In Praise of New York City’s Stoner-Friendly Pot-Delivery Services

Photo: David Ramos/Getty Images

In L.A., when I wanted weed, I would go to my favorite medical-marijuana dispensary in Beverly Hills. It was a 45-minute drive from my sublet, if there wasn’t traffic. I don’t want to say how long it took when there was, but suffice it to say I once spent about three hours in my car to score an eighth of Skywalker.

Yes, taking a trip to the dispensary is like going to Willy Wonka’s factory. You can buy any sort of smoking accessory imaginable, edible treats that look like they were baked by a super-stoned Dominique Ansel, and THC-laced tinctures, lubes, lip balms, whatever. But I take little pleasure in this cavern of THC treasures. Instead, I find the experience soulless. I’m resentful that I had to put on pants, get in the car, and put “get weed” between “go to Trader Joe’s” and “get dry cleaning” on my list of errands.

In New York, though, obtaining weed is a little more in tune with a stoner’s m.o. (superb high, little movement required). My first delivery service was a one-man operation; I call him Thirsty because he was the neediest dealer on the planet. He was the only person besides my mother who would text me before 10 a.m. on a Sunday with hard sales pitches like, “My dog needs to go to the dermatologist, do you think you want to buy some grn?” (His dog, who sometimes came with him on deliveries, was really cute, though.) Then there was a service that only sent crusty anarchist gutter-punk bike messengers who protested using deodorant in the summer. They could never explain the strains, which were all overpriced because they were “imported from Portland.” Next, a mysterious coven of female dealers who would only deliver to other women, but they kept changing their number and eventually I lost track of them.

My latest service is literally staffed by models. I’ll text them a casual, “Wanna hang?” and they’ll dispatch someone drop-dead gorgeous — like the biracial French model with a mustache who arrived on a longboard with a sleek silver case full of weed. Once the dream of legalization comes true, it’ll be “Uber of weed” this and “As many weed shops as there are Starbucks” that. I suppose that will have its appeal, too, but I’ll miss the ability to get both something to smoke and a charming model to smoke it with without ever having to get off my couch.  

In Praise of New York’s Pot-Delivery Services