gas spinning through the blackness of space, all of us orbiting the sun, which is orbiting the Milky Way, which is speeding gravitationally across billions of years toward its eventual collision with Andromeda. I’m soaring on a mind-bending euphoria.
Now I’m deep in my own head, feeling the warm sunshine in the breeze, watching the wind ripple the hairs of Fritz’s perfect brown-and-black fur. I really want to dig my hands into that deep furry fur, but I’m having so many thoughts at once that I can’t keep them straight. Also, why does that dog keep staring at me? He hasn’t blinked for an hour now. . .or. . . maybe it’s only been a minute? I am flying. If this is what was around in the ‘60s, no wonder people were willing to risk jail to get their hands on it.
“Vell, I don’t zink anyone vas really all zat anxious to go to jail,” says Fritz.
I squint at the dog, not sure I’m hearing right. Is that a… German accent? “No, probably not,” I answer. “It’s just a figure of speech.”
“Me, I do love zose doggie edibles,” he continues. “Give me a 5mg THC biscuit, und baby, I am flying like ze Hindenberg.”
Alas, these are the last words I hear from Fritz as I finally give in to my failing impulse control and ooh start skritching that big furry head of his. Instantly the air is filled with snarls and shouts, followed by a big thump.
Max returns to find me pressed firmly to the ground, Fritz atop me, alert as always, bushy tail whipping up a storm. The happy bastard knows he’s won himself another 5mg doggie edible. “Sorry, man,” Max says to me. “I owe you one. I hope Fritz wasn’t too rough for you.”
“On the contrary,” I say, brushing myself off. “Excellent conversationalist, for a dog. He needs to work on his accent though. It’s ridiculous.”
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