Regulating marijuana is a question of political priorities and for me gaining state revenue on marijuana outweighs losing money on law enforcement because at risk is the profiteering of criminals who do not necessarily limit their nefarious activities to the friendly herb. Prohibition funds mob-gang behavior.
Besides, predictable-dose edibles are a boon to the consumer!!!
Special thanks to the Internet:
http://www.vandergreg.com/search?q=marijuana
Look at Washington State’s pot revenue here. It’s a bit of cash, not a flood; it goes to social programs related to health and welfare; it’s coming from taxable businesses who employ people at their stores, and growers, and delivery folk, even accountants, etc. It is a BUSINESS of and for the people. Let it be; hell, let it spread.
This Colorado county did something smart with a weed tax.
The bureaucratic hell-hole complicating things is the Federal Schedule I drug designation of marijuana, placing it in a more dangerous category than cocaine or methamphetamine! (Please search Faces of Meth to refute this.) This is a cultural error reeking of bone-headed politicians; it ignores (and limits) the research and applied science of medical pot plus anecdotal evidence of uncountable hours of crime-free recreational use. This Schedule I designation is also the entry point for Federal intrusion when pot should be a States’ Rights issue akin to other sin-tax initiatives like liquor, tobacco and gambling that rely on local nuance. We need to keep the pressure on to correctly categorize this herb as the natural substance it is so that communities may judge it fairly, and use the revenue to enrich their citizenry.
COMMENTARY: I am all for keeping synthetic pot on the Do Not Fly list since it seems to qualify as “engineered” like coca leaves vs. extracted cocaine thus changing its cultural and actual impact:
“The prophetic “Legend of the Coca Leaf” presages us of the difference between the way the leaf is used traditionally in the Andes, and the corrupted form used by Western conquerors. As the Sun God said to the Andean wise man Kjana Chuyma: “[coca] for you shall be strength and life, for your masters it shall be a loathsome and degenerating vice; while for you, natives, it will be an almost spiritual food, for them it shall cause idiocy and madness.”
These facts and others like them can be found on the new Coca Leaf subchapter of Drug War Facts at http://www.drugwarfacts.org.
For an interesting social history on marijuana, clickety-tap here.
PLEASE ENJOY THESE FREE WRITING SAMPLES FOR MATURE READERS from my pot-centric sexotic book Stoner’s Bone of Contention which is second in the Stoner series mixing artful rhetoric with heady philosophy and sensual escapades:
I haven’t stopped getting high. I mean, I still get high when I smoke, the effect hasn’t worn off. It’s a long story but, believe you me, I’ve been banging the bong for decades and each time I respond to the Pavlovian chime in my head that says, You’ve Arrived on High Street. It’s a place in my thoughts providing a different vantage point, my redoubt. Stoner Town is peaceful and self-sustaining, to be there is to have arrived at launch. Once you are high, and know you are high, then what comes next is what you do while you’re high. I walk, I watch movies, I make beautiful love with ordinary women. I drift far from my work-a-day world. I’m not running away, I’m stepping aside. I’m experiencing a moment through the softening gauze of ganja. I’m well-read enough to know the word ganja is not Jamaican, mon. I consider toking to be my private bridge to serenity.
The bustier. I love a long-line bra that circles the torso and provides shelving for the breasts. To see beautiful mounding tops shoved up from a controlled midriff emphasizes them, yes, but not beyond what they are… there is no padding, no filler, it’s the glory of engineering. Although it is a furtive pleasure, it is not a secret.
All kinds of bras catch my eye but this particular garment skips far past the purported medical/cosmetic reasons to cradle the boobs and serves them up as tidbits, choice and tasty.
