A guy I ride bikes with told me about this place in the International District where you can ask for and get what’s called a “dab”—a hit of “butane honey oil,” which looks to my unsophisticated palette like a waxy pellet of hash oil and which, to my somewhat more experienced frontal lobe, packs a wallop in terms of consciousness-altering and mind-rearranging.
I had envisioned a typical smokes store, but this place was more like a hipster gift shoppe. There were cool t-shirts to buy, a rack of books and zines, some fragrances and candles, a few video game machines, and a glass counter full of pipes, papers, and other paraphernalia.
I poked around a bit and then asked the proprietor if I could get a “dab;” he said “Sure,” and took me upstairs to a loft that was mostly empty except for a drafting table on which sat a large glass pipe which resembled, I couldn’t help thinking, a transparent bass flute.
I was given a choice of two products, one a hybrid, the other, a sativa that was billed as “pretty cerebral.”
I chose the latter and was then advised that what we were doing here was “pipe-testing;” that’s what cost five bucks; the cannabis was free.
The proprietor scooped a booger-sized portion of the honey-oil on a nail; he then took a butane torch and heated up a metal cylinder attached to the pipe; touching the “dab” to the cylinder cause the pipe to fill with smoke. “Take a slow steady draw,” I was advised.
I tasted the characteristic sweetness of hash and then burst out coughing, eyes watering.
Immediately, I was very stoned—excellent visuals, lots of profound thoughts. I almost got that scary dissociative feeling you can get on edibles, but unlike with eating pot, the topography of the high was all downhill, so I wasn’t too worried.
I may go again, but for now, a little dab done did me.
I had envisioned a typical smokes store, but this place was more like a hipster gift shoppe. There were cool t-shirts to buy, a rack of books and zines, some fragrances and candles, a few video game machines, and a glass counter full of pipes, papers, and other paraphernalia.
I poked around a bit and then asked the proprietor if I could get a “dab;” he said “Sure,” and took me upstairs to a loft that was mostly empty except for a drafting table on which sat a large glass pipe which resembled, I couldn’t help thinking, a transparent bass flute.
I was given a choice of two products, one a hybrid, the other, a sativa that was billed as “pretty cerebral.”
I chose the latter and was then advised that what we were doing here was “pipe-testing;” that’s what cost five bucks; the cannabis was free.
The proprietor scooped a booger-sized portion of the honey-oil on a nail; he then took a butane torch and heated up a metal cylinder attached to the pipe; touching the “dab” to the cylinder cause the pipe to fill with smoke. “Take a slow steady draw,” I was advised.
I tasted the characteristic sweetness of hash and then burst out coughing, eyes watering.
Immediately, I was very stoned—excellent visuals, lots of profound thoughts. I almost got that scary dissociative feeling you can get on edibles, but unlike with eating pot, the topography of the high was all downhill, so I wasn’t too worried.
I may go again, but for now, a little dab done did me.
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