It’s a cold, drizzly night on the University of Washington campus, and I’m chasing a ghost story. They say that in the early ’90s a UW grad student stole a cannabis plant from a university research lab – a strain so potent and unique it became a Northwest legend. They call it UW Purple (or […]

I’m in a friend’s garage, hunched over a glass rig that looks like it belongs in a science lab. There’s a blowtorch in one hand and a tiny dab tool in the other. The torch roars as it heats a nail to red-hot, and I drop a dollop of amber-colored concentrate onto it. A plume

I step out of a local legal dispensary, purchase in hand, and catch myself instinctively hiding the little green exit bag as an elderly couple walks by. Old habits die hard. Legally, I’m just another customer who bought a regulated product, but socially, I still feel those decades-old eyes of judgment. This is the paradox

I never thought I’d see the day when a cannabis CEO’s post would pop up on my LinkedIn feed – yet here I am, sipping my morning Red Bull while scrolling past a VP of Cultivation bragging about their latest hire. The once shadowy weed business is stepping into the fluorescent light of corporate America.

I’m posted up in a dim corner of a Amsterdam coffeeshop, holding a jar of Lemon Haze under my nose. The citrusy punch hits me even before I spark up – that zing isn’t just in the weed, it is the weed. These are terpenes doing their magic. In the gonzo journey of cannabis culture,

Picture Northern California in the 90s: I’m in a smoky circle deep in the redwoods when a dreadlocked grower hands me a nug and says, “This is Trinity – careful, it’s legendary.” The bud reeks of pine and skunk, and a single puff feels like communing with an underground legend. My vision sharpens, colors pop

The brownie I just ate is innocently staring at me from the wrapper. Chocolatey, chewy, harmless-looking… and loaded with 500 milligrams of THC. “I don’t feel anything yet,” I think 45 minutes later, so I foolishly eat another half. Fast forward and I’m horizontal on my couch, clutching the edges of reality as cartoon characters

I still remember the first time I heard the word “cannabinoids.” It was late at night in a hazy Amsterdam coffee shop, and a dreadlocked fellow patron was rhapsodizing about the secret chemicals in our cannabis that “make everything groovy.” I nodded along, utterly lost. Years later, I find myself diving head-first into the science

I’m on a sun-baked farm in the hills, watching an old-timer named Hank roll a joint from a jar labeled “1978 Afghani #1.” The first puff tastes like history – a heritage strain with roots stretching back decades. Down in the city dispensary, customers clamor for the latest high-THC hybrid, but up here Hank and