Cold out tonight, my fingers stiffen but I’ve never found gloves suitable for toking in the snow. Fingerless gloves leave the gap between fingertips distorted, thickened. In fact, the gloves are not fingerless, they’re tipless, so the fabric extends up the finger quite a way. It’s aggravating but not enough to dissuade me from hitting a doobie in the hush. If it’s really cold I will alternate a glove from smoking hand to lighting hand. I used to balance the joint between my lips but I gave that up when an ember stung my chin and I heard the sizzle of the joint in the snow at my feet. Only half-way high, lucky to have been in the thick of a gentle storm, bummed by the mechanical failure. This white night I had a spare on hand, determined to experience my solitude as the flakes drifted over everything, with sheltered negative spaces that escaped the fall but would be filled in with drifting later. It’s the pregnant part of a snowfall when you can’t know how long it will last, how wet-dry it was, so much depended on the air through which it floated, that little bit heavier than air yet subject to the wind’s whim. Snow fall, mood rise.
JoEllen, JoE (long E), JoE, agreed to eat a pot brownie with me, chased with ice cold milk, then we played a game of Scrabble. It takes a while for the pot to hit, and it starts with silliness about words: herd hard heard hoard. We’re in tune, the stone intensifies and hits our bodies, we’re on a rug in front of the fireplace, it isn’t like getting the spins when you’re drunk, you aren’t out of control, but neither are you in control, you are acceptant not resistant, perhaps that is the difference, you are unconcerned about control. JoE is staring into the flames, her image flickering for me, and I disengage my own sensors, giving her more time to BE over-stimulated. I am in a protective hover around her, knowing this kind of body high is surprising at first. She’s got to make the first move, that’s just how it is between us, so I factor in the delay as she acclimates to being high as a star in an extra-dense body. When she finally does lean toward me (topple into me), I got a strong sense of her intoxication. High-yaiyai. She started showing me her stuff, her shirt came off, her pants were undone, and I knew she was close to making her choice. If she retreated, it wouldn’t have been a tease. If she continued it was a one-time that-time only thing. I understood she ran the gate.
Her hand slipped over mine and lifted it to her lips for a soft kiss, then pressed it to her cleavage, spanning the swell of her sleek tits, they didn’t wobble or bounce, they were firm and full with magenta-crowns and a stiff thick nub; once she put my hands on her we were open.
I’d been with JoE stoned and straight, she idled high if you know what I mean, she was tuned up and ready to go, even after a few beers when she was languid in general, she was sexually intense. This night the pot brownie seemed to have hit the root of her restlessness, she was still and quiet and sexy in a significant reinterpretation of her body language. She was so high that only the most compelling motivations survived and those were to be held and stoked from ember to flame. I fed her and oiled her long before I dared to connect. It was going to be a long night.
Tiny tea-cup titties. JoE believed she had the same number of nerve endings as found in those gargantuan tits that seemed so popular, she handled her little beauties roughly to show me what she liked: she liked to show me what she liked. One hand fondled her top half while the other toured the bottom, drawing my attention to the flat planes and pronounced curves of her personal circus (her term), her need to show and tell – even when wrecked by the brownies – was her signature, I realized, the thing she did to prepare herself for giving over to a man. If he couldn’t wait for her to explain things, well… maybe he wasn’t her kind of guy after all. I knew enough to enjoy her ritual; I understood not to panic if it seemed we weren’t making any “progress” toward “sex” when in fact it was all about making peace to proceed to passion.
She was a pretty girl with a kind heart and a wicked sense of humor; I had no problem lounging around with her, stoned beyond speech, enjoying my view of her, filling up with anticipation. Part of the challenge was to keep myself contained, not lunge for what I wanted. I felt an intense desire to pull her up against me and shove myself inside but that’s just my little head talking, he’s extremely short sighted (one-eyed).
