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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: Is Pot Smoking Hobby, Medicine, or Crime? Is Pot Smoking Hobby, Medicine, or Crime?

It's a weird point in time when a doctor can prescribe you a really awesome but federally-illegal drug that causes your health insurance to skyrocket.


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:

A friend of a friend wrote me an email the other day detailing how he'd recently incurred a 25-percent spike in his health insurance premium because he admitted to smoking pot on the questionnaire. He called his insurance company and asked them to explain why checking a box that indicated he'd inhaled weed anywhere from one to four times in the past two years constitutes a liability. Had he done himself any proven physical harm by getting high? "We'll never know," the representative told him. He then asked whether he could prevent the charge by listing edibles or vaporizers as his preferred weed delivery vehicle. The representative said she'd never heard of that.

We live at a weird point in time when a doctor can prescribe you a really awesome but federally-illegal drug that causes your health insurance to skyrocket. Aren’t doctors and health insurance agencies supposed to be in cahoots, at least enough to come to a consensus on whether the medicine you take does you good or harm? But weed isn’t really considered medicine. Not yet.

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High Minded: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Embrace My Stoner Lifestyle

Enter the stone zone with GOOD's intrepid pot columnist.



The first time I blogged about pot, I sweated for the next few hours waiting for an email to appear in my inbox from the FBI. There are a few reasons for that: (1) I am a nervous law-abiding person; (2) marijuana is, federally speaking, illegal; (3) I was stoned.

I felt really conflicted, as a former D.A.R.E. ad sponge, about pressing publish on a post that contained the phrase “I smoke pot.” On the one hand, I'd had a California state medical marijuana card for a few years, which I obtained after a rough patch with the prescription sleep aid Lunesta. On the other hand, I felt guilty, because I really really like smoking weed.

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