When 420 Was Still Fun | Publisher’s Note
There was a time when 420 felt dangerous and alive in the best possible way.
Not illegal-dangerous. Not reckless. Just electric. I felt like I was part of something that hadn’t yet been homogenized and had some real life to it.
Usually when you look back on moments in time there’s a bit of cringe. The cringe comes from finally understanding what you were ignorant about in the early stages of growth. In this strange case, this cultural uprising of cannabis lovers, it’s cringe in reverse. You can almost taste the embarrassment of what is now considered the “better way.” Honestly, I’m shocked and appalled by the obvious unnecessary pushback that current times has shown to cannabis. Yes, we are moving forward on a grand scale, but in what direction?
Those of us who were in this space from the beginning loved what we were doing. We were building something with our hands and our lungs and our reputations. We had fun. Now it’s rare to see the smiles unless it’s break-time around the dispensary in the back alley or if someone needs money from you in order to stay afloat.
Back then you walked into a dispensary and it felt like stepping into a workshop more than a storefront. A gathering place of sorts. You talked to people who actually grew the plant. You smelled jars that had personality. You didn’t need a lab report to tell you whether something had soul, you could feel it. You could break it apart and it talked back. Sometimes it even shouted at you through the jar.
Now we have numbers. Big ones. Aggressive ones. Percentages screaming from glossy, barely sealed plastic bags. Sometimes I feel like I’m walking through a carnival when I’m in a dispensary. All of these desperate barkers shouting figures at me, waving laminated proof, trying to win my attention with decimals. I just want good weed man…
Somewhere in the middle of all that, 420 became scheduled. Sponsored. Strategized.
I remember when it wasn’t a marketing quarter. It was a day when people who had been whispering for years finally stood upright. Parking lots full of strangers who weren’t strangers for long. 420 was a litmus test. Either you knew to show up at that time with some fire, or you didn’t. IYKYK.
Nobody was asking for a barcode. No scanning. No dashboards. It was simply, relief. I’d catch myself with that small, defiant grin and know deep inside that I was happy for us. Happy that we made it.
Now? Now it feels heavier. Doesn’t it?
Regulations stacked on regulations stacked on more regulations. Markets flooded and then starved. Operators clinging to margins and hope. Patients squinting at labels that promise more than they deliver. Everyone is talking about surviving. Few are talking about why we started.
Don’t get it twisted. This is not the death of weed. This is not my dramatic last stand before falling on a sword.
It’s a reckoning.
When things get tight, when the noise dies down and the easy money leaves the room, what’s left is the truth. The people who care. The ones who obsess over details when nobody’s watching. The brands that don’t hide behind inflated numbers or shiny bags. The patients who still depend on this plant in quiet, unglamorous ways that don’t make it onto Instagram or Facebook feeds.
It’s Fire Season. Fire reveals structure. Weak beams buckle. Solid ones hold. It’s uncomfortable. It’s necessary. It’s happening right now and it’s all around us. Just open your eyes and ears.
Lit Up Cannabis stepped into this edition as cover sponsor because they’re betting on that idea. That quality still matters. That craft still matters. That showing up in the middle of a correction says more than showing up during a boom. But this isn’t a victory lap for any one brand.
Oklahoma cannabis is standing in the wind, deciding what it wants to be when it grows up.
420 may not feel like it did when everything was new. That’s fine. Nothing worth building stays in its honeymoon phase forever. The question isn’t whether it feels the same. The question is whether it still means something.
I think it does. I’m going to go with my gut. The pendulum will swing and all will flush out in the end. Beneath the noise. Beneath the fatigue. Beneath the endless debates about percentages and pricing, there’s still that same pulse. Quieter now. Older. Maybe a little wiser.
If you’re reading this, you probably feel it too.
Welcome to Fire Season.
