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I love cannabis. Let’s just start right there. I adore it. It’s a source of fun, joy, pain relief, multifaceted healing, a sense of universal oneness, and deeply mind-blowing sexy good times.

I also have a Personal Theory Of Cannabis Spirituality that just as Catholics have God (Father in charge), Jesus (Son who gets shit done), and the Holy Ghost (which I guess is everyone’s personal feeling of Glory Hallelujah), we of the Green Faith have an analogous Holy Trinity of the Earth (Mama Gaia – who’s really in charge), Cannabis (Daughter who gets shit done), and a Holy Ghost of fun, joy, pain relief, multifaceted healing, a sense of universal oneness, and deeply mind-blowing sexy good times.

Which is all to say that, as I review the roster of various pot strains being grown these days, I cannot help but note that many of them do not bear names reflecting any form or experience of the Smoky Ladies of Love and Delight. Instead, many of them are, to put it… bluntly, names of dudeship and violence.

Honestly, with all the political nastiness and #metoo seriousness going on right now, I’m a little reluctant to vent my feminist spleen over this particular issue. But I gotta say, it just feels wrong.

Think about it. The cannabis all-star lineup includes monikers like Purple Gangsta, Sour Diesel, Green Crack, Granddaddy Purple, Trainwreck, Death Star, and Alaskan Thunderfuck – all clearly chosen by guys who’ve ripped a B or three in their day. I get the sense that they’re in a (slow moving) contest to come up with names which most effectively reflect an experience of complete and total puddle-under-the-couch baked potato-ness.

Honestly, with all the political nastiness and #metoo seriousness going on right now, I’m a little reluctant to vent my feminist spleen over this particular issue. But I gotta say, it just feels wrong. These are lady herbs; beautiful, luscious, strong, independent, extremely potent, and fully mature women. Sure, they can have you eating an entire can of cake frosting if you’re not careful, but they can also bestow spiritual insight, ease suffering, help you achieve supergalactic orgasms, and, in all truth, save your life.

Is it too much to ask that they bear names which honor and reflect their immense capacities? Why not name a tall, sparkly sativa “CJ Cregg” after Allison Janney’s whip-smart, fast-talking press secretary on The West Wing? How about calling a brilliant, bodacious, all-consuming indica “Beyoncé,” because, of course, she is brilliant, bodacious, and totally all-consuming. A hybrid plant with deeply mystical powers could be the namesake of anyone from a feisty animated princess like Moana to the prize-winning poet laureate of natural wonder Mary Oliver. Ruth Bader Ginsburg definitely deserves her own strain.

We don’t have to get too precious about it, but as we’re working to honor and promote the contributions of women in all areas of modern life, the Smoky Ladies should also get the recognition — and names — they deserve.

 

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