In The Midst Of A Comedown, This Flower Picked Me Up
After a weekend bender, all I wanted was to crawl into a cave. Luckily, a little flower brought me back to life.
The low point of my weekend came in the form of an overpoured glass of red wine served hot at a Palm Springs casino around 11am on a Sunday. Nestled deep below the desert ground, the purple, unnecessarily ornate carpet around the bar parted ways for a moat full of chlorinated water. The crowd was sparse, consisting of mostly the weary in old tee-shirts. Though the $15 I’d just won at the slots was more money than I had in my bank account, I was depressed. Coming down is hard to do.
“Coming down is hard to do.”
What started as a quick trip to the desert to be cute at the Ace Hotel pool, camp beneath the stars, and attend a growers' conference for an article I was working on had devolved thanks to one too many drugs. We didn’t sleep any of the nights if that gives you any idea of what went down. At the Ace Hotel pool party, my weekend warrior-ing confidant, Jessie, and I managed to alienate an entire indie band, one of whom I was on the fast track to fucking before the mushrooms kicked in. Instead of attending the growers' conference, we watched the royal wedding in its entirety, drinking vodka straight until 10am in a hotel that was not as nice as the Ace. When the sun was high enough to pierce through blackout curtains, I looked in the mirror.
“I look great,” I said. My friend, being a good one, reminded me that I did not in fact look great. She also reminded me that I was far, far too fucked up to encounter any colleague—past, present, or future. Soon the hotel kicked us out and there I was, out of drugs at an underground casino, battling liquor-induced heartburn with a glass of hot wine.
All flails side, the biggest faux paux I made as weed journalist that weekend was forgetting to bring even a single nug of the Granddaddy Purple—AKA the subject of this review. This godsend of an indica from Glass House Farms would have provided the life support I so sorely needed in that moment. Alas, I had to learn the hard way.
When it comes to the indica vs. sativa debate, for me it’s a matter of what will quell the anxiety plaguing my every given moment. If I have a ton of work to do, an indica creates more anxiety by deeming me incapable of completing said work. If I need to chill the fuck out, a sativa high will jumble my internal emotions into a pit of sheer panic. Whereas at the beginning of that three-day rabbit hole I could have handled any kind of weed product (as I tend to do), only the heaviest, happiest indica would suffice afterward.
Back at my house, we both started to cry. Coming down from mushrooms after shirking a major professional responsibility to shriek with laughter in a rundown motel room for twelve hours really makes you think about your life. On the bright side, a few beautiful nugs of one of the most perfect indicas either of us has ever encountered was waiting.
“Glass House Farms’ Granddaddy Purple is, in a word, stunning.”
Grown in the unrivaled agricultural elixir that is the California sun with the benefit of being indoors (hence the whole “Glass House” concept), Glass House Farms’ Granddaddy Purple is, in a word, stunning. Perfectly crunchy yet still soft to the touch, these nugs are a deep blend of purple, burnt orange, and green. I’m not even kidding when I say they sparkle, laced as they are with crystalline potency. They have a distinctly floral aroma with notes of berries and perfume. I could tell by the smell and texture alone they were going to do just the trick.
After a few pipe rips each, the self-loathing gnaw of a bender began to ease away. Surprisingly, the mushrooms I had thought to be long gone returned, adding a touch of introspective whimsy to the fading afternoon. We talked for hours. Though neither of us had slept in days, we both felt alert yet relaxed, articulate yet open. We discussed everything from how our fathers impacted the relationships we have with men today, to how we feel perceived socially by those around us. We both felt grounded enough to connect on a deep level without becoming oversaturated in introspection. An indica Granddaddy Purple may be, but the high was as deliciously balanced as the best of hybrids.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, lighting the skyline of Los Angeles in holographs as red as the wine I choked down hours prior, I reflected on the power of plants. Some can make you feel nuts and others can bring you right back to earth; some are good for just about any time while others are best left to the responsibility-free. I took a sip of rose, which now went down clean like cold water, and thought, “Damn, I should really get some more of this weed.”