You Just Don't Give A Damn

You Just Don't Give A Damn

Dear Malproddunt supporter,

I had to unfriend you today, sadly enough to say, though I have always considered you a cherished friend. It wasn’t just that you raised two fine daughters that I was thrilled to have in my classroom, you got out there yourself, too, and helped me out.

I remember the Shakespeare plays the best, the ones that were performed by middle school students, choreographed by middle school students, the sets, the music, the back-stage direction, all middle school student-productions.

It is for the middle school students, and the newly born grandchildren, that I take my stand. You, Malproddunt supporter, voted for this charade of a man, let alone the leader of our nation, and I said, whatever, it is your choice as an American to vote for whomever you please.

Leader Malproddunt, who cannot even keep track of his many lies

I warned you this charlatan was a buffoon, but hey, still, I respect your right to have voted for Adolph Hitler, in absentia, if that is what you wanted to do. However, now that the clown has donned his bright red nose, and actually started going into his act, I must capitulate, and insist that you stop lauding a despot, determined to destroy the planet before your grandchildren even attain adulthood.

You don’t give a damn. You just do not give a damn.

I cannot fathom how you could post that meme that said Malproddunt had just been elected for the third time, when the electoral college, the most shortchanged-in-the-balls entity I have ever encountered, went through with it. I say the most cojones-challenged entity, unless, as expected, the Supreme Court weasels out too.

You feel no shame that this narcissistic diva has appointed white supremacists to the Cabinet of Hate; you do not care that Malproddunt has appointed a man as our attorney general, who thinks the 30 million people who have indulged in cannabis are bad people; and you do not care that the most air-headed woman to ever open her vapid mouth and prove she is a ditz, was appointed as head of the VETERANS, of which I am one.

I’m not proud of it anymore, but hey, what are you gonna do?

Actually, in retrospect, that last makes sense since the Republican Party is well-known for loving the soldier, their purveyor of modern weaponry, and spitting on the veteran. Allow me to assure you, the loogie the Republican Party lays on its veterans, is the size of Lake Michigan.

Yes, and with their effort to slash the Social Security program, after stealing billions from us, blatantly, right out there by signing their names to legislation, the Republican Party still maintains it is not a domestic terrorist organization.

I beg to differ.

In conclusion, Malproddunt supporter, I wish you well in the future and I mean you no animosity, but I cannot have you spewing your hatred on my wall. Malproddunt is bent on ruining this planet-for money, and you just do’t give a damn.

But I do.

Fat Chaw

 Fat Chaw

English bulldogs are often misrepresented, being portrayed as disagreeable or mean because of their gnarly faces, when in reality they are actually little lambs. Our dude, Dozer, is no exception, barking fiercely at nothing more frightening than plastic flapping in the wind, valiantly demonstrating that we need not stress over potentially aggressive tarps, but lavishing kisses upon command, when we so desire.

Salty Dozer

Are bulldogs as stubborn as they are purported to be? That, and more, but there are extenuating circumstances: I am stubborn too, so I get it. I simply do not like to be told I have to do something. If you ask, I will perform miracles; if you demand, I will go into middle school mode. Count on it.

I am well acquainted with how to train a dog, and I understand that I let Bowser get away with murder, or at least homicide. Not only do I not make him turn around and look at me, before I proceed out the front door, as treasonous as that sounds, I allow him to go first. 

Do I not realize that this will make Biggie think he is the alpha male? It’s a moot point because THAT has already been well-established, a long time ago. Boo-Boo runs the show, all 48 pounds of him, whether it is his unquestionable authority over Emma the dog, weighing in at 100-plus pounds, or his selection of a sleeping spot on the bed.

At the Red Lion

I don’t even mind that; I can sleep around him, but he steals the blankets too, by pinning them to the bed more effectively than a ship’s anchor. As Cheech and Chong might have quipped, “All right, now, men, discipline’s getting pretty lax around here. Why, I remember just last week, when I asked for volunteers to go weed out that marijuana patch, I damn near got stampeded to death. Talkin’ ‘bout them, they been gone a week now. Get ‘em on the horn.”

