Marijuana in Amsterdam: Gettin’ High as F*** in the Greatest City in the Universe

Remember that post I wrote a couple weeks ago about whorin’ it up in Amsterdam? Well, I’m not quite done talking about this magnificent city just yet. Specifically, I want to speak to you about marijuana, and how you’ve had the legal right to smoke yourself stupid in Amsterdam since the 1970s.

See, our friend Looney Tunes was visiting us from Portland, Oregon, so my German wife and I thought it would be a great idea to bring his sweet, jetlagged ass to Amsterdam. And it was a great idea; we had the best time ever! Seriously. I haven’t had that much fun since some bartender at a wedding reception last summer spun the Jägermeister dispenser around and let all the guests go apeshit. (That logo of the holy stag concluded my final memory of the evening.)

Amsterdam is a wonderful, magical city. I raved about it in that last post, so I’ll skip right to the part about how I was on a serious mission to enter one of these famous “Holland coffeeshops” and score me some of that Matanuska Thunderfuck.

First of all, here’s what a typical coffeeshop sign looks like, which announces this location as a place to get your swerve on:

Here’s what a typical coffeeshop pot menu looks like:

And here’s what a pre-rolled, prepackaged joint looks like. (They usually cost around €10 euros each.)

Now, I’m no stranger to the Evil Weed. I’ve literally hit that shit more times than I can remember. (Or never even once and I’m totally just kidding, if my mom is reading this.) But I’ve never quite shaken hands with marijuana. See, it tends to jack my naturally high levels of anxiety right through the roof, leaving me in an ever-darkening spiral of introspection, looping thoughts and unwelcome — although often quite true — emotional revelations. That said, if I throw down a nice safety net of Jameson Whiskey in a calm, quiet atmosphere surrounded by my very closest friends in the world, I can have an awesome time. And have an awesome time I did.

Here are some of my quotes from the trip, all vocalized while stoned to the gills:

ME: “Yo doggs, is it time to take another rip off the Pice Peep?”*

*That would be “Peace Pipe,” of course.

ME: “Hey Siri. What’s the difference between Holland and Amsterdam?”

 

SIRI: “Let’s see… Here’s what I found on the web for ‘What’s the difference between Holland and Amsterdam’:”*

*(Followed by a long list of search results I could have just as easily found myself.)

ME: “That is not helpful, Siri.”

 

SIRI: “I’m not sure I understand.”

 

ME: “Hey Siri. Fuuuuuuuuuuck you.”

 

SIRI: “Well, I never!”

---

ME: “I probably shouldn’t have walked up to that prostitute with my iPhone in my hand. That was a real cultural Fah-Poe”*

*I meant, “faux pas.”

ME: “Honey, you love photography and you’re so good at it. You have got to start an Instagram account for yourself.”

 

THE WIFE: “Yes. I will call it, ‘My Husband Made Me Do This.'”*

*Still no Instagram account.

ME: “I have no tolerance for small talk. I hate meeting new people at parties and then pretending to give a shit about them or how they know the host or something. I don’t even care what their names are; it’s not like I’m going to remember it. I just want to cut straight to an open, honest conversation, like: ‘Hi! Do you truly enjoy what you do for a living?’ or ‘What is your greatest fear in life?’ or ‘How are you dealing with the fact that we’re all gonna to die someday?”

 

LOONEY TUNES: “Yeah, you might need a bit more of an introduction than that…”

So those were just the reefer quotes. Here are some of my best reefer actions:

While at the Banksy / Andy Warhol art exhibit at the Moco Museum (right near the Rijksmuseum), I accidentally grabbed some lady very tenderly by the arm, thinking she was my wife. Understandably, she violently jerked her arm away as if being attacked by a red-eyed rapist, causing me to apologize loudly and sincerely, for everyone in the museum to hear. She saw how horrified I was and smiled, totally cool and understanding. I, however, was traumatized. She was the exact same height as my wife, with the same long hair and nearly identical jacket! I didn’t mean to molest you, lady! I just wasn’t paying attention! I swear! Oh god please don’t make me register as a sex offender…

Toward the end of our time in Amsterdam, I suggested we give ourselves awards for individual performance over the course of our stay. Things like, “Best Leader,” “Most Energetic” or “Least Annoying.” Really, whatever we wanted to recognize in each other. Here are the results:

• Looney Tunes: “The Heart of the Group” and “Social Glue”
• The Wife: “Best Leader” and “Best Prepared”
• Me: “Ballsiest” and “Most Funny”

And as we sat around the dinner table on our last night, I proposed we play a little game I made up, called, “The Song of Shame.” The point of this game is to reveal your most secret, deepest, darkest, most embarrassing favorite pop song of all time. (This was later amended by my German wife, who is a complete philosophy nerd and actually teaches philosophy at the Gymnasium level here in Germany.) She framed the game as a metaphorical house, in which your most embarrassing pop song is the attic, your current favorite song (could even be from the last 10-15 years if you want) is the living room, and your absolute favorite song of all time is the basement. Here are mine:

1. Basement (All-time favorite song): Tame, by the Pixies
2. Living Room (Current or fairly recent favorite [Since 2004, in my case]): Synthesizer, by Electric Six
3. Attic (Shameful favorite): Party in the U.S.A., by Miley Cyrus. (*Facepalm* “What? You think you’re better than me?!”)

So those were the highlights of the trip fueled by marijuana. I’m going to end this post with some pictures. Please click one of the images below to start the slideshow.

Happy Halloween! Have a great time out there and be safe!

— OGM

Oh my god, look at those fingernails. This dude was sitting across from me on the IC from Hannover to Amsterdam. Take care of that shit, man!