I read my friend the first line of Hunter Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: “We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.”
“Perfect,” she said. “Only we’re somewhere on the edge of the Rockies and our drugs are Synthroid and hormone replacement.”
I was heading to Denver to cover the Cannabis Cup last year, and my friend, Tina, was my 300-pound Samoan attorney. Actually, she’s small, a dynamo who lets no one get in her way when she’s creating Victorian homes, silk gardens, or erotic collages.
She was also my driver, as I was dealing with chronic vertigo that made it risky to drive. High Times, which sponsored the Cannabis Cup, during which they’d present awards for the year’s best marijuana strains and edibles, was expecting 20,000 to attend the festival. There was no parking at the site, except for VIP’s, and no disability parking, I’d been told by the media spokesman. But he said the press could enter the Denver Mart through the VIP doors, which would have shorter lines.
I guided Tina past the Denver Mart, where I saw a sign, “Parking Lot B—VIP Parking.”
“Turn here!” I said. A man in a jumpsuit was guarding the entrance, which had a chain in front of it. I opened the window and called, “We’re press.”
He looked puzzled. “Press?”