$14.50/gram, max purchase of $50/eighth at 3D Cannabis Center, 4305 Brighton Blvd. in Denver.
I always tell people that marijuana would be a household name if it caused people to grow hair, lose weight, or have firmer erections. This week I just wish it could cure the common cold, a battle I’m fighting for the first time this winter. Paralyzed by my own wussiness, I ask a friend to pick up a “nice indica” like it was chicken soup.
For better or worse, he brings me Death Star. Death Star. I can’t help but laugh.
The genetics in play are Sour Diesel, an old favorite that’s anything but the kind of sedative I’m looking for, and Sensi Star, an indica that can be surprisingly energetic as well. In other words, indica doesn’t always mean indica, and I don’t always have to smoke something Star Wars themed. Then again, it’s hard to bitch at your personal weed shopper. Being slightly under the weather is no excuse for petulance.
It actually looks fine, with the density you’d expect from a Sensi cross and tons of the amber trichomes that tell me they did a great job on the cure. I always look for a good contrast in Death Star; mostly lighter green nugs that are marked by a much darker leaf and almost burnt orange hairs. Once again they’ve nailed it, even if the trim job leaves a little to be desired. If this were a hair cut, they’d styled a U.S. Marine — high and tight — with a small amount of damage to the resin glands they’d so deftly matured.
Opening the bag, it hit me. Some strains have a sublime, umami-like quality, as if you strolled into a little noodle place for the first time. There are some fumes you can pick up from the Sour Diesel, but this Death Star is packed with a spicy ramen quality that grabs my nose like an uncle who wants to make it disappear. And with my sense of smell reeling from an onslaught of tissues and mucus I’ll spare you from describing, I wouldn’t mind that much.
Sometimes I forget that I’m now 31 and being sick means you shouldn’t have a Saturday afternoon dance party and karaoke-fest. Feeling thoroughly like crap after a few hours, I grabbed the Death Star like a life preserver and attempted to float away. The smoke had a pronounced tangy earthiness, almost like a mellow ginger root, and burned to a clean white ash. And, like Modest Mouse, I got my float on.
I’m not sure who this strain is aimed at. It’s highly euphoric but extremely grounded at the same time. I immediately found my legs tethered to the ground with my head meandering in the sky. All of my body aches were gone in minutes, but even if I had felt them, I’d have been too distracted to care. My best approximation is that this is TV weed, where for a few hours you can zone out to a show you’ve meant to catch up on when you had time to Hulu it. With all of the Diesel, though, this is not an appropriate indica for sleep.
Being keenly alert is one of the main reasons I think people experience paranoia when they smoke, but there’s a lucidity to this Death Star that I can appreciate. If there was still music blaring and feet stomping Mumford-style, I’d probably have enjoyed it less. This is coffee shop herb not intended for house parties. But for the first evening in days, I was focused on streaming video and not what was streaming out of me.
That’s all everyone who has been putting up with me could ask for.