I stopped in the early '80s mostly because of the sketchy, occasionally dangerous people one had to go through in order to procure it. Once it became legal, though, in the mid-'00s, I felt compelled to make up for lost time, and haven't relented since. The local dispensary here is horribly over-priced, but as my tastes tend to run towards the boutique growers who do small batch soil grows, the price can be occasionally quite daunting.
Summers evenings here usually finds this old dead hippie sitting on the front porch, catching another Arizona sunset with a joint in one hand, and two fingers of Pierre Ferrand Reserve in the other.
I worry about what a ill-considered Trumpian quick-fix remedy will certainly have on the waterfowl that rely on the pool as their main habitat. It's the incompetence, stupid. The photo of the damage to the Elipse courtesy the Fight Night mouth-breather army is soooo on-brand, eh? Another uncalled-for variation on a all-too-familiar theme, if you will. Why should the pool be any different?