Return to Weedville; the Illustrious Dr. B.


I had to get back to Denver.

I nearly cancelled my weeks planned trip back there due to a looming depression but was reminded by someone that I needed high doses of sunshine and a bit of unhinging to break that demon of sadness; that someone was my personal physician of the psyche, Dr. B.

I was losing my religion; Colorado was the birthplace of The Church and I needed revitalized. My beacon of inspiration this time, my therapy, would not be following the trail of Occupy Denver squatters and the political zombies I studied for about a year. This time I would go to Denver and take a look at how the Mile High City had changed (if at all) since I left, having been converted to a legalized pot sanctuary. Spin the hamster wheel and tell us what you see, Reverend.

When the Doctor and I get together there seems to be a kinetic incantation leading us to predestined bizarre situations. We both toast the diversity of strange we bring about and I was ready for a dose of that madness. The last encounter we had to together (see The Strange Case of Mr. E and Dr. B., posted 11/11/13) ended with the doctor staggering down the street on a head full of drugs, a incomprehensible mutant turned by the wicked chemicals we ingested. This time the Doctor promised me he would not become the monster that took him last time and I knew he would hold true to his words. We all fall victim to those moments where something manages to creep into our skin and play with our motor skills and reason. I very well could become the beast this time but whatever the consequences, it was time to meet up with Dr. B.

I don’t take flying well but after downing seven shots of Jameson in the airport lounge before takeoff I felt sufficiently numbed and ready to board. The flight went without any hiccups and by early evening I found myself once again under the canvas tarps of Denver International Airport. My study of the natives would come the following day-it was getting later by the minute and I had to coordinate with the Doctor to get to his place. My phone was running out of juice and I needed a place to charge it up a bit or lose the phone. The best spot I could think of to charge the phone was my old haunt, The Shag Lounge. Anyone planning to take a trip should look this dank little establishment up. The DJ plays the best hip hop and gangster thumping music one could hope for. The staff is always friendly and the crowd is accommodating. A young girl in shorts and a sleeveless top began dancing with me there in The Shag, then sauntered over to the stripper pole the bar leaves placed for those who feel the urge. No time to see what could develop with her, I had to get to the Doctors.

Before leaving Colorado approximately two years ago the marijuana scene had already become a lax affair for Denver. They had petitioned their way into having the illegal weed claimed okay for ‘medical’ use, which once the floodgates opened on that allowance, the masses took full advantage of it. I was among those who first took to these newly opened clinics/dispensaries and waited my turn to pay the $50 fee to get a red card that would allow me to purchase and possess dope with (apparently) no fear of ramifications from law enforcement. When my spot came up to see the physician that would evaluate my need for a weed prescription, my flimsy story was that I got sever headaches often from eye strain; that’s all it took to get me a red card.

That first night in Denver was more about settling in and getting myself grounded for what me and Dr. B. might face ahead. I think we were both ready to get that four wheeled carnival wagon up on two wheels and Saturday the wild ride would begin. Saturday evening crept in and as promised, the Doctor stayed in control (cognizant of the surroundings) and did not become the monster….however he did conjure one up to meet us at the Czech bar.


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