What I like about Ghost of the Mujahideen from Bedford Grow is that it makes me feel things more intensely. Being a person typically in a good mood, this is a good thing.
Ghost of the Mujahideen is a cross between Blockhead, Ghost Dawg and Afghani. I’d finally caught on to legal cannabis enough to know that Afghani is one of the strains that suits me best. It’s vintage, exotic and some of the best hash is made from it.
I’ve been hoarding Ghost of the Mujahideen from Bedford Grow since the week before Christmas. Always in concentrate … wax, crumble and finally live resin.
A brief history lesson
Indica came from Aghanistan. And it’s likely Sativa did as well. And it’s been cultivated for centuries. Hash was a staple, as it’s easier to transport than flower. The U.S. started leaning on Afghanistan to ban the cannabis trade in the 1950s. The Afghans made a halfhearted attempt, but then came the hippies and Afghanistan became a stop on the Hippie Trail, and demand soared. So we gave Afghanistan about 50 million dollars to wipe out the trade and they did a bloody, but not altogether successful job of it.
But by then, the seeds had spread throughout the world.
I like it because I like it
Ghost of the Mujahideen isn’t a pure Afghani, but I don’t care. I love the smell, I love the taste, and I love the buzz. It’s flowery, almost spicy. Woodsy.
But it’s nearly tragic, as today I’m finishing the Ghost of the Mujahideen crumble. I’ve held onto it for weeks now, and it’s time to let it go.
Which leaves a bit of the live resin version. If you want to know if the live resin is worth the extra five bucks, then yeah, sure it is. There’s more flavor, more scent and for me, more of a buzz. Because Ghost of the Mujahideen from Bedford Grow is a full body buzz, and more important, it fills your head.
You feel stoned, but not incapacitated. Those reviews where the people melt into the couch … that’s not my experience. I want to be moving, just not moving too fast. I want something to challenge my brain, because stimulation feels great.
When I hear the words Ghost of the Mujahideen, it conjures up to me images of the middle east, the marketplaces, the casbah, the bazaar.
We don’t have a bazaar, a marketplace filled with stalls where people hawk their wares, including fresh buds.
Instead, we have Walmart.
Approaching Mecca
You have to prepare yourself for Walmart, and Ghost of the Mujahideen from Bedford Grow does that. I call Rango, he answers.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m at work.”
“I need a ride to Walmart.”
“Do I have to stick around?”
“No.”
“Uh. OK” he says and hangs up.
He doesn’t even ask why any more. He just figures if I call it’s important. This is important, as I’m in the process of finishing the Ghost of the Mujahideen crumble. I have a hit mixed with an Orange Afghani flower. I had grown to love the taste, and that’s a distinct benefit of crumble. It crumbles well over buds.
Then I finish the rest in a dab rig, without coughing even. It’s one thing I like about vintage strains – they hit hard enough you don’t feel the need to hit whatever you’re smoking all that hard.
I walk out the front door as Rango is pulling up. He drives slower than any human I know, so I have plenty of time to cross the lawn and I’m waiting by the street as he creeps to a stop. I get in.
“It’s almost dark,” he says. I lower my sunglasses, he looks at my eyes, winces and nods.
It’s a five minute drive. He asks if I need a ride home. I tell him no, the wife is taking me home when she gets off work. That gives me an hour. I only have enough shopping for about fifteen minutes. He almost tags along, just to see how uncomfortable I get. Instead he drops me off at the door.
Welcome Walmart Shoppers
I step through the outer doors. The grizzled older man counting heads looks me in the eye, then clicks his machine. One more.
It’s weird with these masks, only seeing the eyes. You can see so much more that way. Then you realize they can see so much more in yours and you panic. The bastard knows I’m high.
But it doesn’t matter. It’s legal now to go to Walmart with a hellacious buzz born in the mountains of Afghanistan. And besides, I’m wearing sunglasses, so he can’t see my eyes.
So how did the bastard know?
I grab a cart and pull. Three carts come rolling out, so firmly slammed into each other that pulling them apart will be a two person job. Or a crowbar. I briefly consider going to hardware and grabbing one. I grab a cart from the next row instead, scan it quickly for baby puke, then pull out into traffic.
Stoned in the produce section
The first thing you have to do in a small town is scan the faces. Is there anyone here I want to avoid? Anyone I need to avoid all costs? It looks clear so I step across the boundary and veer towards the greens.
Every trip to Walmart starts in the produce section. I’m fairly safe here, as most of the people I know refuse to eat leaves. I scan the product. No kale, which is typical. Three bell peppers wrapped together. Do I go for two yellows and a red? Or two reds and an orange. I go for the latter, strictly on color and look for the broccoli. Score.
“It’s weird with masks, only seeing the eyes. You can see so much more that way. Then you realize they can see so much more in yours and you panic. The bastard knows I’m high.”
Our lettuce is up in the garden, so I can pass on the Romaine, and there are the carrots. Baby carrots are the route to go, though I prefer the rustic experience of a full carrot. It makes the house feel more like home.
Fuck I’m high.
Celery … she likes a particular brand, they’re out. I substitute and pray once chopped up, she won’t notice the difference. Then it’s the bananas. I don’t eat bananas, but she does. I have to remember the song to remember how to choose ripe ones …
I’m Chiquita banana and I’ve come to say
Bananas have to ripen in a certain way
When they are fleck’d with brown and have a golden hue
Bananas taste the best and are best for you
There’s a dance that goes with it of course. I’m high, but not so high that I’m going to do it in Walmart. I settle for a few steps and keep my hands white knuckle tight on the shopping cart.
Stoned Walmart Protocol
People say you shouldn’t go to the grocery store stoned, but that’s not true. A grocery store is a great place to be stoned, but you want to catch your buzz and proceed directly to the store, before the munchies have a chance to set in.