I had rescinded my dick’s decision-making role. It could scream and twist and dribble down my leg but it did not select my partners nor pace my activities. Taming it took years, I didn’t break its spirit, I did not crumble its hopes: I gave it structure and dignity and let it off leash only when I’m ready to respond to its choices. I let it romp when the time is right; I surrender to its dick-ness because in fact it is very purposeful with full support from all the rest of me, delivering the essential connector, not my kissy lips, not my probing fingers. No, those were mere servants to the Ultimate Goal of Intromission, the taking of a woman’s space, her secret world. No doubt, my dick does the fucking. I am careful to set the stage and interpret the indicators because once the fucking starts good sense fades, responsibility is pounded away, we are doing what we are built for, coupling. I’m a beast when I know that she wants that part of me, that she’s called out audible signals, made all the right gestures, has teased us forward, and she’s ready to say yes when I ask if she is sure. She can still wave me off, so far we’re just playing; she has to be SURE because, for all my good manners and rational thought, once authorized then I’m a full-blooded rip-roaring dick on the loose.
I like fucking the naughty ones, the ones who dare you to show yourself. JoE was one of those girls for me, she was firm in her demands and specific in her examples, I rode her hard yet she matched me back, every time I went in deeper she rippled around me, bucking her hips to double the impact when we collided. I could put all of myself inside her, slip it back out, possess and surrender, because that is what she wanted. I couldn’t believe how much she wanted it, not at first, not until she showed me.
#Readmore
Named to Kirkus Reviews Best of 2013
To Thy Known Self Be True [sic] is cadged from online comments similar to “no, notta, uh uh” that evidence a poor grasp of the written word. As noted in my earlier posts, there are elements of haste, there are mishaps with autocorrect, but overall we are laying bare the growing illiteracy of Internet commenters (and hastily edited reporting too]. We used to be a nation of readers, and reading helps writing. In a verbal exchange “notta” can pass for “
These differences are biologically set and culturally significant, replicated in nature’s evolution that makes fathering a child momentary but parenting a child an investment of decades. Sparking a child has impacts on identity, housing, career, family relations, and religion. Parenting is an across-the-spectrum extended event still most allied with feminine strategy no matter how many dads do step forward. It is a smart survival move to shelter your young with family style living which is where step-parents, grandparents, siblings and others may come forward to complete the circle that surrounds a child. These are all post-facto strategies to deal with the ongoing long-term tasks and commitments that result from the momentary actions that make a baby.
Kathleen K. Books 
Tattoo. Taboo? Art… Life
I do not have a tattoo and doubt I ever shall. For a woman my age raised in my culture, tattoos are rebellious (the opposite of self-effacing). Even though the strong association with bad-boy behavior makes this juxtaposition all the more layered now that they’re in fashion across genders and age groups. The historical aversion for tattoos in the Christian Bible is doubled-down in the horrible practice of tattooing ID numbers on Jews during World War II for bookkeeping purposes in concentration camps… that it distressed their faith was just a bonus.
ln this current age, there is tattoo art and it is “interesting” to me. The idea of the mechanical fact of being inked isn’t the big deal; as a diabetic I get plenty of pokes just NOT at the rate or saturation of course. For me, it is the permanence of ink. Ironically. I write and produce books, each one is permanent unto itself, but I am free to reverse, relaunch, realize another vision.
My book-making objective starts out the same, to “weave an image” that suits its own purpose and design, the writing is mine alone. I may never share it. Here the divide begins because the tattoo bearer cannot do the work alone. We just aren’t hinged that way. So that leap to collaborate is fundamental while I can (and do) bury entire manuscripts without note to others. The words aren’t lined up properly yet. Body ink may be applied in layers but it is not as flexible as a rough draft can be to the published “on display” imagery.
I wanted to acknowledge my respect for all the artists out there, decorating for their holidays, fashioning hand-made gifts or sharing recipes, making merry. Nobody knows how we can seem so different yet have to make the same decisions about the body we’re in, our family rank, our community purpose. Forging an identity is a tricky business, it can take longer than you expect (or deserve, really, given the statistical projection for your specifics).
What people regret as they age are often things left undone, and the underlying message is the waste of time, that precious tick-tock that says you can keep going, try something, do or be or create what you dream about as your legacy. Plant your stake in the river of humanity. You should not do what you do to get famous or rich, those paths can lead to misery… if they are granted to you, it is a bonus. Positive energy will come if you look for a sustainable life in which you are fed, clothed and safe enough to reach out to others through art and thought and love.
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