One reads that Urb’s THCO Caviar is made “with premium hand-trimmed CBG flower infused with THCO distillate and minor cannabinoids.” If so, they should really stop because the stuff is disappointing at best. One bowl won’t get you high, neither will two bowls, and neither will three. Four will do it, by which time your throat is scorched. The high’s a good one but fades after an hour or so. Buy seven grams and in a few days everything’s gone. That much should last a month. Admittedly you do get an interesting sort of hybrid experience: the frustration and itchy throat of street crap bought in one’s youth, the decent high of worthwhile cannabis. The package might be acceptable if that high didn’t come and go so quickly. But boy, it does.
At least the product’s something to see. Fat, minty cloves of the stuff sit inside a glass bulb that screws into a plastic base, with the base wrapped by a lively label that fades from violet to patches of lavender. The colors have the psychedelic air apparently required by the cannabis market, but without the all-out, inane funkiness that has long made buying pot gear such an exercise in embarrassment. See the thing sitting on the shelf and you experience a science fiction moment, since here’s marijuana sold with all the trappings of commercial legality, and the trappings have mutated a bit to suit the newcomer. (Glass bulbs—other products don’t come in glass bulbs, do they?)
That s.f. moment is what I sought when visiting the pot store. I’m down from Canada to stay in my hometown, and on similar trips I’ve had to go without. Now I could walk into a store and treat myself here in the United States. Quel piquant experience, but what I found was more striking for its America-versus-Canada vibe. All that American flash and sizzle, that hustle and flamboyance, and yet you trade your money for a dud. In Canada the stuff comes in dowdy envelopes and humble little jars. The government maintains a list of forbidden words that must stay out of product names, the idea being to avoid juvenile appeal. In Quebec, where I live, you can’t even go to a regular store. Pot stores are run by the government, with the product kept in cupboards behind the counter. But when you take it home, you get high with no scorching, no puzzled wait for an effect, and no quick goodbye as the effect disappears. Surely there are some American pot products of that nature. But I don’t plan to keep looking.