I blew it a few weeks ago when we combined a trip to the Harrisburg Walmart and a run to ThriveIL Dispensary. I timed it so I was blowing out the last hit as we walked out the door of the house. She was driving obviously.
It’s a half hour or so to Harrisburg, and again that long again standing in line at Thrive and collecting my order. Then the drive to Walmart, parking, fetch a cart … before we got out of there, the munchies were starting. You’ve got the ride home to develop a full blown hunger. So you start planning ahead. Bizarre plans.
I brought home a duck.
But today that’s not an issue. It’s a five minute drive to our local and I ate before I imbibed. That’s particularly good as all the things you need are fresh in your mind from cooking.
Stoned Walmart Etiquette
When stoned, avoid eye contact. This is a no brainer for most of us who have done this for decades. But sometimes you forget.
When you see a little old lady trying to reach something, get it for her. But make sure they know what you’re doing before you reach over their heads. If it’s an old man ask first. Sometimes they can get fierce, and you don’t want to be caned in Walmart by the elderly when stoned.
Watch your gaze. I’m a reader. When I see words, I read them. When they’re on a shirt, I read them, and due to the proximity of the writing to women’s breasts, it’s led to some awkward moments. I forget this as I’m following a woman with more than ample buttocks, with writing across them. I’m starting to giggle when I notice certain letters disappear and reappear as she walks, when her husband turns around and catches me staring at her ass. I cut down the bread aisle and into clothing.
I don’t need clothes, but I find myself fascinated by the fashion pants in women’s clothes. Essentially the bell bottomed tights. I haven’t had bell bottoms in years, and the wife bought me a pair of these. A vibrant floral print, because she thought it would look cool under black lights. It does. I now have two pairs.
This time they’re black, with bizarre astrological signs in gold. The Jimmy Page Collection from Walmart. I can’t resist. The stoned mind has full control now.
Back to the grocery
The grocery section is always the most dangerous. It’s where you run into people. Across the way is a red haired fellow that looks familiar. He’s staring. I’m thinking it’s a kid I went to school with, till I realize at our age he’d no longer have red hair, but grey. Fuck! He’s coming towards me …
Turns out it’s a guy who tried to buy my car last week. A quick encounter, and once finished I make the turn into the dairy aisle where I can whisk away to safety, my grocery list completed.
“She tells me her husband died last year. I try to say something sympathetic, it comes out stoned. I’m sure she catches on. So I ask if she’s going to start dating.”
I nearly crash my cart into a friend of my dear departed mother. This lady must be in her eighties now, but she’s looking fit and her mind is as sharp as ever. She asks if I’m me. I assure her I am. We run into each other on occasion and she usually chastises me. But the last time I encountered her with a shopping cart full of healthy items, we swapped philosophies of healthy eating. Hers oddly matched mine, trying to eat the quality of food our ancestors ate, and with something like the same simplicity.
I ask how she’s been. She tells me her husband died last year. I try to say something sympathetic, it comes out stoned. I’m sure she catches on. So I ask if she’s going to start dating. She asks if I’m joking. I assure her I am, then I flee before she gets the idea I’m hitting on her.
Heading for fresh air in Lawn and Garden
I see Nick coming towards me. Everybody knows Nick. He’s greeting as he walks, almost like the Queen of England in a parade. He’s got a greeting for everyone, calls them by name. It’s not an act, he loves people. He lives off their energy. I catch my greeting like a blown kiss and wave him off. It’s a skill he has, making it seem like all is right with the world.
The wife works in the pharmacy. She has a look of panic when I pass, overworked and over stressed from being an essential employee during a pandemic. She was never a fan of weed. But she does like her Jagermeister. And since joining the pharmacy, it’s become a necessary tool for healing.
The garden section is always a nice reprieve. Everyone drops their masks. We’re competing out here. We want to see the one plant everyone misses. I seldom do at Walmart, but I stroll the aisles, breathing fresh air and girding my loins for the dash to the checkout line.
Where concentrates can be a burden
While in the garden center, I noticed I was alone. I could, and often have, easily snuck a hit. Easy enough with a pinch hitter and flower. But it’s a bit different with concentrates.
Evolve makes a good pen for smoking concentrates. Actually they make a few, and they come in various sizes. So it’s easy to be inconspicuous. But I’ve never been a fan of the taste. It’s too clinical. And too harsh. The last thing you want to do at Walmart is launch into a coughing fit, reeking of afghani hash.
Opting for self checkout and still pissed about it
I stop in the bird food section, as the wife’s put in a request. Otherwise, it’s a straight shot to the checkout lanes, and she’s on her way to clock out. But I have to wait till she gets to the front of the store with the employee discount card.
I go for self check. It irks me as even as they’re pushing their employees to do more in less time and for the same amount of money, they’re pushing me as a customer to do more and not save anything in the process.
But I like the way I bag better so I do it anyway. And things are going swimmingly. The wife joins me, employee discount card in hand. She lends a hand with the produce. She’s experienced at this, but sometimes she gets going too fast and we get the flashing light, and wait for attendant to notice.
She shows up, smirks at me, I point to the wife, I didn’t do it. I memorize her Employee ID code and plan future revenge. I see the total and wonder if I can write off the cost of this trip as a business expense. She’s pushing me forward with the cart so I oblige and head towards the door.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Ghost of the Mujahideen makes for a more interesting Walmart experience. Certainly more intense. An hour’s worth was enough to wear the sharp edges off the buzz, and make me think a bit of a nap might be coming my way.
I look to the wife as we’re unloading the bags. I point out since she’s outside, she can take off her mask, having already shed mine. She points out since it’s night now, I can take off my sunglasses.