(Laughing Buddha Page 5 of 6)
As I'm leaving, I meet a 19-year-old kid from Montana who introduces himself as Keith, but says, "Everybody calls me Frog." Frog is wearing a " who farted ?" T-shirt and snowboarder goggles even though it is not snowing. We talk about the competition entries, discussing our favorites and how we might vote. I am done smoking pot for the day, but when he offers me a taste of a hard-to-find entry called AK-47 , I acquiesce. There are four basic types of weed: happy, sleepy, scary, and munchie. AK-47 is the last variety. I say goodbye to Frog shortly after 2 a.m. , and that's when the deep, insatiable hunger kicks in. I crave nachos. I need Moon Pies. As I scour the city in search of an open restaurant or market, I encounter one shuttered shop after another. Amsterdam is not a 24-hour city like New York and most places close by 10 p.m . I return to my hostel and head for the vending machine. It's broken--a handwritten "out of order" sign is taped over the coin slot. I can see the beautiful candy just out of reach behind the tempered glass, calling to me. Must. Have. Candy. I begin rocking the machine, attempting to jar a Snickers bar from its coiled grip, but it is not to be. "Damn you!" I scream at the cruel metal beast. The young clerk at the reception desk eyes me with disdain. I give her the finger and go to bed.
I am heading into my 50th hour without sleep and desperately need rest. As I lie in my bunk, the familiar din of bongo drums is momentarily drowned out by a series of guttural shrieks emanating from the bathroom. My roommate Lori is in the shower having sex with a Finnish guy she met at a club that night. Their tryst ends just before dawn, and I hope to finally get some sleep. The moment I drift off, I am jolted back to consciousness by a chorus of screeching chimpanzees and howler monkeys. In the morning, I force down a bowl of lukewarm gruel. There are approximately 12 hours until the Cup voting booths close and I still have 20 entries to sample. I frenetically toke my way through Hawaiian Snow , Yumbolt , Pot of Gold , Biddy Early , and Euforia . This pace, however, does not bode well. I haven't slept in 72 hours and am close to a meltdown. I decide to take a break and do some souvenir shopping in the touristy area between Prins Hendrikkade and Centraal Station. I buy two pairs of tiny Dutch wooden shoes because I think my cat will look funny in them.
Mentally and physically exhausted, with several entries still to go and only a few hours until the polls close, I need an aggressive strategy. Making my way across town to the Kashmir Lounge, I sit at a long table with the remaining Cannabis Cup submissions fanned out before me. I lay out 6 overlapping rolling papers, licking the edges so they form a single sheet, and roll a thumb-sized joint with bits from all the remaining strains: A dash of White Rhino . A pinch of Killer Bud . A sprinkle of Arabica Hash , and so on. In my sleep-deprived stupor, it makes perfect sense. I finish rolling the green monster and fire it up. As the smoke tsunami washes through my lungs, I brace myself for the inevitable psychedelic shock wave. And I wait. Nothing happens. Have I smoked so much pot that my body has developed a natural immunity to it? Or will it creep up on me later, when I least expect it?