Pretty much any Wine Country-themed festival
We were somewhere around Napa, on the edge of the vineyard, when the weed began to take hold. I remember saying something like, “I feel so f*cking high; maybe we should call an Uber.”
And suddenly there was a terrible vibe all around us, and the streets were full of what looked like straight-laced tourists and wine moms, all swooping and screeching and diving around us—oh God, I think they know I’m stoned.
No, they can’t read my mind (which is going about a hundred miles a minute thanks to that pre-roll I just smoked—should have known better with a strain named Beelzebub’s Zumba). Suddenly, a voice was screaming, “Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn stoners doing in Wine Country?”
We ran into the alleyway behind a boujee wine tasting venue, and then it was quiet again. I hit my bong and puff-puff-passed it to my buddy, aiming to smoke away the anxiety of being too high. No point avoiding those winos, I thought. We’ll see them soon enough.
Then it was almost noon, and we still had more of Napa to tour. It would be a tough tour. Very soon, I knew, we would both be completely blitzed off those edibles I forgot we took—there was no going back, and no time to sober up. We would just have to ride this high out.
Press registration for the fabulous Festival Napa Valley was already underway, and we had to get there by four to meet our plug. A questionable at best cannabis company had “taken care” of the reservations, along with giving us this huge bag of Beezlebub’s Zumba. . . and I was, after all, a professional stoner/journalist, so I had an obligation to cover the story, for good or ill.
