In the fall but not the fall fall I went to a conference in Vermont, or maybe Connecticut. It wasn’t like a cannabis conference; I think it was on homeopathy, or anarchy, or retroviruses, or heliotropic nihilism. I like conferences. Sometimes I’ll just see one on a hotel sign and go on in.
I may have gotten turned around, but I was definitely in Vermont when the leaves were still all green except maybe sometimes out of the corner of your eye they’d slip in a yellow leaf or two, or give you the finger, but probably the first one. Peripheral vision is weird sometimes. It’s a good time to be in Vermont because the state police there have green cars and finally they start to stick out. Not sure if I was really supposed to be in Vermont in the first place, but I’m glad I did, because I got to check out one of the dispensaries there.
Check this out: it was called the Gas Station Dispensary. I probably was gonna stop anyway, but since down in New Paltz we got Big Gas going on, I figured it was a sign that this was the one I needed to see for myself. I’ve never actually written about dispensaries really, but they’ve all got a different vibe. Big Gas is like an Apple store. I went to one in Massachusetts that felt like a DMV if everyone was glad to be there. This one in Vermont was more like a candy store, if candy stores were places that you never want your kids running around in, helping themselves. Well, maybe if you’re the parent, you don’t want your kid doing that in a real candy store, either.
You know, if Rudolph Diesel’s dream of running those truck engines on veggie oils like hemp had come true back in 1913, we probably wouldn’t have any dispensaries in old gas stations, because we wouldn’t have ever had any gas stations at all. Makes you think.
The one near us is in an old Stewart’s, but this Vermont dispensary was definitely an old-timey repair shop, with that one door on the side that leads into the cramped waiting room with the terrible coffee, and another door into a space where the cars once were. They’d gotten rid of the garage doors and painted the whole place kinda white, and now instead of sketchy coffee there was a smiling security card, ready to check ID. Dispensaries are the only place I’ve ever seen smiling security guards.
Past the second door the space was long and skinny, like running a gauntlet through the purple haze. On the left was the front wall, and on the right was a long row of glass display cases just packed with edibles, and paraphernalia, and bud that was loose and that you can buy by weight, just like you could in New York before the man got involved. What do you call people who work in a place like this? I know we can’t call them “dealers” anymore, and I’m trying to remember what we’re supposed to say now. Is it “bud tender?” Anyway, they were super helpful. Instead of making me just read those descriptions that were definitely written by wine snobs, I got to sniff the merchandise for myself. That’s how I like it. They had probably 35 different strains just in the loose bud like that, and then there’s also the cartridges, and the gummies, and did I mention you could buy a bong or a bowl in the same store?
When I got to the counter, I finally found prepacked count. It was all shake, and they were selling eight different kinds for $35 an ounce. The last time I bought shake at that price was, well, it was definitely not yesterday. The price made me want to type that exploding brain emoji, but I’d left my phone in the car and by the time I went back outside I didn’t even remember what blew my mind until I was back home. Maybe it had something to do with spending the next few days trying out some shiny new glass and dank yank buds and tasty woodchuck edibles.
It’s the taste of freedom, friends.
Join the family! 