Besides, should he actually rattle my chain, I have only to let the voice out of its cage. End of a one-sided conversation.

From Spartacus and Maximus, Ice T’s famous bullies, Beetle Bailey’s Otto, Adam Sandler’s Meatball, Chris Brown’s Diamond to even Dozer, himself, bulldogs command attention, because they have charisma. Dozer can easily put twenty different expressions on his face, and I will know what he is communicating, most of the time.

Recruited by the Giants...

Instead of words, Phattie uses his personality to convey his feelings. If we are planning an overnight excursion, the Doze knows even before we do. He watches an overnight bag being packed, he hears the shower and hated hair dryer, and he fears the worst.

“Am I going to get the “Dozer-stays-here-and-guards-the-house” speech, or the “Don’t worry, you-get-to-go-too,” reassurance? Dozer overthinks, every time, and his lower lip droops to the ground.

He has a half-dozen ways to express interest in what you are eating, each one, a step more endearing. Share my bacon? Dumb question. Rib-eye? How would you like it prepared? Chicken? White meat or dark? “I will gladly pay you Tuesday, for a dog-treat, today,” Dozer says, stealing J. Wellington Wimpy’s line from the old Popeye cartoons.

Biggie-Phats recently lost a chunk of weight in less time than it takes to determine that he does not want to walk in the rain-as long as it takes to open the front door so that he can hear the sound of rain falling. He suffered from an infection in his lungs, during which time he struggled to be able to breathe properly.

Already susceptible to breathing issues, he was hit pretty hard, actually being forced to sleep/doze sitting up, because when he lay down, his air passages got blocked. He was a wheezing wreck of himself, hacking and cracking our hearts open with empathy for the old guy.

We are well aware of his mortality, with Dozerotomy approaching his ninth birthday. Wikipedia states that the average lifespan of this breed is 8-10 years, so hey, like me, he is in the twilight of his lifetime. I’m good with that and if he were able to talk, I think Mr. Brown would be good with it too.

Aside from his wanting to be top dawg, he is an unprepossessing kind of dude, deliriously happy to be asked along on a walk, or to go gather sticks, what I euphemistically call bringing in wheel barrow loads of oak and madrone, or to chew on his indestructible ball, one of several. 

As long as I am quick with my hand, I will retain all my digits. I wish I could say the same for my wits, which appear far more fragile. We occasionally play a game where he will clamp down on a piece of redwood hard enough, that I can spin him around in the air, and his teeth will keep him airborne. 

The only time I was not quick enough, when the two of us were wrassling with a chunk of redwood, and his teeth came down on my hand with the speed of a rattle snake, Fat Chaw was unable to do the deed-his teeth grazed my hand with the delicate touch of a butterfly, and we went on with the game.

That guy.

Even when I see him sitting on the tile hearth by the warm fire, upon our return from the cold outside, and I bring his bed over to him, he has to assess the situation first, before he makes any sudden moves. He will glance at the bed and ignore it, moving his gaze on to more exciting material, like his empty dog dish.

The lip starts its slow inflation. 

As if it matters to me, whether or not he chooses to lie down. Of course, it obviously does, because I continue to monitor him out of the corner of my eye, difficult to do when I have to turn around to see him. Such is the life of a bulldog owner.

The bed awaits; he remains next to it. The lower lip broadens to the width of the Mississippi, as if I have threatened to leave him home for two weeks again, as I did back in 2011, when I sallied off to Ireland. He glances, surreptitiously this time, at the beat-up old replica of what the bed once was.

Still, it’s his beat-up old crash-pad and he loves it. Just not enough to capitulate, with me craning my neck to observe. Oh yes, believe it.

I have all the time in the world, I muse to myself, so I bide my time. The next time I sneak a peek, he is lights out-comfortably curled up in a bed that was originally acquired for him while he was still a pup. The “replacement” model actually serves Emma well, when she graces our home with her presence.

