There's No Matcha For Défoncé's Perfect High
I managed to survive the chaos of Hollywood with a little bit of help from Défoncé.
The hardest part about cannabis journalism is being stoned all the time. Having helmed Merry Jane’s product column for close to a year now, a large portion of my time is spent trying every weed product you could possibly imagine. Powdered THC that dissolves immediately in any drink, foldable latex bongs, space bars, low-dose breath strips, high-dose cotton candy, medicated trail mix—you name it, I’ve tried it.
While I’m not here to complain as this certainly constitutes the dream gig of every stoner ever, I’m exhausted.
Concentrates can definitely fuck up a day, but edibles are the worst. Indica, sativa, espresso beans, whatever––if I'm day tripping, I’m asleep by 3pm. However, the day I dedicated to Défoncé's Matcha Chocolate Bar allowed me some new perspective. What started as shopping for a bikini quickly became the purchase of stripper heels with an existential twist. By the end of the day, I realized the dried flower trapped in the shoe’s plastic heel was a metaphor for my existence, and that not every edible will turn you into a tired puddle of munchies.
Full disclosure: I woke up in a good mood instead of a bad one. Though I was supposed to locate a bikini for the next day’s impromptu sound bath at Soho House’s Malibu outlet, I only had, like, a hundred dollars in my bank account. But the sun was shining and it was warm. Fuck it, I thought, money comes and goes.
“The two 5mg triangles melted in decadence, a perfect hybrid between white chocolate and a leading trend du jour, matcha.”
While waiting in the drive-thru line at Starbucks, I ate a couple pieces of the matcha-flavored chocolate. LA’s excuse for radio stations alternated between two Drake songs, Cardi B, and a bunch of other hits that are neither old enough to be ironic nor new enough to be in a Hot 40 rotation. The quilted pattern of this divine little edible soothed the rage I experienced as “Sorry Miss Jackson” came on for the second time in an hour. Clearly the work of an upscale chocolatier, the two 5mg triangles melted in decadence, a perfect hybrid between white chocolate and a leading trend du jour, matcha.
Out the window, Starbucks advertised matcha lattes. Like cold brew, coconut milk, and nitro, a corporate presence means it’s blown the fuck up. For the sake of clarity, matcha is the finely ground powder of specifically grown and processed green tea leaves, which contain theanine and caffeine, producing a jolt of energy. I received my free Venti ice water, like a broke bitch would. Hair full of coconut oil and wearing a spandex ensemble, I decided to go to the one place I knew everyone would also look like an off-duty stripper: Hollywood Boulevard.
“Instead of the jitters and anxiety I’ve confronted with said canna-caffeinated selections, the matcha offered a sense of balance.”
I’ve tried a number of products where THC is paired with coffee, but the matcha combo is far superior. Instead of the jitters and anxiety I’ve confronted with said canna-caffeinated selections, the matcha offered a sense of balance. Bouncing in and out of a few stores that specialized in “flirty dancewear,” I was able to navigate the high-stress onslaught of slow tourists, fast tweakers, and all the other horny degenerates armed with a million pickup lines and very few teeth.
Walking over the names of hundreds of people who were at one time very famous and now no one will ever think of again, I found myself in Maya Shoes, a store which specializes in stripper heels and was clearly struggling despite the signed autographs from porn stars that filled the spots on the walls that weren’t mirrored.
It was there I saw myself in the shape of a shoe made out of purple snakeskin, dried flowers, and plastic. Part hippy, part ho, the flowers trapped in the plastic were a metaphor for me, the stoned, slutty empress of nature AND Hollywood Blvd. The $50 price tag was a deterrent, however, so I left. Outside, in front of the Chinese Theatre, I remained calm as a dude in ripped jeans tried to sell me those bootleg Adam Selman cat eye shades that Instagram can’t stop wearing. For once, I enjoyed the chaos.
In the matcha chocolate bar, Défoncé somehow managed to deliver the excitement of a high-dose edible without certain drawbacks like paranoia, insatiable munchies, and unwanted tiredness. A normal edible would have sent me home at this point. Instead, I turned around, beelined back to the mirrored cave of self-realization that is Maya Shoes, and spent my last fifty dollars.