One of the most oft-explored weed stereotypes deals with the inescapable small talk that comes with committing the USA's favorite non-violent, increasingly-legal crime.
"What do you mean?" balks a utilitarian. "You show up. You spit out an amount and some dollars. And you leave."
Ah! Anyone who has ever copped knows that patrons are forced -- between each of those seemingly innocuous phases -- to free improv converse with black market clerks with whom they likely have little in common with besides, well, dope.
Some would argue this situation is one of the foremost reasons decriminalization and/or legalization need(s) to happen, like, yesterday. But County Grind advocates a more humanistic approach to your purchase of marijuana.
Don't you think its time you started considering your dealer and their chit-chat as something more than a necessary hurdle to overcome in order to obtain that which you most desire? Haven't you ever stopped to wonder, "Hey! I wonder what kind of music my pot dealer loves?"
As you approach the room at the end of the hall, the first novel stimulus you encounter comes via your nostrils. Your olfactory system processes the following cornucopia of sordid delight: Weed, body odor, and body odor that smells like weed. You traverse down a hallway crowded with party garbage, fixed gear bicycles, signs advertising vegan potlucks, and a single round table supporting a fairly large mound of dry, brown, vaporized marijuana. This is definitely the right dorm. You knock on the door of the room number you've been instructed to seek out, but it takes a few minutes before anyone notices.
And that's because all of the mooks inside have tattooed themselves to the smoking sofa positioned in front of a fairly super-sized home entertainment system pumping out lugubrious plumes of thick-as-fuck stoner metal. Maybe it's Bongzilla's Amerijuanican. Or perhaps the iPod has queued up the entirety of Dopesmoker, the hour-long reefer homage by perennial potheads, Sleep. There's even a chance that one of the droopy-eyed ex-skater video gamers has some of her pops' old Sabbath records.
But no matter the medium, the meat of the matter remains honoring the Sweet Leaf with music that is as slow, lumbering, and fucking heavy as you feel after taking a few gargantuan rips off the gravity bong. Stoner metal aims to represent the weight of actual stones tied to your torso pulling you down into the depths until you are lower than low, in the best way possible.
When it comes to THC, the main difference between stoner metal and rap is that while the former is almost exclusively concerned with consumption, the latter is more often than not preoccupied with the act of slanging. And that's why you can be sure your boy on the corner in the white-tee and baggy pants isn't listening to the new High on Fire record.
More likely than not, the smartphone he shares with his "co-workers" is loaded with the latest Gucci Mane, an A$AP Mob mixtape, and whatever other trap star anthems have dropped on Datpiff.com that week.
Sure, there are other controlled substances in his life. He probably also deals blowcaine (a.k.a. benzoylmethylecgonine). And in 2014, hood rats are more inclined to pop a Molly and rhyme about LSD than ever before. But you can bet a fat bag of shake that at the end of a hard day hustlin', the corner boy longs for ol' reliable: a fatty boom batty and some gritty hip-hop about fatty boom batties. Shit, odds are he probably learned how to roll a blunt from Redman's classic joint about joints, "How to Roll a Blunt."