So yeah, the old chap will be taking his place alongside the perpetual “warm fireplace” in the sky in the not-too-distant-future, but I will not have any regrets. I will never say to myself, I wish I had done this, or wish I had spent more time, because such will not have been the case.

If one human year equates to seven dog years, then one hour with Dozer, is the same as seven. Therefore, I will have spent more than twenty-four hours a day with the old bully practically his whole life, and who can ask for more than that?

The Republican Party: Domestic Terrorists, Inc.

The Republican Party: Domestic Terrorists, Inc. 

The meme states simply, “It’s time we start calling the Republican Party what it is: a domestic terrorist organization.” Wikipedia admits that over 100 definitions of domestic terrorism have been presented to the United Nations from the 1950’s onward, and that they all involve “criminal acts intended or calculated to provoke terror in the general public.”

http://www.forwardprogressives.com/time-start-calling-republican-party-domestic-terrorist-organization/

Terrorists do not act in the best interests of all-they are self-serving and ruthless. Whereas the methodology differs, violence being the usual vehicle, the most effective type of domestic terrorism comes in the form of slow starvation.

The Republican Party squeezes
the life out of Americans.

Whereas I speak metaphorically in terms of the big picture, a ruling class of individuals slowly squeezing the life out of its people, like a boa constrictor, I also speak literally, with 42.5 million people said to have experienced “food insecurity” in 2015. 

Food insecurity? What kind of euphemistic jargon is this to describe people going to bed hungry at night?  How about food-challenged? The elderly and children are hit the hardest, because they can’t hit back.

The fact that our government can exist in apparent harmony, knowing that 42.5 million people struggled with hunger at some point last year, rips me apart inside, because the folks who run the government do not themselves, have to worry about minor details like this.

The folks who call the shots in this country are too busy running interference for the likes of the Walton family, a unit that is so excruciatingly blind to human misery, that it keeps the work-force of its consumer palaces, pinned to the floor with the boot of abject oppression.

This family was “credited” in 2013, with having amassed a fortune equivalent to the bottom 42% of the American people. Reading the words back that I just wrote, makes me want to vomit. This modern blood-sucking unit lives in opulence, and gives the middle finger to America in general, and to its workers in particular.

Do our elected leaders fight against this kind of social injustice? Do our elected leaders represent all the people, or are they selective about who it is they serve? The answer is that the services of our elected leaders go to the highest bidder. 

It’s been this way since Ronnie (“Seen one redwood tree-seen ‘em all”) Reagan initiated “trickle-down” economics, voted into law by…take a wild guess, our elected leaders. Now, we can just skip the palaver and agree, “If you are poor in this country, it sucks to be you.”

Do you want to know my definition of domestic terrorism? It’s knowing that you and your family do not have enough money to insure that your quality of life is a reasonable expectation. This means you do not have enough of what it takes to provide food, clothing and medical care for your family.

You do not have enough of what it takes to provide child care for your kids after school, not enough of what it takes to replace your bald tires with new ones, and not enough of what it takes, to insure that your kids will be able to continue on in their education, if they even finish high school.

Considering it purports to represent family values, the Republican Party, instead, destroys the family unit. How can the family function when both parents must work full-time? How does that make it possible for families to even exist, let alone thrive?

Captain Crunch for dinner, everyone?

No, the Republican Party does not represent family values, or else it would care about families other than the Waltons. To think that the economic woes of every single American could be solved by simply requiring the Waltons to pay their fair share of taxes, and that this will never happen, makes me want to heave.

You want domestic terrorism? How about continuing to refuse to acknowledge that cannabis works miracles every day with those who suffer from brain seizures, epilepsy and a plethora of other maladies, so that Corporate ‘Merica’s Big Pharma unit, can continue to extort money from folks who have no more money to extort?

