[W]hy did I feel vaguely criminal as I stuffed my cannabis card — resembling a tiny passport, embossed with a marijuana leaf — in my wallet?
Because I’m from a generation in which marijuana was plainly illegal and thus the province of the young — clandestinely purchased with a wad of singles, smoked with a rowdy crowd of buddies, accompanied by laughter and loud music.
And because I’ve heard from friends — and my own teenage daughters — that getting a cannabis card at 18 has become a rite of passage in some quarters.
Why bother trying to find a dope dealer when you can shop for weed at a place as familiar as a mini-mart?
and then classic narcissist Joel Stein:
[T]he doctor wore a Hawaiian shirt.
He took my blood pressure and asked what I was suffering from. “Anxiety,” I said. And then “occasional insomnia.” And even though he seemed to be moving on, I blurted something about headaches. The only malady that would have made me more similar to every human being throughout history would have been “these painful little pieces of skin that peel up next to my fingernails.”
And now Steve Lopez:
The doctor told me there were many options for treating back pain, and I told him I didn’t want to risk surgery or take conventional painkillers. He wanted to know how I’m affected when back pain keeps me awake.
I’m fuzzy and have trouble focusing the next day, I told him.
He seemed to be looking for a different answer. If I’m a writer, he said, did that mean I had trouble doing my job?
I stood to show him where my back hurts. He asked me to bend down, and I demonstrated that I couldn’t touch my toes, but I don’t think he could see that. He hadn’t moved from his seat.
I pointed again to my lower back and asked if there were a disc that low.
He said he knew nothing about back problems.
“I’m a gynecologist,” he said.
Lopez, like Banks before him, is apparently going to milk this for at least two columns. Stein apparently only got one. But then, Banks said she flushed her marijuana down the toilet; as far as we know, Stein smoked his. And you know how pot robs people of their initiative.
Libby says it may also be affecting the editors’ memory:
So what gives? Is the Times really this hard up for story ideas that they need multiple columnists writing about their adventures getting pot? If so, they might be better off hiring a group of randomly picked teenagers from my hometown – I’m sure they’d charge much less. Or perhaps it’s the editors who are doing most of the smoking, and simply can’t remember that they’ve run the same piece over and over again.