The Whole City Smells Like Pot
In NYC, rent isn't the only thing that's high
The other morning, I was leaving our building to walk to the gym. It was 7:45 a.m., the kids had just left for school, and I was ready to get my sweat on.
I wasn’t 30 feet out the door, when I found myself enveloped in a dense plume of smoke. I turned to see some dude sitting on a neighboring stoop—I don’t think he lived in the building—grinning through narrow eyes and pinching a juicy joint the size of a Renaissance Fair turkey leg. Moments earlier, he had, without inquiring as to my preferences, shared several cubic feet of exhaust with my face.
The oddest thing about this was that it wasn’t odd at all. The last time I lived in Manhattan, in 2004, you’d occasionally see a guy blazing on the sidewalk. Now, it’s a several-times-a-day experience and—at the risk of sounding like an uncool middle-aged person—it’s beyond annoying.
Full disclosure, I have partaken in the herb since I was in college. Parental obligations and the desire to get a minimal amount of work done each day limit my consumption to the “very occasional.” But while it’s never been a central part of my identity, I appreciate what the good flower can provide: a temporary sense of well-being, hysterical laughter among friends, and auditory enhancement to the point where one can tolerate jam bands.
Furthermore, as a “small-L,” libertarian-lite, I believe consenting adults should be able to do whatever they want in the privacy of their own homes, up to the point that their actions affect other people. Want to spread Cheez Whiz all over yourself and your pansexual lover(s) while juggling knives and singing songs of Satanic devotion? All good with me; just keep the music down.
Despite these inclinations, I’m frustrated by those who pursue their bliss without considering the way it affects their fellow citizens. It reminds me of a Steve Martin bit from the Let’s Get Small album. He sets up the joke with a presumptuous stranger at a restaurant asking, “Do you mind if I smoke?” Martin replies, “No. Do you mind if I fart?”
Hey, farting is legal! But just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. To paraphrase an old saying about individual liberty: your right to swing your fist—or to release noxious gas from your intestines—ends where my nose begins.
It’s like the 100% voluntary noise pollution caused by morons who ride their intentionally-thunderous motorcycles up and down Main Street USA with no regard for the hearing of their fellow citizens. Many riders will defend these actions with words like, “Hey man, I’m just expressing my freedom!” Maybe so. And maybe you’re being a selfish asshole. Get a muffler, Captain America.
I believe that the people of New York would be better served if marijuana devotees practiced a modicum of voluntary deference to those who don’t wish to be doused in Eau de Sativa every time we leave the house. So in order to prevent undue government involvement, here are a few suggestions that will improve the situation for everyone:
· Designated smoking areas. These well-ventilated gathering spots could have comfy couches, groovy tunes, and video games. They could be sponsored by weed-adjacent consumer products. Indica aficionados will giggle to their heart’s content while watching old episodes of Rick and Morty and enjoying free samples of Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies and Cheddar Cheese Pringles.
· Hotbox Subway Cars: Roll up the windows and light up the smoke. A certain number of subway cars could be designated 24/7, pot-friendly hotboxes – just the solution for the stoner on the move. I suggest we do this on the East Side. The 6 Train seems appropriate. Good luck on the stairs at Lex / 59th Street station.
· Quid Pro Quo: If you blow your weed smoke on me, I have the right to spray you with the perfume of my choice. I choose Fantasy by Britney Spears. It’s like a fart, but I got it while waiting in the checkout line at T.J. Maxx.
· Voluntary Smoke-Free Zones: Maybe have the courtesy not to light up near schools, playgrounds, or at soccer fields where kids and teens are playing. Not because it’s illegal to smoke at a city park (which it is) but because it’s just the cool thing to do.
It’s all good, stoner friends – you do you. I wish you many pleasant highs. Just keep the music low and the smoke to yourself.
THE END (but keep reading)
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Tell your NYC friends and / or come yourself to see my show in the New York Comedy Festival, November 8 at Rodneys Comedy Club. Click HERE for tickets!
(Seriously click back there where it says “here”)
Funny, I feel the same way about dog owners with their dogs. I'll take the smell of pot over the smell of dog urine every time.
It's bad now but it was way worse during the height of COVID (not a total shock). What had always been there but at least a little surreptitious was now way out in the open—and highly odorous.