I wouldn’t call myself an avid smoker of weed, marijuana, pot, Mary Jane, or whatever you may choose to call it, but I also wouldn’t lie to you and tell you I don’t have a certain appreciation for its “stoner culture.” A few weeks ago, I found myself smack in the middle of Ft. Collins, Colorado, and was taken on a figurative THC-powered roller coaster. Now that I can analyze both scenarios and effect, I’m going to do my best to take you with me.

(11 a.m., Mountain Time)

I’m staying at the Hilton in Ft. Collins. I’ve just left the room and I make my way to my first stop of the trip: Organic Alternatives dispensary.

I walk into the building and it looks like a high-end spa. It’s got a waiting room reminiscent of a celebrity plastic surgeon’s office, with far-eastern-themed interior decoration and plush sofas lining the waiting room. There are all kinds of people in here, ranging in age from their early 20s to their mid-70s. Upon entering the building, the receptionist asks to see my I.D. to verify that I am over 21. The security was no more serious than that of your standard bar: If your I.D. looked legitimate enough, you were set. He said, “Thank you, Braxton,” and asked me to wait along with my group (which consisted of my girlfriend, Maggie, and her mother; mind you, this entire trip was my girlfriend’s mother’s idea to begin with). About 10 minutes later, a young, well-groomed guy walks out in jeans, Vans, and a company t-shirt. “Welcome to Organic Alternatives,” he says as he greets us with a warm smile. “Let me show you the goods.”

The room we were taken to was set up not unlike your standard candy store. There were different strains of marijuana lining the shelves above us. In glass cases everywhere were various THC products ranging from cookies to sour candies to a Gatorade-style beverage with an included serving cap for a total of 10 servings. The employees were, for the most part, in their mid- to late 20s. They seemed to glide around the marketplace, excitedly explaining the intricacies of the various products. I bought two pre-rolled joints for $16 apiece, each containing a gram of marijuana. They were beautifully rolled, filter included, and contained a mango-infused sativa strain. I also bought the peach-iced-tea flavored drink, created by a company called Dixie Elixirs, for $25. Finally, I bought a set of sour strawberry candies for $18. There were eight candies per container, each containing 10 mg of THC, the legal measurement for an effective “serving.” With that, my new goodies were shrink-wrapped in vacuum sealed bag, I bought a fun t-shirt, and I was on my way.

(11:45 a.m., Mountain Time)

I lit up my first joint on the street. I would come to learn shortly thereafter that this is in fact highly illegal. However, this was not revealed to me until about 10 minutes after I had smoked the whole thing. The high was mellow, which I wasn’t a huge fan of. I’m a fan of excess; I’m one of those people that likes to find themselves in a parallel universe rather than feel a light buzz. It certainly wasn’t unpleasant, and the mango aroma was actually very calming.

(11:50 a.m., Mountain Time)

I went to another dispensary for comparison’s sake. This one could not have been any more different than the first. It was called Rock’N’Robins, and it was (primarily) a dimly lit record store.

Upon entry, a massive older gentleman (picture a very gruff, punk-rock version of Santa Claus) stared me down and grunted, “I.D.” I showed him my I.D. and he groaned his approval, gesturing towards the back of the store. I was ushered into a room no larger than a standard photo booth that had nothing more in it than a curtain and an alarm-armed exit. This was actually more along the lines of what I had expected the first dispensary to be like: sketchy.

The curtain opened and behind it were two men behind what looked like a makeshift podium. Unlike the first dispensary, rather than an extensive collection of strains and a menu of said strains on the walls, this place had a singular joint roller. On the wall was a blackboard that had “WEED!” written across it in bright pink chalk. This establishment was far less glamorous than the first. They had no products other than the original plant form of marijuana. I purchased one joint for $14. This joint had no filter and no taper at the end; it was no more than a cylindrical paper-smoking apparatus. It was given to me in a standard Wal-Mart bag, and off I went to experiment with my purchases, yet again.

(12:30 p.m., Mountain Time)

We are in the car on our way back to the hotel to rest for a bit. I’m in the back seat frustrated by my rapidly ebbing high from the first joint I had smoked about 40 minutes ago. I popped open one of my sour candies.

So I popped another one -- just to be safe. Right? Right! Maggie stares at me, simultaneously horrified and bewildered. “When in Colorado, right?” I said, grinning. “You are going to have quite the day,” she responded, bemused. My god, was she going to be right.

(2:30 p.m., Mountain Time)

About an hour after I ingested the sour candies. I had been lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling and pondering the meaning of life for about an hour. This high was totally different from the first. I didn’t want to move from the plush Hilton duvet covers -- possibly ever. I could have sunk into the high-thread-count sheets for eternity and been perfectly content. I had a strong craving for food, but a particular food: ceviche. That sounds odd, but man, I would have killed for some ceviche. Maggie’s mother knocked on our door, primarily to see how I was doing but also to ask if we wanted to go out. Maggie’s family is a big beer drinking family, and the New Belgium brewery is actually in Ft. Collins. And so I stood up, threw some water on my face and walked (floated?) to the elevator. The ride down was exhilarating. I couldn’t even tell whether it was moving upwards or downwards, but the sensation of being suspended in space was positively titillating. I finally reached the rear doors of Maggie's mother’s car. I was parched. I reached around the back pocket of my seat, searching for a bottle of water to quench my thirst. Upon finding one, I ripped off the cap and chugged, eager to no longer feel this debilitating dehydration. And that’s when the peach iced-tea flavor registered in my mind. This was not a bottle of water. And this was NOT the recommended serving size of what I had in fact just drank. I had, inadvertently, ingested about seven times the recommended THC content from the Dixie Elixir. The Organic Alternatives worker’s words rang in my head: “Edibles take about an hour to kick in. But in liquid form it’ll take about 15 minutes.” Maggie took one look at me and started laughing hysterically. “Hun,” I said, “I’ve made a terrible mistake.” Maggie laughed again and said to her mother, “Mom, Braxton just drank the whole bottle of that drink!” Her mother turned to me and grinned. “You’re going to have quite the article on your hands!” I stared out of the window, accepting my fate. I could feel the effects of the elixir quite suddenly. The seats were so soft. I wanted to rub my face on every inch of the vinyl headrests. And my good lord, did I want some ceviche. The car finally stopped. We were at the brewery.

To be continued …

Check back next week for the second part of the Dispensary Diary Trilogy: The Twilight Zone!