Nirrity
Active member
i found the essence of this old article by 'R' so much reflecting my feelings that i decided to post it here. seems like the author failed but nonetheless its worth reading...
please forgive me if i violate any copyrights by doing so.
INDICA MADNESS by "R"
In the opening round of what promises to be a fiery and protracted controversy, the Connoisseur calls for nothing less than a revolution in the cannabis industry.
This column is going to shock a lot of people. It's going to cause rage in the rural counties of California. Fury in the clandestine growing fields of Florida. Apoplexy in Arkansas, an uproar in Oregon. You get the picture?
Because your Connoisseur has decided that, in the grave crisis of quality facing the domestic weed industry, the time for mere words is over. The time has come for radical action.
Sure, I've been warned. People have told me, " 'R,' we agree with you, but one man can't turn the tide of history. One lone voice can't reverse the self—destructive course of the entire multi—billion—dollar domestic—grass—growing industry."
But I don't care. I'm going to try. It may be too late. It may be that no one will listen, but as Connoisseur, as the Ralph Nader of the recreational reefer consumer, I cannot stand by passively any more and see marijuana grown in America, once a pleasure and a delight, lUrned into what is—and there's no other way to say it—a stupid, bad drug.
I'm talking about indica. I'm talking about the perfumed plague that has infiltrated the seedbeds of domestic growers, driven out the traditional sativa crop with its seductive short—term cosmetic attractions. And I'm talking about taking some drastic action before all is lost.
Specifically: In view of the utterly alarming cannabis crisis on the domestic scene, I am hereby suspending this year's entire domestic—category dope awards for the duration of the crisis. This is no time for fun and games. The future of marijuana is at stake.
And furthermore: I am calling on all growers all over the United States to stop planting any indica or indica—blend for an entire season, so that we, the
mass of American ganja smokers, can get some perspective on the plague of uselessly stupefying sinsemilla that's being force—fed into our heads. That's right—I'm calling for a freeze on indica growing in order to save sativa from self—destruction, tunes to getting us all high.
And finally, I'm calling on all consumers to let their growers and dealers know they won't stand for any more loading up with this dumb drug. I'm calling for nothing less than a consumer cannabis revolution to drive the marijuana changers from the temple of ganja.
Believe me, I don't want to have to take this kind of radical action. I've tried persuasion. I've tried reasoning. I've tried ridicule. But the growers keep growing, keep churning out that heavy, sickly sweet indica product, and more and more consumersare given no alternative. So even if they listened to the Connoisseur—as so many have gratifyingly written me they do—even if they plead with their growers and dealers to give them an alternative to indica—increasingly, there just isn't any to be found.
Perhaps for those of you who have not been following the consumer advice of this column carefully enough, I should once again define the terms and recapitulate the history of this incipient psychoagricultural tragedy.
When sinsemilla first burst upon the American grass-growing scene in the mid— 70s, almost all sinsemilla was grown from Cannabis sativa seeds. That is, it was grown from the magical Mexican seeds: the Michoacan, the Oaxacan and the Acapulco Gold from Guerrero. Or it was grown from the top-grade Colombian varieties: the Santa Marta Gold, the Punta Roja, the Panama Red. And it was glorious, it was exciting, it was enlightening, it was effervescent, it was sexy it was funny, it was sociable, it was fun. It was the champagne of cannabis. It was a triumph for American agriculture, for the brave and dedicated clandestine farmers who devoted their lives, their honor and their fortunes to getting us all high.
Sure, it was often expensive, but was more often worth the price. No one begrudged the growers the S200 or more an ounce they were getting because everyone knew the risks they were taking for our pleasure. But then something happened as the '70s wor on. A new kind of seed and a new kind of greed.
The new kind of seed was Cannabis indica. Hash plant. Skunk weed. Kush. 'Ghani. Call it what you want, it was at entirely different breed of marijuana. It came from the seed stock that for centuries had been used to produce the awesomely strong and stultifying Afghani hash.