That is domestic terrorism, in millions of Americans’ book, but it doesn’t make a rat’s ass worth of difference because only a handful of people run this country: And they are terrorists so that’s what they get paid the big $$’s to do.

How Much Money Did it Take?

How Much Money Did it Take?

The Drug Enforcement Administration, appropriately named because it forces its drugs on an unsuspecting public, continued to prove that money is the object and lives are not, by clarifying that marijuana extracts-including cannabidiol (CBD)-fall under Schedule 1 drug classification, making all forms of the plant illegal under federal law.

CBD oils, the only reasonable lifeline for countless numbers of sick kids, is now classified the same as heroin, cocaine, PCP and all of the other life-threatening drugs, despite the fact that it has never killed a sick kid in its existence. Keep in mind there are many forms of sickness in the world today.

Alcoholism, cancer, depression, bipolarism, and diabetes are all examples of debilitating illnesses, but the worst sickness of all, and one that is one hundred percent preventable, gets the least amount of attention: greed. 

That greed is the worst illness on the planet cannot be denied, based on one fact alone: it is the only illness that is so pervasive, that it drives its sufferers to sacrifice the lives of innocent children. These are kids who have worth only as paying customers of Big Pharma, an entity that got its bones by raping the families of the weak and infirm.

You must realize that this most recent decision means, that the DEA has now clearly made a statement and it goes like this: “We, here at the Drug Enforcement Agency, officially align ourselves with Corporate ‘Merica, and agree that the families of sick children should be extorted for as much as the traffic will bear. Afterwards, they can be turned over to the Funeral Services Organization Affiliates, for them to get their share.” 

The DEA is a blood-sucking, heartless entity.

OK, I was paraphrasing there at the end.

Nate Bradley, executive director of the California Cannabis Industry Association, has it wrong when he states, “Once again, the federal government has shown that it has not caught up with modern science.” He is wrong because the federal government has no interest in catching up with modern science. There is no money to be made in this.

However, Bradley is correct when he goes on to say, “It’s common knowledge that CBD has numerous medical uses, including curbing the effects of epilepsy and reducing muscle inflammation from injuries. To deny that shows a complete disregard for the facts.”

Do not bother to include that it also means an utter disregard for the lives of sick kids, and the pain of the families who must not only see their precious cargo sick and in pain, they are prevented from helping them. Which is more important? The pain of these families, or making money?

I cannot imagine hell on earth being any worse than to see your child sick, and know that the government is more interested in revenue for its gluttonous, corporate-level, blood-sucking-tick-unit, than it is in the welfare of your child.

Just call me "The DEA"

We live in a sick, twisted world, where our government values money over life, and we have a narcissistic madman in charge temporarily, wreaking havoc that will last a lifetime. 

I am writhing in agony at the level of cruelty the DEA will rise to, in its eagerness to play lackey for Corporate ‘Merica. All it does is make me wonder, just how much money did it take to sell your soul for money?

In other words, how much money was needed to make a person declare, “Kids’ lives don’t matter as much as making money.”

Whitewater-Rafting (At the Kitchen table)

Whitewater-Rafting (At the Kitchen Table)

May I be candid about edibles, here? I like ‘em. 

I like them the way cops like doughnuts: in any way, shape or form I can get them. I went through a “phase” when I was baking my own home-grown, gluten-free, oatmeal cookies, and then rationing them out for the next couple of weeks, er, week…dang…days, whatever, and life kind of felt like I was whitewater-rafting.

Coincidentally, during this same time span, I was diagnosed as being bipolar. I did not glide placidly down Acceptance River for a minute or two there, but there was no doubt that the froth began to subside at the same time as the cookies disappeared.

Weird, I know.

Now I stick mostly to my bong, or a doobster, and the raft pretty much straddles the center of the river, except for those times when I find myself at a cannabis farmers market, or the Emerald Cup. I like the occasional shift of pace from my raft to an engine-powered vehicle, so I am always on the lookout for one type of edible, chocolates.

