It took a few trips before I finally figured out what Seven Clover's name meant. Thank Xenu I had the wherewithal not to ask anyone. I could explain it, but I wouldn't want to spoil it for all the other dummies. Most everyone gets it right away, of course.
There weren't any IQ tests in the waiting room, so I was allowed to shop at the Eastside location without a single raised eyebrow. It even shares a parking lot with Lobo Anime and Comics meaning I got to browse some comics afterward (I like the ones with less words).
As I stared at the menu, I scrunched my face up and pushed my glasses up the bridge of my nose. It's one of the ways I make it appear that I'm considering swaths of information, when in reality I'm just groping in a wide white expanse and finding nothing. It almost always works. I've only been recognized as an idiot a few times, so a kind of intelligence might be exhibited here—we can hope, anyway.
The budtender waited patiently for me to catch up with myself. She then did one of the most impressive things I've seen in my years writing this column. It began with the innocent question of a certain strain's lineage. Without blinking or thinking, she rattled it off and tagged the flavor profile on for good measure. I noticed, but didn't let on. I asked another and got the same treatment. I wasn't even listening to her answers as I machine-gunned the name of every strain on the menu at her. I don't even think it phased her.
“Wow. You really know your bud,” I said at the end of the performance. “Oh,” she said. “Yeah.” She didn't seem aware of the feat she'd just pulled, and I decided not to make a thing out of it. A line was backing up behind me, so I picked a few strains that sounded promising and took off.
Back at the lab, I broke into the Reba (THC: 22.38%—$10/gram) first. This was around 2pm, and I needed a swift reminder of the joys of living without turning into a couch slug. It smelled strongly of lime and my favorite terpene, limonene. Strains in this camp always boost my mood and turn me into a giggling cornball looking for things to do with my hands—great for pulling yourself out of a funk.
I broke up a trichome-heavy bud and took a tiny puff. It tasted citrusy, with more orange notes than the smell. It went down smooth and took hold quickly. The potent effects were quick to come on and I noticed an incredible hunger before anything else. I was quickly overtaken with novel trains of thought and wandered in distracted circles around the kitchen for some time, opening cabinets and staring at the contents blindly. Weird wordplay traipsed through my mind. Puns popped their heads out before quickly escaping my grasp like a game of whac-a-mole.
My mood was noticeably improved as I sat down to a ham sandwich and a hastily rolled joint of Ice Cream Cake (THC: 27.10%—$11.50/gram). The flower had been dense and sticky as I chipped away at it. It smelled like a hair salon in the '80s, oddly, and the joint smoked poorly (a good thing). It tasted woody and floral, with peppery hints, and immediately relaxed my back and and shoulders. The sandwich disappeared in the hour haze that followed. It wasn't very special. It had spinach instead of lettuce—a choice I now question. I watched the shadows move across the floor and spent 10 minutes deliberating the best strategy to get up and close the blinds before the evening sun hit my eyes. I was in a blissful state of painless limbo—a formless awareness adrift in a trance.
I pulled the chain and remembered the age old saying: “If you forget the pipe, then you don't need it.” The flipside is that if you remember, then it's time to hit it again. I still had a bowl of Strawberry Blonde (THC: 22.42%—$11.50/gram) to make it through, and I got to work.
This sativa-dominant strain smelled swampy and sweet. The fresh, wet bud was sprinkled with a nice coating of crystals. It tasted fruity and dark, and caused a spate of coughing. The effects were slow to come on, and it was nearly the end of the bowl before I suddenly became aware that I was getting antsy. I put on some music and paced for a while. A whole album flew by while I wore a circle in the carpet. I'd stopped every few songs to pack another bowl and carry it with me. I sang along bawdily. Some minor swaying and heel shuffling might have been involved. I completely forgot how stupid I was.
I was so happy with the strain that I ended up smoking the whole damn thing that night and had to drive out for more in the morning. I'd stared at the empty package, trying to sear the name onto my brain before I went back to the store. Strawberry Blonde—Strawberry Blonde. Easy.
When I got to the counter, I stared at the menu and furrowed my brow. This time it took a little longer to catch up because my attention was caught on a pipe in a display case. It was neon yellow. I couldn't remember why I was there at all.