And at first it caused a sensation in grower and smoker circles. Not only was it awesomely strong and stultifying grass, t was also breathtakingly, sensually beautiful. It looked beautiful: deep greens, perples beyond the caapacity of purple prose to describe, flaming reds and glowing golds. It smelled beautiful—an intoxicating, musku, sexy, deep, flowery, mesmerizing fragrance as powerful as rwa perfume base—it smelled like the sex of goddesses. And it tasted wonderful: like the richest, mellowest, most deeply pleasurable wintages of wine. And with that unbeatable, almost unbearable complement of ecstatic attractions, it proceeded, like Evita, to simply seduce a nation.
After a few years people frogot about subtle satisfactions of old-fashioned sativa. They forgot about the cerebral sexiness of the sativa high, the playful, trippy. provocative attractions of the original sinsemilla.
All you could hear in your typical grower or dealer exchange were animal grunts of "Gimme some of that skunk, man." Or, "This purple shit just destroys me." Or, "That 'ghani is paralyzing."
Well, in a sense they were right. Thet were getting destroyed, paralyzed, skunked.
Because — and there are just no two ways about it — indica is just not marijuana. Indica is a different drug entirely. And it's not a good one.
I'm not saying it's not strong. Sure it's strong. But so is Thorazine, the notorious "liquid straitjacket" used to paralyze violent schizos—strong. Romilar cough syrup is strong too, if you drink toomuch of it. So is heroin strong. But the point about marijuana has always been not that it's strong, but that it gets you high. And I'm sorry, it's time for someone to point out that the emperor's new set of clothes are nonexistent—indica just does not get you high. It gets you low. It gets you down. It paralyzes you, it freezes brain function—but it does not get you high.
Now let's look at the indica high clinically, and compare it with the sativa high. Why is it that most descriptions of indica high have such strong elements of passivity, destruction and wastedness? The first thing you notice from strong 'ghani is a powerful cardiovascular bodily effect. That's the first thing and the last thing and what mainly happens in between. Your heartbeat gets faster, deeper—seems to boom like a big bas drum in your chest. Your breathing becomes deeper, more, well, breathtaking. Your somatic bodily sensations become more intense—you get a body high, but very little happens to your brain. Your mind notices your bodily high; you know you've been changed by the drug;you can be heard to exclaim, "Wow, this is strong"; you've been changed by the drug. But I'm sorry: you're just not high in the delicious, exhilarating, soaring, cerebral way real marijuana (i.e., sativa) gets you.
And even the bodily high isn't that great. It's not sexy. It's a powerfull downer. In fact, I think it's so powerful in its glandular and endocrinologic effects that it may actually suppress sexual desire, or just shoulder it out of the way. Your body becomes like a vast beating heart/lung machine, and the sensual experience of all other organs can barely get their signaks through that powerful carrier wave of indica intensity. And ask you yourself^ When was the last time you had an original or interesting idea on indica? When was the last time you had an interesting insight about your life or the lives of those around you? When was the last time you had a high—spirited evening of infectious laughter with friends on indica, the kind that was so delightfully common in the early days of garden—variety sativa highs?
No, at most indica—sated gatherings, group activities tend to consist entirely of self—absorbed people sitting around saying, "Wow, I'm ripped"; "I'm paralyzed"; "I'm wrecked"; "I'm destroyed." Is that your idea of fun?
Well, I'm sick of it, and it's time that somebody said so and did something about it.
Now don't get me wrong. I don't blame the growers for this. They were giving consumers what they wanted and the consumers wanted something spectacular, something with a big, strong effect for the hundreds of dollars an ounce they were paying. And, after all, the stuff looked like marijuana, tasted like it and there were some superficial resemblances to the high. But it just had no head. It had body, but no head. The headless horseman of highs, that's what it is.
And of course there were some economic advantages to growers offered by exclusively indica crops, like shorter growing seasons—often crucial in an atmposphere of repression and ripoffs. A kind of instantly convincing salability from superior cosmetics, bud—size, smell and beauty.