That doesn’t mean that the graciously accepted samples of many cherished friends, will be ignored-perish the thought! I take my responsibilities seriously, so I will enjoy each and every one of them. When I am pursuing my own interests, however, it has got to be chocolate. 

Thus it was that I thought I had entered Shangri-La Sunday, down at The Emerald Cup, when I discovered the tent with all of the edible booths. I kept an iron-grip on Markie as I made my way through the crowd, so he wouldn’t knock anyone over, and it paid off when I hit the Bhang booth.

“Now sugar free and still perfection,” the one-point-five ounce (42.5 g), dark chocolate bar was inordinately delicious. In the upper right-hand corner on the front of the box, there is a serrated air bubble which states, in red, “DOUBLE STRENGTH.” 

The words meant next-to-nothing to me, but here are some pertinent pieces of information, in case any of you speak Cannabese: There are four segments in the chocolate bar, each containing 30 mg of THC, and there is some “consumption advice” on the back of the box:

“Until you know the effect of this product, eat only one-half of one segment, and then wait a minimum of one hour before consuming another segment.”

I never read that until about ten minutes ago, when I retrieved one of the boxes from the refrigerator. Interesting. 

My recent history with edibles has been a benign and gentle one, with my standard response to anyone inquiring as whether or not I achieved lift-off with any given sample being, “I expect I did. Not really sure. Let’s call it a pleasant glow, and leave it at that.”

Every time I set out to obtain edibles, I go with the best of intentions; I think I will need a shopping cart the size of a deuce-and-a-half, and I settle for a package the size of an Altoids box. I was determined to do better this time, but had still only asked for two of the chocolate bars, when the helpful clerk had inquired if he could be of assistance.

“How much is the donation, per chocolate bar?” I asked, examining the professionally wrapped carton I described above. 

“The suggested donation is five dollars each,” he offered helpfully.

I had been prepared to mortgage the house so I was pleasantly surprised. “Could I have four more?” I asked, suddenly remembering that if I were going to fill the bed of a truck, I better up the ante. The last of the big-time spenders, that’s me!

It wasn’t until I was on my way back to the booth, that I remembered I had been going to acquire some chocolate for a good friend who was planning a trip in the not-too-distant future. Oh, well, as Cheech and Chong were known to say, “You got something the other guy don’t, you chair, man.”

Upon my return to the booth, I proudly announced to HeadSodBuster and SmallBoy, much to their delight, that I had scored on a blockbuster deal.

“Did you remember to get some for your friend who is traveling?” SmallBoy asked.

“You better believe it,” I said, pulling out one of the bars.

“One for him…and five for Markie!” I announced triumphantly. For whatever reason, that brought the house down, though I failed to see the humor in it all.

I had arbitrarily eaten one of the segments the following morning, Monday, long about two AM, ninety minutes after I had gotten up and after two cups of coffee. I expect I enjoyed it, just as I expect I enjoyed the segment I ate on Tuesday and Wednesday, as well. I didn’t really think about it.

From the second I got up on Thursday morning, Markie was in control. When it came time for my daily ration of one segment, Markie suggested that we go for more. He did this by attempting to neatly cut a bar into the four segments it comes stock with, and botching the job.

The San Andreas Fault come to mind, but Markie didn’t note the similarity. He was too busy mixing his poisons: a sample of exquisitely delicious dark chocolate, followed by a sip of Cafe Domingo coffee, with half-and-half. Chocolate…coffee…which was which? Oh, this is some funch-pace, dankyotomy right here, or at least it was.

As near as I can make out, I consumed about 25 grams of that goodness. Now that I know the recommended dose is just a tad over five grams, I can better appreciate my experience the other day. What I can remember of it, anyway.

Zounds! The house emerged spit-shined, though at one point I think I had five projects going, simultaneously, none of them involving sitting down. A regular old whirling dervish. I was on my Chuck Dent surfboard from my teens; I was on water skis; I was whitewater rafting, all three simultaneously. 

