Before going to the park to play a pickup football game, we swatted at mosquitoes, pecked at the marijuana-infused popcorn and spoke about sentimental things.
Recent posts by Lucas Dean Fiser
This may surprise people who don’t venture into Denver’s concert scene very often, but when I say this I mean it: The public’s usage does not seem very different — even at the city’s largest music festival and almost seven full months after the state’s legal weed sales started.
I didn’t know golfing nine holes stoned at the Fort Collins Country Club and riding shotgun in an old, diamond-plated golf cart would make me feel as if I were being born again.
We hit a pipe of Sour Diesel inside my friend Kevin’s steamy one-bedroom apartment and called Lynn, his new personal trainer. At the gym, the first circuit was difficult, and it wasn’t until the third set of our circuit that I felt alarms going off in my stomach. Nothing quite ruins a high like a pang of nausea.
I wondered why marijuana and running hasn’t been explored further. It’s better than anything else when it comes to killing running’s monotony. It feels like you’re mixing drugs.
Climbing is like a dance: It is easy to tell who is more comfortable, calm, by how they move up the face with rhythm. At first I was frigid and stale at the foot of the cliff. But once I got moving, I stopped thinking,
It is music festival season, and I have started to drink weed. I drank weed and went to the Denver Day of Rock festival with some friends and my editor Ricardo. Wed stood below an angry sky, sweating the small stuff, delusional in the sense that afterward I was overwhelmed by my very specie.
After experiencing a horde of pooches at the park, we were back on track for a swim. But first, I needed an emergency swimsuit replacement. We decided a pair of red shorts would definitely fit and in no way become see-through after getting wet. So, $13 dollars later we were back at the pool.
Funny, isn’t it: I would rather be high with my mother more than anyone else. The hike started on the trail that winds over the foothills across the street from my parents’ house in Fort Collins. We walked slowly and talked below the foothills. She couldn’t go far. Not like she used to just a few years ago.
Before walking to our first Colorado Rockies game of the season we smeared our lips with marijuana-infused lip balm, dropped vials of Dixie Elixirs watermelon-flavored tincture and watched Sean writhe excitedly to the Bruce Springsteen track, “Dancing in the Dark.”
A return to a private lake in Fort Collins for a sailing outing stirs childhood memories. And a vaporizer session sparks a conversation on life changes: I had grown up sailing this lake with childhood friend Max, but since moving back to Colorado this was my first time sailing and things are different now.
It was on the eve of Easter and Denver’s historic 4/20 festivities that this city seemed, in all of its definable and undefinable elements, like it was truly experiencing a memorable spring. We walked the mile from our house to Cheesman Park armed with nothing but a Frisbee.
I stretched, lapsing in and out of an overheated and stoned consciousness as more than 20 bodies packed around me in a Core Power hot yoga session.
I walked aimlessly through the Rocky Mountains toward a hidden bend in the South Platte River with only one hope: That after a stoned fishing trip gone hilariously wrong, next time everything would be better.
We left Aqua Golf quickly, embarrassment crawling up our necks, and somehow during the one hour spent driving golf balls into a man-made lake — downing drops of tincture — Sean had managed to tell me of his greatest fear.
On this day the winds had climbed through the hill country, turning up splashing waves and making our river expedition a wavy affair. This was all new for my friend, who had never paired weed with physical activity.
As we sweated through our bike jerseys, my friend Sean mentioned that this is the first time he has ever understood this city. We had just biked 12 miles, out of Denver, past Glendale and into the scant suburbs. The edibles had only taken forty-five minutes to hit.
“I don’t believe in the stereotypes of pot. The couch-potato clichés. Marijuana, when paired with sports can emotionally transform the athletic experience in positive ways.”
Where a buzz hits you can tell you a lot about what you’ll be in for. Here, the 303 Kush sat in the center of my head — right behind my eyes — and camped out. This is the kind of “Magic Eye High” where you find yourself looking at something, but also through it at the same time. And, to be fair, this is exactly what I was looking for.
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