But I'm convinced the growers of America can still make a good living from raising and selling sativa alone. I'm convinced their hearts are in the right place, they want to do what's right for us, thei individual recreational consumers—the people who enjopy a good, relaxing, stimulating high after work, on weekends or in bed with their lovers. I'm convinced that the growers will react with outrage at first, and then see the wisdom of detoxifying the nation from the creeping palgue of indica pot.
But, on the other hand, I could be wrong. I've tried persuasion before and it hasn't worked. Who knows, this column could cuse a civil war between sativa and indica advocates in the marijuana growing world. But I'm convinced the cause is worth it whatever the odds.
When I tell people about my plans to call for a freeze on indica, most think it's a foolish, quixotic crusade. "You can't take on a billion—dollar industry, 'R'," they tell me. "Even with all the respect you've built up over the years, even with your reputation as a devoted cannabis advocate, the big growers are too strong, they're too deeply committed economically to their indica seed strains. They'll never go along."
But then I remind these sceptics of the humble origins of the anti—nuclearpower movement. It began with one defiant symbolic act. A young idealist named Sam Lovejoy toppled a power transmitting tower in the rural New hampshire hills that was designed to carry power to the notorious Seabrook Nuclear Reactor. From that act, from the attention it generated, evil nuclear—power industry was slowly brought to a halt. Stopped dead in its tracks.
What I'm proposing is something more modest. I don't want to kill off the domestic ganja—growing industry. I have great admiration and respect for the courageous cannabis agronomists. I just hink they've gone off on the wrong track and it's not too late to call a temporary halt, a freeze like the nuclear freeze, a time for debate and reassessment before it gets too late and the whole indica madness gets out of hand.
As for the long—waited "Domestic Awards" ceremony, the eagerly awaited "Herbies" of the lower 48—as part of my contribution to the indica freeze, this year only sativa entries will be considered. What I'd like to encourage is a great outburst of creativity in sativa breeding, a flowering of the geniuses of grower psychoagronomy that will demonstrate the intrinsic superiority of sativa to all but the most utterly indica—wasted brains. Then, next year, after we come to our senses, I might be willing to consider judging some sativa—indica blends. But for now—the freeze is on.
please forgive me if i violate any copyrights by doing so.
INDICA MADNESS by "R"
In the opening round of what promises to be a fiery and protracted controversy, the Connoisseur calls for nothing less than a revolution in the cannabis industry.
This column is going to shock a lot of people. It's going to cause rage in the rural counties of California. Fury in the clandestine growing fields of Florida. Apoplexy in Arkansas, an uproar in Oregon. You get the picture?
Because your Connoisseur has decided that, in the grave crisis of quality facing the domestic weed industry, the time for mere words is over. The time has come for radical action.
Sure, I've been warned. People have told me, " 'R,' we agree with you, but one man can't turn the tide of history. One lone voice can't reverse the self—destructive course of the entire multi—billion—dollar domestic—grass—growing industry."
But I don't care. I'm going to try. It may be too late. It may be that no one will listen, but as Connoisseur, as the Ralph Nader of the recreational reefer consumer, I cannot stand by passively any more and see marijuana grown in America, once a pleasure and a delight, lUrned into what is—and there's no other way to say it—a stupid, bad drug.
I'm talking about indica. I'm talking about the perfumed plague that has infiltrated the seedbeds of domestic growers, driven out the traditional sativa crop with its seductive short—term cosmetic attractions. And I'm talking about taking some drastic action before all is lost.
Specifically: In view of the utterly alarming cannabis crisis on the domestic scene, I am hereby suspending this year's entire domestic—category dope awards for the duration of the crisis. This is no time for fun and games. The future of marijuana is at stake.
And furthermore: I am calling on all growers all over the United States to stop planting any indica or indica—blend for an entire season, so that we, the
mass of American ganja smokers, can get some perspective on the plague of uselessly stupefying sinsemilla that's being force—fed into our heads. That's right—I'm calling for a freeze on indica growing in order to save sativa from self—destruction, tunes to getting us all high.