Or I should say Markie was doing all this. I was, for one of the first times in my life, charting the course like a G. Even though Markie was munching the chocolate, hand over fist, I was the one taking notes, mentally. 

I had been aware all along that I never did anything more than dabble, when in reality, Markie really wanted to gobble. The net result was a successful raft excursion through rough waters, with two navigators at the helm: Mark and Markie.

Collaborating, for once.

  

Unclear on the Concept

Unclear on the concept

Unclear on the Concept

Senator or Congressperson:

Why have you forsaken the poor and elderly in this country? They are people too. 

Why have you and your fellow legislatures, functioned in such a way as to keep 13.5% of the American people repressed? This is in direct conflict with the oath you took to represent all of the people in this country. 

An estimated 43.1 million people are living at or below the poverty level in the richest nation on earth, while one percent of the people have ninety percent of the wealth. The Constitution states that the government must represent all people, and yet you manipulate the system to repress a huge portion, while benefiting a minority. 

Why have you forsaken the poor and elderly in this country? They are people too.

An attempt to increase the minimum wage has failed nine times. You took an oath and swore to uphold the Constitution for all the people, and yet you serve primarily the wealthy. Besides being illegal, this is self-centered, self-serving and immoral. 

Millions of elderly and poor are cold in the winter, millions cannot afford basic health measures and millions go to bed hungry at night. People suffer unimaginable pain every day, and you, who have the power to create change, do nothing.

Why have you forsaken the poor and the elderly in this country? They are people too.

You are an elected leader of this country. Why do you not lead? Is it because you are too immersed in the pleasures of your position, wealth and power, to take your responsibilities seriously? You have money and you have power; you are good to go.

Do you not realize that the American people can see what you are doing? You are collaborating with your fellow legislatures to maintain the status quo, so that one in nine children goes to bed hungry at night. How do you manage to sleep, knowing you are solely responsible? 

I say you are solely responsible, because only you can adjust your stance; only you can effect change. Instead of using your position to gain more money and power, why are you not representing the American people by fighting for Social Security? Instead, you are trying to dismantle it. How is it possible you feel no remorse for having borrowed billions of dollars, from the most vulnerable people on earth, money you have no intent to repay?

I am calling you out. You are stealing from the elderly and the poor, and I demand an explanation. As your constituent, I demand a written response to my question: Why was money borrowed from Social Security, and not returned? 

https://www.govtrack.us/congress/members/CA

Why have you forsaken the poor and the elderly in this country? They are people too.

You are unclear on the concept of what it is to lead a nation: Folks are going to bed, starving, tonight, and you are not. That is unacceptable. Figure it out or move on down the road. It's that simple.

Resolutely yours,

Mark O’Neill

More like it

Tobias

Tobias

Tobias traveled across the Atlantic Ocean from Switzerland, specifically to meet HeadSodBuster after seeing the segment about HappyDayFarms on the television special, “Vice.” HeadSodBuster stops in at Area 101, once a week, for five minutes-max.

HSB happened to be in this exact venue, for his once-a-week visit, when in sallied Tobias, one day last September, seeking him out. How cosmic is that? Tobias was ready for action-he was ready for danger; Not only that he had a California ID and a 215 card as well. The lad had done his homework.

No problem, right? Yes, people do seek jobs and they even seek them from HappyDay Farms. We just don’t hire them because we are a family operation. Oh, hey, sure we need a hand at key points along the way, so we make a phone call here, and place a text there, but there have been no full-time, paid hands here for more than just a minute or two.

HeadSodBuster and BossLady made it clear at some point this past summer, that the last day of market in the ‘Ville was September 30, and that the CSA would be shutting down around the same time as well. There would be no one employed on-farm, full-time, once our two school interns returned to their respective institutions of learning, in early September. End of discussion.

Let’s back the truck up for a moment here, and get some background:

We live in rugged terrain, where there is as much “flat” territory, as you would have found on Mae West. The summers are blisteringly hot and the winters are savagely cold, because we live on an exposed, south-west-facing slope. That’s the direction from which those pineapple express storms, come barreling into our ridge.

