What makes a man qualified to smoke weed in an authoritative manner?
It’s a question that has been rattling around in my brain for a few weeks now as I’ve prepared to write this column, the debut piece of cannabis criticism for the Riverfront Times. A feeling of imposter syndrome set in almost immediately upon accepting this gig, as I wondered: What in the world makes me a person whose stoned ramblings should be printed and disseminated to the masses? And just who the hell do I think I am, anyway?
Malcolm Gladwell might suggest 10,000 hours of practice, and if that’s applicable here, then I’m in the clear. But Malcolm Gladwell is also an uptight nerd who has probably never even done a knife hit off of a hot stove, so I’m not quite sure he’s the man I should look to for guidance on this matter.
So what are my qualifications? Well for one, I did, like, a lot of knife hits in my wild youth. Completely ruined several butter knives, in fact. A downright menace to kitchenware, you could say. But outside of that? I really don’t know. I suppose