And finally, I'm calling on all consumers to let their growers and dealers know they won't stand for any more loading up with this dumb drug. I'm calling for nothing less than a consumer cannabis revolution to drive the marijuana changers from the temple of ganja.
Believe me, I don't want to have to take this kind of radical action. I've tried persuasion. I've tried reasoning. I've tried ridicule. But the growers keep growing, keep churning out that heavy, sickly sweet indica product, and more and more consumersare given no alternative. So even if they listened to the Connoisseur—as so many have gratifyingly written me they do—even if they plead with their growers and dealers to give them an alternative to indica—increasingly, there just isn't any to be found.
Perhaps for those of you who have not been following the consumer advice of this column carefully enough, I should once again define the terms and recapitulate the history of this incipient psychoagricultural tragedy.
When sinsemilla first burst upon the American grass-growing scene in the mid— 70s, almost all sinsemilla was grown from Cannabis sativa seeds. That is, it was grown from the magical Mexican seeds: the Michoacan, the Oaxacan and the Acapulco Gold from Guerrero. Or it was grown from the top-grade Colombian varieties: the Santa Marta Gold, the Punta Roja, the Panama Red. And it was glorious, it was exciting, it was enlightening, it was effervescent, it was sexy it was funny, it was sociable, it was fun. It was the champagne of cannabis. It was a triumph for American agriculture, for the brave and dedicated clandestine farmers who devoted their lives, their honor and their fortunes to getting us all high.
Sure, it was often expensive, but was more often worth the price. No one begrudged the growers the S200 or more an ounce they were getting because everyone knew the risks they were taking for our pleasure. But then something happened as the '70s wor on. A new kind of seed and a new kind of greed.
The new kind of seed was Cannabis indica. Hash plant. Skunk weed. Kush. 'Ghani. Call it what you want, it was at entirely different breed of marijuana. It came from the seed stock that for centuries had been used to produce the awesomely strong and stultifying Afghani hash.
And at first it caused a sensation in grower and smoker circles. Not only was it awesomely strong and stultifying grass, t was also breathtakingly, sensually beautiful. It looked beautiful: deep greens, perples beyond the caapacity of purple prose to describe, flaming reds and glowing golds. It smelled beautiful—an intoxicating, musku, sexy, deep, flowery, mesmerizing fragrance as powerful as rwa perfume base—it smelled like the sex of goddesses. And it tasted wonderful: like the richest, mellowest, most deeply pleasurable wintages of wine. And with that unbeatable, almost unbearable complement of ecstatic attractions, it proceeded, like Evita, to simply seduce a nation.
After a few years people frogot about subtle satisfactions of old-fashioned sativa. They forgot about the cerebral sexiness of the sativa high, the playful, trippy. provocative attractions of the original sinsemilla.
All you could hear in your typical grower or dealer exchange were animal grunts of "Gimme some of that skunk, man." Or, "This purple shit just destroys me." Or, "That 'ghani is paralyzing."
Well, in a sense they were right. Thet were getting destroyed, paralyzed, skunked.
Because — and there are just no two ways about it — indica is just not marijuana. Indica is a different drug entirely. And it's not a good one.
I'm not saying it's not strong. Sure it's strong. But so is Thorazine, the notorious "liquid straitjacket" used to paralyze violent schizos—strong. Romilar cough syrup is strong too, if you drink toomuch of it. So is heroin strong. But the point about marijuana has always been not that it's strong, but that it gets you high. And I'm sorry, it's time for someone to point out that the emperor's new set of clothes are nonexistent—indica just does not get you high. It gets you low. It gets you down. It paralyzes you, it freezes brain function—but it does not get you high.
Now let's look at the indica high clinically, and compare it with the sativa high. Why is it that most descriptions of indica high have such strong elements of passivity, destruction and wastedness? The first thing you notice from strong 'ghani is a powerful cardiovascular bodily effect. That's the first thing and the last thing and what mainly happens in between. Your heartbeat gets faster, deeper—seems to boom like a big bas drum in your chest. Your breathing becomes deeper, more, well, breathtaking. Your somatic bodily sensations become more intense—you get a body high, but very little happens to your brain. Your mind notices your bodily high; you know you've been changed by the drug;you can be heard to exclaim, "Wow, this is strong"; you've been changed by the drug. But I'm sorry: you're just not high in the delicious, exhilarating, soaring, cerebral way real marijuana (i.e., sativa) gets you.