Folks come here to work and they go, but they are never the same. You have to really want to be here, to be genuinely happy; there is no faking it. The remoteness, the lack of social contact, the challenging weather and the inexorable workload, all combine to grind one down.

Of all the non-family folks who have spent time here at HappyDay Farms, no one has ever indicated through actions, words and attitude, more clearly, that he was thrilled to be here, than Tobias.

Born in this country, but brought up in Switzerland, Tobias came to HappyDay Farms in the most unusual manner possible, as I described above, and one that defies comparison. I would call it serendipitous, because of timing, but there was nothing chance about Tobias’ arrival on-farm: He set out from Switzerland to find us, after having seen the segment on “Vice.”

[Disclaimer Alert: I have never seen the segment, just as I have seen almost none of HeadSodBuster’s epic film sessions, of which I am inordinately proud. Interminably long story-short: I can’t process what is being said.]

Just to clarify, Tobias has spent time, off and on, in the United States since he was a kid, so it wasn’t as though he were coming here like my non-English-speaking grandfather did from Germany, as a fourteen-year-old,. 

Tobias is fluent in English, French and Swiss German and communicates flawlessly, in a most engaging manner. Like HeadSodBuster, he is always smiling, a feature which endears him to us all. His favorite expression, I know you will be astonished to find out is, “Great success!”

Tobias did not set out for California just to work on a cannabis farm, he set out to work at HappyDay Farms. Nothing wrong with that, right? Don’t folks travel across an ocean every day, to try and find employment at a specific business?

The fact is we don’t normally hire folks, we were stopping the farmers markets and CSA In September and we were essentially shutting down the farm for the winter. Somehow, Tobias surmounted the odds.

The thing is, if you see him striding up the long driveway towards the POC (Palace of Chickens), laden down with clippings from brassicas, having just finished giving the rabbits fresh bedding beneath their condos, and he’s perspiring profusely, he will still be “working on a weed farm.”

This is Tobias’ standard response, accompanied by a smile as wide as the Rhine River, which happens to begin in the Swiss canton of Graubunden, in the southeastern Swiss Alps, when asked the question, “Is everything all right?” "Are you kidding?" he will respond. "I work on a weed farm!" Yes, Tobias is that happy to be here.

It matters not how miserable or monotonous a task is, the dude does not get salty. I gotta say, I could get used to that kind of energy. Down at the Emerald Cup this weekend, he spent the vast majority of both Saturday and Sunday, working in the co-op booth, right next door, so I was able to make use of his vast wealth of knowledge.

I, who have been immersed in the culture for going on 35 years, can’t tell Barry White, singer, songwriter, and composer, from Berry White, a cross of Blue Berry and White Widow, nine times out of ten.

Tobias is a rock star, having assimilated vast quantities of pertinent information, covering almost every conceivable aspect of the gentle giant of herbs. What he does not know, he is attempting to learn from HeadSodBuster, BossLady, and SmallBoy, who are the on-site geneticists.

I still think-and communicate-in terms of Sativa and Indica, of which I am a fan of the former. Tobias thinks in terms of terps, cannabinoids and genetics, of which he knows much. Not only does he store the information in his head, he is a master at conveying it to his listeners.

He has an engaging personality, and you have only to listen to the music of his words, to feel yourself wanting to hear what he has to say. I watched it all weekend, beaming as though I had some sort of hand in the whole cosmic mess.

All I did was plunk down $67.00 a month, beginning when I was 23 years old, to buy the 20 acres in the first place. I am still baffled because I was not adventurous enough to go to the Seven/Eleven on the corner by myself, let alone buy a piece of land.

Tobias has crossed an ocean, however, specifically to be here, and we are glad he did. He has returned home for the Holidays, but will be back before we begin to break ground in the spring of 2017.

If he were standing here, he would say, “Great success!”