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High Minded: Blow This Joint

This is where I stop writing about pot, hand the vaporizer over to you fine dudes, and start writing about other things.


Enter High Minded, where Tess Lynch revisits previously forgotten epiphanies, drags her lazy, leaden body on adventures and—whoa. I think this pudding's texture might improve if I added a handful of popcorn and some, like, canned blueberries:

About a week ago, I read an article in The New York Times by Ethan Nadelmann about the tension between the federal authorities and states that permit the use of medical marijuana (states whose residents make up almost a third of the U.S. population, by the way). This legal disagreement isn’t new; it’s what defines our current marijuana landscape, after all, but recently it seems that things have reached a spookily unpleasant pitch, like a forgotten Halloween sound machine that makes the noise of two entangled gnats.

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High Minded: The High Holidays Stoners Do Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Graduation

Here’s how to walk that holiday tightrope even when you’re a little crooked.


Enter High Minded, where Tess Lynch revisits previously forgotten epiphanies, drags her lazy, leaden body on adventures and—whoa. I think this pudding's texture might improve if I added a handful of popcorn and some, like, canned blueberries:

On the best Fourth of July I ever had, I stayed home, roasted two chickens with some super-hungry stoner friends, and watched the tiny fireworks on the horizon from the street outside my apartment. It felt like a reflective and safe way to spend the holiday, curled up in a ball-shaped chair with plate numero dos of chicken parts and bread, drinking cheap Champagne and getting my mind warped by colors in the sky. This all went down at a reasonably safe distance from the kinds of explosive noises that make dogs everywhere crawl under sofas and the drunk drivers who—as my high school driver’s ed teacher reminded us—make July 4th weekend the deadliest time to go anywhere on wheels. This was a Fourth of July spent, instead, in a smoky womb: “Why aren’t there fireworks all the time, man? How do they program them to be all those colors—you guys?” My friends had passed out on various sofas and parts of the floor near the fireplace. It was a gas fireplace, so I shut it off and fell asleep in the ball chair.

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High Minded: This Is Your Brain on Weed

There was no question that my symptoms were mental as opposed to physical.


Enter High Minded, where Tess Lynch revisits previously forgotten epiphanies, drags her lazy, leaden body on adventures and—whoa. I think this pudding's texture might improve if I added a handful of popcorn and some, like, canned blueberries:

I remember the night I first realized I would die. It was winter in the early '90s, I was 7 or 8, and I laid on my guard-railed bed pestering my parents with direct questions about how long humans lived. Eventually one of them cracked and explained the difference between “a really long time” and “forever.”

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High Minded: When Stoners Fall in Love

Leaving your house and talking to people may be the difference between smoking pot a lot and smoking pot too much.



Can weed be a social drug? I asked myself this the other day as I sat alone outside, checking my email over and over while smoking a joint. It was daytime, but it was Saturday, so I wasn’t being irresponsibly chill. However, I had some plans on which I was considering flaking in favor of being alone, taking a bath, and trying to read The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao again.

I say “trying to read” because getting high and cracking open this Junot Diaz book has made me feel dumb, regret never learning Spanish, think “this book must have been hard to write,” fall asleep, and wake up to realize that I am so old that I now fall asleep while trying to read books. But it was still a more appealing post-joint activity than leaving my house and talking to people.

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I had a friend who, desperate with the munchies in his dorm room at a delivery-optionless hour, nearly killed himself trying to open a can of baked beans with a pocket knife. I imagine that he was very frightened as he stabbed at the metal lid in vain—that's not an activity you should engage in while under the influence of anything (of course, that’s the only time you would do it). He probably took some breaks to stand over the mini-fridge in a panic, wondering whether to proceed. Maybe he worried he would die of a heart attack. Or perhaps his fingers would fly off, blood and beans fraternizing in his palms, lightning bolts of pain shooting out of his eyes.

He finally pried off the lid, but he didn’t have a clean microwaveable bowl and didn’t want to disturb his roommate washing another one, so he just went to bed. That happens.

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