Here’s a story that smacked me squarely in the face with the fact that I live in Saudi Arabia: Denver’s alternative weekly is accepting job applications for a freelance pot critic.
No kidding: The mile-high city is now home to as many as 100 medical marijuana dispensaries, the New York Times reports in its piece, and the Denver paper is eager to help consumers pick the best ones.
The idea is not to assess the green stuff itself, but to review the dispensaries that have sprouted like, um, weeds in Denver this year.
“We want to see what kind of place it is, how well they care for you and also how sketchy the place is,” said Patricia Calhoun, editor of Westword. “Do they actually look at your medical marijuana card? Do they let you slip some cash under the counter and bypass the rules?”
The applications, evidently, are totally wicked, bro.
Last week, the paper published a call for a regular freelance reviewer with a real, doctor-certified medical need — asking each candidate to send a résumé and an essay on “What Marijuana Means to Me” — and received several dozen applications within a few days.
“Every time an application comes in, it’s like opening a little birthday present, because most of them are quite hilarious,” Ms. Calhoun said.
So why am I so homesick? Not for the product on offer and not for the job, as fun as it might be. I miss the crazy brew of highs and lows that come with a culture like America’s. The needle just doesn’t bounce as much here in the big desert, where we’re all stone-cold sober.