It was the day after the day a racist sexual predator was elected president. White nationalists were rejoicing, attacks on minorities were spiking, and Leonard Cohen was dead. My own state vacillated between numbness, dread, and fury, driven by what I can best describe as itchy blood. I was clearly alive, but everything felt wrong, on all levels: macro, micro, atomic.
Still, worlds turn and deadlines loom, and while mulling topics for a post-Trump column, I recalled an e-mail I’d received earlier this year from someone I’d never met who’d seen my photograph in connection with my weed book. Her forever-memorable opening: “I would love to have some weed only with you and a great kiss by me since I am the queen kisser. You are my type so much. I am Eritrean lived in Seattle for over 26 years. I am fifty years old but I look forty. Never experienced smoking weed please let me do it with you.”
Dazzled by her chutzpah, I replied immediately, and we e-mailed for a while. (Key exchange: “I’m gay and married!” “That’s great!”) And late last week, I drove to pick up the queen kisser at her home, after which we got high and went to Red Robin.
