Of course I started to feel the effects the moment I mounted the steps to catch the elevated train. Jamaican-Me-Crazy builds slowly, over time. It’s a real creeper. But when it finally hits, it packs a punch. I was much higher thirty minutes after I smoked it and even higher than that after an hour. This time-release effect probably wouldn’t help the strain win in a blind tasting, where its charm would be obliterated by the faster-acting varietals that followed or preceded it.
The sky was filled with dark clouds, and a cold wind whipped through the outdoor station. I stood and waited for the train with a clutch of commuters, enjoying the ominous weather. I heard a low rumble of thunder and then the clouds broke open and poured caviar-sized hail everywhere. Tiny perfect balls of ice pelted down, bouncing off the sidewalk and careening off umbrellas and people’s heads. While everyone else ran for the glass shelters, I stood in the hail. It was beautiful, like taking a shower in diamonds.
Chapter Nineteen
A Grateful Dead Reference Emerges in the Narrative
The Grey Area was slammed, packed with people six deep trying to get to the counter. It was always crowded in the tiny shop but this crush was insane. Everyone was there because the coffeeshop has entered one of the most talked about strains in that year’s Cup: Casey Jones, a cross of Trainwreck, Thai, and Lemon Haze.
Trainwreck. Casey Jones. Get it? As in the Grateful Dead song with the refrain “Drivin’ that train, high on cocaine.”
Jon Foster was working the train angle. He had stickers on the bags of bud with a cartoon of a buzzed and befuddled-looking engineer driving an old steam train. He was passing out train whistles with the Grey Area logo; he had little altrock pins for your jacket, and he was playing railroad-themed music punctuated by a special-effects train whistle that he blasted every now and then. He was obviously enjoying himself, grinning like a maniacal five-year-old whenever the “train ran through the station” in his tiny shop.
The crush was intimidating, like some kind of fraternity prank to see how many people they could smush into a dorm room. I decided to wait outside. On the street, where a light rain had begun to fall, people stopped, looked in, and then decided to move on to another coffeeshop. Still, the vibe was friendly. There was actually a lively scene taking place out front. I chatted with a German skatepunk and a well-dressed exchange student from Mozambique. We watched as a group of festive Italians took turns posing in front of the window. A couple of very stoned Serbs stumbled out and consulted their map, trying to decide which coffeeshop to crawl to next. I talked to three guys from Florida, young Americans on their first trip to Amsterdam, as they rolled up to the front door and hesitated.
“Looks kinda crowded.”
They were, heroically, trying to visit every coffeeshop on the coffeeshop crawl. This year there were thirty-four shops participating and these guys had already hit seventeen of them.
I asked if anything had blown them away.
One of the Americans, a clean-cut young dude wearing a baseball hat with an image of a straight razor on it, stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I liked the Tangerine Dream at Barney’s.” His buddy, a rotund and friendly-looking fellow with red-rimmed eyes and a Peruvian knit cap scrunched down tight over his head, concurred. “And the triple Lemon Haze from Green House. That one’s great.”
The Grey Area crowd gave them pause, but they would not be denied. They were going in, one way or another. They pushed through the door, fought their way to the counter, bought a gram of Casey Jones, and popped back outside. There was nowhere for them to sit so they headed off to Amnesia where they hoped to find a quiet spot for a smoke.
A lot of Jon’s business at the Cup seemed to be of the “I’ll have that to go” variety.
Inside people were standing shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip while they took their bong hits. But nobody was complaining. Jon had his friendly living room vibe going—there were just a whole lot of people in the living room today.
Standing in the middle of the crush was a pudgy American dude with blond dreadlocks that dropped down to his waist like fancy tassels. He was trying to take a rip off a tall glass bong. It reminded me of rush hour on the New York subway—maybe the number 1 uptown local. The doors opened and people squeezed in and out of the shop. This tightly congested influx and outflow buffeted the dreadlocked dude—bumping him one way, pushing him another—but he’d attained some kind of equilibrium. He didn’t spill the bong water and actually seemed to be enjoying the ride. Every time Jon hit the train whistle, the dreadlocked dude’s face contorted in a classic air guitar grimace and he would raise his hand and pull on an imaginary cord.
