As I aimlessly swiped left and right after commandeering my friend’s Tinder account, it reminded me a lot of weed shopping. There’s a similarity between the vague personal descriptions — people bold enough to proclaim their love of “music” and “laughing” — and the generic terms that dispensaries plaster on a jar. Would you prefer your herb to be “chill” or “energetic” today? You suss out what you’re looking for, but ultimately have no idea whether you’ll connect.
When I saw Trainwreck was a parent strain of the Primus OG at Buddy Boy, it was like we had a shared common interest, and one that went beyond the banal pleasantries of “enjoying a meal of food.” The Wreck has long been a favorite of mine for the manic creativity it inspires (although it borders on being uncomfortable). It’s the type of weed you’d imagine a film student ripping bowl after bowl of at 2 a.m. before rewriting their entire script. I wanted to find out if the 303 Kush and Arcata it was crossed with could calm some of that anxiousness.
Primus OG by the numbers: $12/gram, $190/ounce at Buddy Boy Brands, 3814 Walnut St., Denver
Buddy Boy boss: Disowned by his family, John Fritzel talks about being a legal marijuana mogul with action in multiple states, and get more info about his shop network in Colorado — Buddy Boy, Lightshade Labs, PotCo and MJardin
On the surface, Primus OG is your typical kush variety in the same way that my fiancée assures me Kourtney is your typical Kardashian. I regularly have trouble telling them apart. Basically, trying to pick Primus out of a lineup isn’t ideal. What you should see are flourishes of purple and a more rounded structure than angular strains like Tahoe or SFV Kush. Others have touted a fruity flavor that supposedly originates with the 303 Kush, but I was surprised at how chemmy the Primus came off: It smelled like a janitor’s closet, if the janitor had six plants in the back.
This was a terrible choice of cannabis for my first video strain review with Producer Vince (you know him from The Cannabist Show). I tell him this as he positions me next to a balcony railing — in a tall chair he assures me won’t tip over — far too many stories above the pavement to survive. Vince is a pro and calms me down quickly with the assistance of a cool pint of pink lemonade and a friendly black and white cat. I can’t help but think even the cat wouldn’t stick the landing.
The next thing I know, I’m amped up on sugar and talking a mile a minute about a strain I’ve never smoked.
Taking a couple hits, I can’t tell whether it’s the strain or the environment that’s ratcheting up my nervous energy. I’m talking with my hands, but none of the gestures make a lot of sense. We take a break to let the high settle in and I find myself lost in the view of Denver from his tower south of the city. I start playing a game, counting how many construction cranes I can see before I realize I’m not talking, but just creepily staring off into the distance.
Flo: For me, Flo is the “Eh, let’s just order pizza” of strains when you’ve seen too many jars and need to walk out with something. If it were a re-run on TV, it’s an episode of “Friends” that’s all Phoebe. Sure, it’s fun and light, but you really wanted a good Chandler zing. Why do I keep buying this?
Tangerine Dream: You eat Pad Thai in the states and everyone laments how it’s not quite the same. Tangerine Dream in Holland doesn’t exactly distinguish itself. It’s a perfectly fine sample, and much, much stickier than the dust most nugs become in Denver. I need a paper shredder, not a grinder. But the sample is average.
Sour Diesel: Recommending Sour Diesel as a weed critic is like a music writer extolling the virtues of The Beatles or a historian making a case for George Washington as a great president. In fact, Sour Diesel probably belongs on a Mount Rushmore of marijuana — a fake monument that I desperately want my picture taken in front of.
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I sit on a yoga ball, something I’ve only done ironically in the past, and attempt to engage my core as we shoot the breeze about all things involving The Cannabist. My body and head are physically there, but I find myself seeming dull and unengaging, as if I had smoked afternoon doldrums. Trump would call me “low energy.”
Getting back into the chair of doom, there’s a total shift from my first recording, as I’m fumbling with my words and feeling like the full embodiment of the word “slouching” as the sun sets over the mountains behind me. I’ve become a battery-powered toy car on its last charge, sputtering toward our artificial finish line.
Searching for a positive, I have a body buzz that doesn’t feel particularly heavy but isn’t touching some muscle discomfort I have in my back. It’s like getting a weak massage from someone you’ve recently fallen for and not being able to tell them to apply more pressure as they limply move around your torso. I leave Vince the rest of the bud, as it’s not heavy enough to knock me out yet doesn’t evoke any of the early onset fun of Trainwreck.
When it comes to indicas, I’m disappointed if there isn’t either tons of flavor (Grape Ape) or an overwhelming drowsiness (Lavender), as I primarily use them for sleep. There are too many excellent options out there for middling OG’s to still be running rampant, so I’d wager that it yields well for the dispensary. If this were a first date, I’d be wondering why I’d ever swiped right on Primus OG.