And even the bodily high isn't that great. It's not sexy. It's a powerfull downer. In fact, I think it's so powerful in its glandular and endocrinologic effects that it may actually suppress sexual desire, or just shoulder it out of the way. Your body becomes like a vast beating heart/lung machine, and the sensual experience of all other organs can barely get their signaks through that powerful carrier wave of indica intensity. And ask you yourself^ When was the last time you had an original or interesting idea on indica? When was the last time you had an interesting insight about your life or the lives of those around you? When was the last time you had a high—spirited evening of infectious laughter with friends on indica, the kind that was so delightfully common in the early days of garden—variety sativa highs?
No, at most indica—sated gatherings, group activities tend to consist entirely of self—absorbed people sitting around saying, "Wow, I'm ripped"; "I'm paralyzed"; "I'm wrecked"; "I'm destroyed." Is that your idea of fun?
Well, I'm sick of it, and it's time that somebody said so and did something about it.
Now don't get me wrong. I don't blame the growers for this. They were giving consumers what they wanted and the consumers wanted something spectacular, something with a big, strong effect for the hundreds of dollars an ounce they were paying. And, after all, the stuff looked like marijuana, tasted like it and there were some superficial resemblances to the high. But it just had no head. It had body, but no head. The headless horseman of highs, that's what it is.
And of course there were some economic advantages to growers offered by exclusively indica crops, like shorter growing seasons—often crucial in an atmposphere of repression and ripoffs. A kind of instantly convincing salability from superior cosmetics, bud—size, smell and beauty.
But I'm convinced the growers of America can still make a good living from raising and selling sativa alone. I'm convinced their hearts are in the right place, they want to do what's right for us, thei individual recreational consumers—the people who enjopy a good, relaxing, stimulating high after work, on weekends or in bed with their lovers. I'm convinced that the growers will react with outrage at first, and then see the wisdom of detoxifying the nation from the creeping palgue of indica pot.
But, on the other hand, I could be wrong. I've tried persuasion before and it hasn't worked. Who knows, this column could cuse a civil war between sativa and indica advocates in the marijuana growing world. But I'm convinced the cause is worth it whatever the odds.
When I tell people about my plans to call for a freeze on indica, most think it's a foolish, quixotic crusade. "You can't take on a billion—dollar industry, 'R'," they tell me. "Even with all the respect you've built up over the years, even with your reputation as a devoted cannabis advocate, the big growers are too strong, they're too deeply committed economically to their indica seed strains. They'll never go along."
But then I remind these sceptics of the humble origins of the anti—nuclearpower movement. It began with one defiant symbolic act. A young idealist named Sam Lovejoy toppled a power transmitting tower in the rural New hampshire hills that was designed to carry power to the notorious Seabrook Nuclear Reactor. From that act, from the attention it generated, evil nuclear—power industry was slowly brought to a halt. Stopped dead in its tracks.
What I'm proposing is something more modest. I don't want to kill off the domestic ganja—growing industry. I have great admiration and respect for the courageous cannabis agronomists. I just hink they've gone off on the wrong track and it's not too late to call a temporary halt, a freeze like the nuclear freeze, a time for debate and reassessment before it gets too late and the whole indica madness gets out of hand.
As for the long—waited "Domestic Awards" ceremony, the eagerly awaited "Herbies" of the lower 48—as part of my contribution to the indica freeze, this year only sativa entries will be considered. What I'd like to encourage is a great outburst of creativity in sativa breeding, a flowering of the geniuses of grower psychoagronomy that will demonstrate the intrinsic superiority of sativa to all but the most utterly indica—wasted brains. Then, next year, after we come to our senses, I might be willing to consider judging some sativa—indica blends. But for now—the freeze is on.