Casey Jones, you better watch your speed.
A young black woman with hipster glasses and a perfect afro squeezed past, a burning spliff in her hand, while I shared a table with an attractive couple from Tampa Bay. They were smoking as much as possible before they caught a train to Paris.
Since I’m incapable of rolling a joint, Crockett joined me to check out the strain. I opened the baggie and pulled out the Casey Jones. The bud was gorgeous, which I would expect from one of Jon’s selections, and had a pungent pine/citrus scent. It smelled clean. Or maybe it smelled like cleaning fluid. Crockett rolled two perfect joints—I mean, seriously, the dude could work for Marlboro—and we lit up.
Jon had told me that the strain “gets you up and then lays you out pretty good.”
I have to admit I had some apprehension. I am not a fan of Trainwreck so I smoked Casey Jones with trepidation. I was hoping that the Thai and Lemon Haze components would somehow counter the Trainwreck.
While Casey Jones didn’t give me the soaring uplift or visual thrills of an equatorial sativa, it did have a very nice high. I was buzzed but social, relaxed but not comatose. Even though it had started to rain hard, Crockett and I decided to escape the crush of humanity overfilling Grey Area and find something to drink. Once I stepped outside, the Thai influence—the sativa clarity—was immediately apparent.
We strolled a few blocks and eventually found a bright and modern pizzeria called Mazzo. We sat down and I relaxed, letting the lingering buzz from the pot expand in my head as Crockett told me how he’d been kept awake most of the night by uncontrollable giggling from the next room. He shook his head and said, “Apparently the Guru and Cletus found a smart shop.”
Smart shops sell psychedelic mushrooms.
At one point, just so he could sleep, Crockett had wedged a chair under the doorknob to his bedroom to prevent any mischievous mushroomers from invading his room.
We ordered a couple of cracker-thin pizzas—the sauce seemed to have been painted on with a brush—and shared a bottle of tart Sicilian wine. It was, just like the meal at Lee in Toronto, one of those situational moments that make smoking cannabis so pleasant. The weed was very good, but not overpowering; the restaurant was friendly and comfortable; I was in good company; the pizza was tasty and the white wine delicious. All these factors combined to make the experience of smoking Casey Jones dank in a way that I think Jon Foster would’ve approved of. I suddenly found myself rooting for Casey Jones, hoping that the strain could break the lock of the corporate sponsors and give Grey Area a Cup win.
Chapter Twenty
The Tribe Has Spoken
As the big night approached, there were signs that an upset might be in the making. There were ominous rumblings emanating from the “at large” judges I’d talked to on the street. Buzz was building for Tangerine Dream. Of course, people still liked Super Lemon Haze, and Green House had a loyal following, but there was a general feeling that enthusiasm for the two-time champion was waning.
One of the great things about the Cannabis Cup is that anyone who buys a judge’s pass can be a judge in the main, coffeeshop-sponsored competition. That means they can vote for their favorite strain, best import hash, and best Dutch hash entered by the various coffeeshops around town. This can be seen as either a true test of a strain’s dankness or as a corrupt popularity contest between
corporate sponsors. These awards are different from the seed company cups, which are judged by a panel of experts. Interestingly, the 2010 Cannabis Cup was turning out to be different. It wasn’t the usual clash between two titans. There were other strains in the mix, strains from coffeeshops that were usually relegated to the sidelines. It seemed like everybody had a favorite, and none of them was from Green House or Barney’s.
Traditionally High Times releases a “short list” of the best coffeeshop entries chosen by the panel of celebrity judges at the halfway point in the competition. The short list doesn’t decide the winner but is supposed to be a guide for the at-large judges, a recommendation pointing them in the direction of what the experts feel are the best entries. The short list is also an early indicator of which strain might ultimately be crowned champion.
This year the celebrity panel included Addison DeNour and Russell Wiggins from Steep Hill Labs in Oakland; Dale Gieringer, the director of California NORML; a few “hip hop legends,” including Coke La Rock; and the reigning Miss High Times, among others.
