Wrecked at Red Rocks

Bobby gets slightly stupid at the 4/20 concert in Colorado.

For most stoners, April 20 is a day devoted to getting baked and celebrating pot culture. For me, however, it’s the busiest day of the year—especially this year, since I spent the high holiday running myself ragged at our U.S. Cannabis Cup expo in Denver. By 6 p.m., I was totally stressed and exhausted. Fortunately, I had predicted as much, and so I’d made arrangements with a new pot tourism company called Colorado Green Tours to have a limo transport me, along with some associates, to the Red Rocks Amphitheater for the VIP concert, where I was scheduled to present Cypress Hill and Slightly Stoopid with their respective Doobie Awards onstage.

But after a disagreement with the driver about us blazing in the back (which we eventually won), I was even more stressed than before. To cope with this aggravation—and the anxiety of facing over 10,000 people onstage—I made an admittedly poor decision: I accepted a glass of Johnny Walker Blue from my pal Nico Escondido.

There are two reasons I never drink whiskey. Reason number one: the smell. Ever since I puked my guts up after a Jack Daniels bender at the end of high school, even a slight whiff of whiskey sends waves of nausea throughout my body. At this particular moment, however, my gag reflex seemed to have shut itself off, and ol’ Johnny Blue felt like just what the doctor ordered. I started to relax, and my confidence began to build.

Which brings me to the second reason I never drink whiskey: You know that perfect level of buzz, when you’re drunk enough to discard your inhibitions and be the life of the party, but not so drunk that you get sloppy and make an ass of yourself? Well, I blew right past that level and proceeded full speed into Asstown.

I was slated to take the stage between the end of Slightly Stoopid’s set and their encore. When the time came, Matt from Silverback Music approached me, hesitant to send me out.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Are you going to be able to do this?”

“Absolutely,” I replied, liquid courage in full effect. “I’m raring to go.”

Thankfully, I wasn’t wrong—and as I strode onto the stage and looked out at the immense crowd before me, I couldn’t have felt more like a rock star.

“Stoners of America, let me hear you!” I shouted, and the crowd roared back in return. “I’m here because you guys made this possible—it’s because of Colorado that something like this is possible. Before long, the states will fall like dominoes and pot smokers in this country will finally be free, once and for all!

“I have the honor of being onstage tonight to present two awards,” I continued. “The first, for Pot Song of the Year, goes to Cypress Hill and Rusko for ‘Roll It, Light It!’”
Next, I brought out a special guest to present the award to Slightly Stoopid—their biggest fan, my wife April.

“The award for Best Reggae Artist of the Year goes to Slightly Stoopid!” she announced. “Happy 4/20, Denver!”

It was an incredible moment … and pretty much the last thing I remember from that night. As often happens in life, that dizzying personal pinnacle was followed by an equally catastrophic crash. I awoke the next morning in bed—not mine, but my buddy Ben’s. Apparently, upon returning to the hotel, I’d gotten into a spat with April and gone to Ben’s room to cool down, then proceeded to accidentally lock him out of his room, drop a log in his toilet, take off my pants and fall asleep in his bed. Sorry about all that, Ben … and damn you, Johnny Walker! From now on, I’m sticking to what I know and love: beer and weed.

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