Toms: The evolution of cannabis – stoner culture gives way to corporate weed

After waiting almost 40 years, I finally did it: I purchased legal weed. To date, for different reasons, I’ve yet to make a legal (or illegal) online purchase. But on April 1, legal, bricks-and-mortar weed retail came to Ontario and on April 6 I ventured out to one of Ottawa’s first three shops.

Most recently, I’ve been purchasing my weed from the now-closed, so-called dispensaries that sprouted up soon after the passing of C-45, the federal act to legalize cannabis. It’s been a long time since I had “a guy”; the gram or so I consume a month is an insufficient amount for any of them to bother with.

April 6 was, for me, the day us old stoners have been waiting for since we were rolling hash joints on Led Zeppelin album jackets. No more furtive phone calls and meetings, speaking in silly code words. We were legit now, which is what we thought we always wanted.

April 6 was, for me, the day us old stoners have been waiting for since we were rolling hash joints on Led Zeppelin album jackets.

I walked through the street-level entrance into the lobby of the legal pot shop and was instantly waved in to the retail area, being unmistakably older than 18. There was a very faint odour of weed, but nothing like in the dispensaries, which reeked. Surprisingly, the only weed I saw here was under display cases, unlike in the dispensaries, where large quantities of it sat on shelves, clearly visible to the patrons.

The room was uncluttered, white and bright, populated with friendly staff. I felt like I was there to buy a phone. I very briefly perused the products on the shelves, nothing I was interested in: capsules, creams and most notably, a $325 “smart” vaporizer. There were some books on display; I noted a copy of “On the Road” and a milk carton with some vintage vinyl in it. The customers were languishing, asking employees questions, educating themselves about the world of cannabis.

I’d been to this same location at least a handful of times when it was a “dispensary” and the contrast in the clientele was obvious. Unlike the inquisitive, well-turned-out customers this day, in the past I’d always been one of a single file line of quiet, scraggly looking stoners, waiting to get some weed from similar-looking employees.

I was quickly bored with the browsing and in the mood to get buzzed, so I approached the counter to place my order. I was flummoxed by the array of products and price ranges displayed on the video menus. Thankfully, the employee serving me recognized this and efficiently persuaded me to settle on a particular strand of weed.

Despite the first-rate presentation and service, it didn’t feel right. And then I realized: These people were unlike anybody I’d bought drugs from before. They were alert, and well-groomed, eager to please. They’d undergone training, and then I thought “OK, now I get it,  they’re not stoners.” Which isn’t to say they don’t enjoy the occasional toke, but that’s different.

I left with my branded paper shopping bag. Later, as I was smoking, I felt disappointed.  It wasn’t the product, the service, the price. I realized that buying drugs had become like most things: Big business and government had legitimized it. Stoner culture had undergone a makeover. Cannabis wasn’t just about getting high anymore, it was about wellness. The people in the store today were more interested in cultivating a lifestyle than in getting buzzed. Weed had been packaged and focus-grouped and reimagined to broaden it’s appeal.

I’ll continue to buy corporate weed because it’s easy and convenient. But I’ll miss the amiable, underachieving, harmless, stoner outsiders who got me buzzed for decades, and their mild, meaningless tilt at conformity. They were more unique and fun than BIG CANNABIS.

Pete Toms lives in Ottawa, is closer to 60 than 50 and still finds a few tokes one of life’s best simple pleasures.

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