The celebrity panel had sampled all the coffeeshop entries and, shockingly, Tangerine Dream, Super Lemon Haze, and Casey Jones hadn’t made the list.
Instead, the short list was composed of mostly unheralded strains from small coffeeshops. The panel chose Sleaze from the Noon, Amnesia Haze from Bluebird, Chocolope from Arabica Lounge, Strawberry Kush from the Bush Doctor, Chemdawg from De Kroon, S-5 Haze from Prix D’Ami, and something called Kass Kush from Betty Too as their top picks.
I asked Jon Foster at Grey Area what he thought, and he just smiled and said, “It’s the Cup. There’s no telling what’ll happen.”
The awards ceremony was held in a sprawling arts complex and cultural center called the Melkweg. Melkweg translates to “milky way” in English, and it’s unclear if the name comes from the fact that the building is a refurbished dairy factory or if it’s because of the galaxy of events held there. The nonprofit center houses concert and theater stages, screening rooms, art galleries, a café, and a couple of bars.
The official Cannabis Cup parties and concerts were held at the Melkweg, and every night there was something different going on. On separate evenings, Green House sponsored a party with DJ Muggs from Cypress Hill and Kid Cudi, High Times hosted Del the Funky Homosapien, and DNA Genetics threw their annual “Hot Boxxx” party with Dilated Peoples headlining a wrecking crew of DJs. It’s a testament to the fortitude of the Cup-goers that they could crawl through coffeeshops all day, smoke joint after joint of great weed, take bong hits of potent hash, gobble a space cake, and still show up ready to drink and dance until midnight. Perhaps cannabis is some kind of secret performance-enhancing drug.
• • •
The 2010 High Times Cannabis Cup awards happened to fall on Thanksgiving, so I began my evening by having dinner at an eetwinkel (“food shop”) called Het Magazijn, which translates to “The Warehouse” in English. The name is a joke; the restaurant is tiny, smaller than the Grey Area coffeeshop, and has only one table. Eight, maybe ten, people sit together and share a meal prepared by a sardonic chef who seems to specialize in ironic asides as he works in a kitchen a few feet away. The food is very good, kind of Dutch-influenced Italian cuisine. The wine list is a choice between red or white.
Het Magazijn is not pretentious and it’s not expensive and they don’t make grilled cheese sandwiches, which is why—along with De Knijp (“The Squeeze”) and De Waaghals (“The Daredevil”)—it’s one of my favorite restaurants in Amsterdam.
Outside, it was freezing. By that I mean it was zero degrees centigrade, the temperature at which water solidifies. I reluctantly bundled up and left the cozy warmth of Het Magazijn and strolled along the Stadhouderskade, past the Rijksmuseum, shivering my way toward the Leidseplein and the Melkweg.
The Leidseplein, normally a small square surrounded by bars and restaurants, had been transformed into a winter wonderland. A small ice-skating rink stood where cars normally parked, the trees were festooned with Christmas lights, and a variety of rustic huts had sprung up selling holiday favorites such as piping hot spiced wine, gigantic sausages grilled over an open flame, and, of course, beer. You’ve got to give Amsterdammers credit because, despite the arctic temperature, the square was crowded with people enjoying the festivities. For me, someone from Los Angeles, there is nothing stranger than seeing a grown man standing in the sleet, his breath forming an icy plume in the frigid night air, hoisting a frosty mug of beer.
I sauntered into the welcoming warmth of the Melkweg, bought a Heineken, planted myself right behind the sound mixer, and waited for the awards ceremony to begin.
A couple of Italian hipsters stood next to me, drinking beer and smoking a spliff. Above their heads was a sign in English that said “Smoking tobacco products is prohibited by law.” Smoking cannabis, on the other hand, was not, and almost everyone in the crowd had a joint or a pipe or a pocket vaporizer held up to their lips.
Gigantic close-ups of the buds entered by the various coffeeshops—the samples beautifully lit and rotating like some kind of agri-porn—were projected on a big screen in front of the stage. Partially hidden behind the screen, a chaotic comedy unfolded. The High Times staff scurried around, arguing, laughing, looking for things they may or may not have misplaced, and basically acting like no one was really sure who was in charge or what was going on.
