cultivating cannabis
THE WAY IT WAS: THE NOSTALGIA NEUROSIS CYCLE
by
CHRIS BARRY
________________________________________________________
Former
lead singer of the legendary 222s,
arguably Montreal's first punk rock band, Chris is now a
freelance writer based in Montreal. You can check out his
writing at looselips.ca.
where he combines the sardonic humour of David Foster Wallace
and the deliciously contrived irreverence of Anthony Bourdain.
Note:
Canada legalized cannabis on October 17th, 2018
Autumn
in my part of the world (Canada), the Northeast, is truly a time
of splendour. The tourists come from far and wide to admire the
foliage, the horror of frigid winters past are still a distant
memory, and, there’s plenty of cash waiting to be earned
in the local pot growing industry. And while I’m admittedly
too big a chicken to actually try and harvest my own giant field
of doob, I have been known to bury the odd clone out in the bush
somewhere and, come October, return to the scene of the crime,
fingers crossed, hoping for the best. Avocational modest pot cultivation
is a time-honoured tradition around here, so much so that a determined
trek through the local woods will, almost as often as not, find
you, ahem, ‘stumbling’ upon somebody else’s
plants. Doob really is that ubiquitous out here.
Now I
do not pretend to be a particularly honourable man. I once sold
my cat Puff’s shit to a Grade 8 kid in my school for top
dollar, slapping a little black shoe polish on one of her turds
and promoting it as an ultra rare variety of Persian hash called
Puffapoo. I deliberately park in handicapped spaces, I like to
look up women’s skirts with a hand-held mirror in supermarket
lineups, I am weak willed and most certainly lazy, but, to date,
I can proudly state that whenever I’ve come across somebody
else’s reefer out in the bush I have always followed the
righteous path and left it alone. Foolish perhaps, but I see it
as a karmic thing, I won’t steal any one else’s doob
and with luck no one will steal mine.
But I’m
also an idiot. Last year I planted six clones in various locations
and come harvest only one remained which hadn’t been stolen.
And the problem is getting worse. In fact, my friend Lorney, an
300 pound ex-con currently on parole and whose entire family lives
the year round on income earned from his impressive marijuana
plantation, tells me that he lost more than half his plants last
year to thieves. He thinks the crooks, most probably criminal
bikers, are coming here from the city for the express purpose
of ripping off the rural folk. Which may or may not be true. Lorney,
although a nice enough guy, is arguably not the most brilliant
of fellows, and tends to be a little paranoid, no doubt the cumulative
effect of several decades of unabated reefer consumption.
This
year Lorney says he’s taking no chances with his crop. And
as such, a new employment opportunity has arisen in the neighbourhood,
one that is mine if I’m willing to take it. “All you’ve
got to do,” Lorney tells me, “is for the next three
weeks just spend your nights out in the bush, keeping an eye on
my plants. It pays $600 a day.”
Which
in my book is pretty good money, certainly a more lucrative endeavour
than spending all day in his basement cleaning buds with his kids
for $20 an hour. “No worries, I’ll supply you with
some night vision goggles and a machine gun and if anybody comes
around, you just shoot them. You’ll have to have a machine
gun, because if there’s more than one of them, well, come
on, a simple 33 caliber rifle just isn’t gonna do the job.”
Which I suppose makes sense, assuming your willing to kill people
over a little bit of reefer, that is.
Now honestly,
as much as I could really use this untraceable cash to help pay
for my education, I do have some reservations about taking on
the gig. For starters, um, it seems a little dangerous. Like,
uh, what if the dope thieves have their own night vision goggles
and machine guns? Will they shoot me in the back as I scamper
as fast as I can through the woods in retreat? Would Lorney choose
to garnish my wages if I effectively allowed all his reefer to
be stolen on my watch? Or might he, upon hearing of my cowardice,
burst in to a rage and kill me himself, Lorney being a man, unfortunately,
with at least a little bit of murdering experience, and no doubt
a character who makes for a much better friend than enemy.
But $600
a day for three full weeks. That’s pretty fuckin’
tempting, and even with all the reefer robbing that’s been
going down in recent years, seriously, what are the chances I’ll
actually be confronted with a ‘situation’, as Lorney
likes to refer to criminal shoot-outs. I’m still undecided
about what I’m going to do.
But the
decision is getting easier – or maybe harder, I’m
not sure yet. You see, for reasons you don’t even wanna
know, I have in my possession this absolutely incredible camouflage
suit, they call it The Bush. It’s intended to be used by
snipers.
Also
by Chris Barry:
To
Boots with Love
From
Spring Fatness to Fitness
Coming Out:
Is It Any Easier?
Head
Trip Story: My Inner Idiot
Ballet
Boxer: Milford Kemp
Like
Young
Loving
Hard Times
Feed
Your Head
Talking
12-Tone with Patti Smith
Beauty
Pageants: The Golden Years
Swingers'
Clubs as Safe Zones
Bust
a Move
Trapeze
- Swinging Ad Extremis
Hells
in Paradise
The
Cannabis Cup
Colonic
Hydrotheraphy
