BRING ON THE BUNK WEED

For a while there, things looked promising for the otherwise law-abiding
pot smokers of Canada. Bill C-10, a proposed law that would have
decriminalized marijuana possession, was gaining support. Jean Chretien,
who was prime minister way back when the bill was introduced, said he might
take a toke or two if it was decriminalized.

However, the bill -- which many hoped was a first step toward actual
legalization -- died on the order paper when the federal election was
called. Who knows when it'll be reintroduced. It looks like you'll have to
wait a few more years before you'll be able to pick up a bag from the
corner store. Personally, I can wait. I have, after all, been waiting for
this day for over 15 years.

I have to confess, though, that my anticipation of the big day stems from
less than noble reasons. I wish I could claim that it is the victory for
civil liberties that will cheer my heart, or that I will be especially
thrilled when alternative medicine and lifestyles are finally legitimized.
Sadly, the possible triumph of these worthy principles isn't what I'm
excited about. What I've really been waiting for is the return of the kind
of bunk weed I haven't seen since 1985.

You see, it seems reasonable to assume that once pot is legalized, the
government is not going to simply sit back and let supply, demand and free
enterprise work things out. The government will want a piece of the action,
of course, and it will likely ensure it gets this by declaring that the
government, and the government alone, is responsible for growing the weed
to be sold.

Those in charge will set up a commission, they will consult with
scientists, horticulturists and bikers, they will conduct extensive market
research and, $10 million and six months later, the result will be: crap.
Ottawa Bunk Weed. Seed-filled, twig-littered, bone-dry, hairless pot that
any self-respecting toker today wouldn't feed to his goldfish. Pessimistic
perhaps, but already proven to be true: the government's first batch --
grown for medical patients who have a prescription for marijuana -- was of
such poor quality that patients sent it back.

I don't know why they're growing bunk weed. It might be sheer incompetence.
Or possibly it's deliberate, as a way for the authorities to begrudgingly
grant people their right to choose, while still maintaining the resources
needed to do battle with those evildoers churning out high-grade
hydroponics. I don't mind either way, just so long as somebody starts
putting out some mediocre product.

I suspect a lot of other people feel the same way. Indeed, I'd wager that
most of the thirty-something demographic doesn't touch pot, not because
it's illegal, or because they think Reefer Madness was a documentary and
are scared one toke will reduce them to homeless heroin addicts. No, they
won't smoke a joint because it just ain't what it used to be. In fact,
smoking a joint these days is precisely the opposite of what it once was:
it used to be enjoyable, now it's a little taste of insanity.

From what I can tell, most of the pot in Canada, and certainly the pot
grown in BC, has hit the point of diminishing returns. In other words, it
has gotten just too damn good for its own good.

Don't misunderstand me. I'm not some secret agent of the feds out to
denounce the demon weed with backhanded compliments. There was once a time
that I was a full-fledged de facto Rastafarian, capable of twisting up a
joint with one hand tied behind my bong. But back in those days (way, way
back before I got hired by my current employer; hi boss!) the weed was
reasonable. One woke up and engaged in a little wake and bake, a little
something to take the edge off the coffee, improve the appetite and give
the day a little more humour and serenity than it would normally have. The
worst that would happen is that you'd wrench a gut muscle laughing at...
well, nothing in particular. Occasionally you'd be stricken with a migraine
due to overzealous Slurpee consumption.

These days, however, things aren't so benign. One puff of today's standard
weed has me quivering, mute and hyperventilating in the corner; one nibble
of a bud-laced brownie sends me straight to bed, where I spend the next
three hours listening to the Gregorian chants, Latin oratory and voodoo
drumming that exist solely in my head. There is no mellowness, no munchies,
not even any giggling, except from the landlord who -- I somehow convince
myself -- is watching me through a hidden camera he's rigged up in the fish
tank.

I realize there may be a number of urban gardeners who, for a small fee,
would be more than happy to set me up with some sweepings from their
grow-op. I've tried that approach. I've asked to pay premium price for
bottom-of-the-barrel bunk. It's no use. The worst of their worst still
gives me the creeps.

At this point, I think it's best to rely on good old government bureaucracy
and inefficiency to bring back the happy days of homegrown. At least the
irony, if not the weed, will be good for a laugh.