As the crowd grew in size, swelling to capacity, the concert hall became seriously smoky. A couple of guys from Boston wedged between me and the Italian hipsters and took out a small pipe and a wad of hash. One held their beers while the other lit up, then the pipe and lighter were exchanged for the beers and the process repeated.
A centerfold-worthy photo of a Tangerine Dream bud appeared on the giant projection screen and a large contingent of Barney’s fans began to hoot and cheer with real enthusiasm. When close-ups of Super Lemon Haze appeared, the silence was jarring.
Forty minutes after the awards were scheduled to start, the screen lifted and the emcee began calling for the vendors who’d had booths at the expo and the coffeeshops that had participated in the Cup to “send your representation to the stage” and receive a “participation trophy.” It was the “everyone’s a winner” moment that you see at youth soccer games all across the United States. Everybody gets a trophy!
“Send your representations to the stage!”
Instead of seven-year-olds clutching juice boxes and wedges of freshly sliced oranges, this was a shuffling herd of stoned and exhausted grown-ups moving like a proverbial herd of cats, wandering across the stage to picked up their trophies.
“Send your representations to the stage!”
Next there was the induction of a new Temple Dragon, a young volunteer who’d been working the door of the expo and generally acting as an all-around gopher for the High Times staff. After some hugs and the presentation of a spiffy jacket, she lit the seven sacred candles—one for each part of the leaf—and the awards show began to pick up momentum.
The first award presented was for Best Booth at the expo. Considering that most of the booths were just a couple of tables shoved together with some display cases on top, it seemed like a ludicrous award.
Green House, who had shown off their large and beautifully designed display at THC Expose in Los Angeles and at the Treating Yourself conference in Toronto, had to deal with the space limitations of the Powerzone, and their booth looked more like a pop-up store at a mall than their normal presentation.
The awards were read in reverse order with Attitude Seed Bank taking third place, Green House Seeds coming in second, and Barney’s Farm taking first place.
Franco grinned and waved to the crowd. “Actually, our booth was not so special, so this was a tribute to my crew.”
Franco is nothing if not honest.
For connoisseurs of cannabis, the awards that carry the most weight are the seed company categories, especially the Sativa Cup. The Temple Dragons and celebrity judges had sample
d all the sativas and, with surprisingly little fanfare, announced the winners. Third place went to Sour Power from a small Dutch seed company called HortiLab, second place went to DNA Genetics for Chocolope, and first place went to an old-school strain, Acapulco Gold, from another small seed company, Amnesia Seeds.
There was a sense of shock in the audience. While it’s arguable that most connoisseurs wouldn’t award first place to Super Lemon Haze or Tangerine Dream, the fact that neither one of them even managed to place or show was a big surprise.
The guy from Boston nudged me with his elbow.
“Did you try Acapulco Gold?”
I shook my head. I hadn’t heard a thing about it.
He grinned. “It was awesome.”
From the expression on his face, I believed him.
Don and Aaron came rolling onto the stage with a relaxed, breezy charm, as if accepting awards was just a cool thing they did a couple times a year. This is not to say they were too cool for school. They were sincerely happy, sporting huge grins, laughing with each other as they waved to the crowd.
Aaron walked to the front of the stage and reached into a small box he was carrying. He began tossing handfuls of joints into the crowd as Don picked up the microphone.
“Second place again.”
Don smiled at the crowd.
“It’s still good, guys. Glad you guys like it.”
And with that, he handed the microphone back to the emcee and walked off the stage with Aaron.
Sissi, a zaftig woman with an explosion of black curls bursting from her head, accepted the award for Acapulco Gold. She was excited, bouncing on her feet and hyperventilating into the microphone.
“This means a lot. A Sativa Cup is, you know, the cream of the cream.”
She jigged around the stage, holding the trophy as her speech began to ramble, thanking various people and telling a story about an older pothead from the United States who’d tasted the Acapulco Gold and told her, “Hey man, this is really the old-school shit.”
Heart of Dankness Page 24