Nor was I under the influence when I proposed on Sunday to Jamie McCourt, who hopes to get $487,000 a month in support from Dodgers owner and estranged husband Frank. I simply had to pour out my heart, and I'm still hoping to hear from Ms. McCourt.
That meant I could go to any dispensary for my medicine, simple as that. But in Los Angeles, you can get light-headed trying to decide where to go.
There's the Unique Vapor Lounge in Tujunga, Green Easy in Mid-City, Westside Medical on Wilshire, and on and on. Some places have free delivery. Some are open all night. The buds go by names like Trainwreck, Purple Voodoo, Mango Og and Purple LA Confidential.
Don't like to smoke? No problem. You can get your medicine in brownies, crackers and even tortilla chips.
Nobody knows how many dispensaries there are in L.A., but estimates run as high as 1,000. Fourteen states allow medical marijuana, but no other place in the nation has lost control the way we have here in the City of Angels, where hundreds of outlets were allowed to open during a ban while City Council members fiddled.
Now the city attorney promises a crackdown, arguing that there has to be a whole lot of recreational use under the guise of medical need. So, I figured, I better shop fast.
I'm actually not a user. Yeah, my back aches, but so far I haven't turned to herbal remedies. I know, though, that there are lots of people with far more serious medical problems, and if marijuana gives them the best relief, good for them.
So why did I bother to get a prescription -- excuse me, I mean a recommendation? As we get closer to a showdown, I wanted to know what it's like out there.
First stop: Hollyweed. The name got me.
On my way into a small, two-story building, I noticed a separate dispensary on the ground floor, with Hollyweed upstairs. Yes. Two outlets at the same address.
I knocked on the locked door of Hollyweed and a no-nonsense voice instructed me to slide my driver's license and marijuana recommendation through the mail slot. It was kind of creepy. Would I ever see my license again? Was a DEA agent inside making a copy? I was getting paranoid and I hadn't even had a puff.
A few minutes later, a guard opened sesame. Inside, a 20-year-old, dreadlocked gent named Charlie greeted me. He wore a T-shirt that said "Marijuana Cures Racism," and he had me sign forms spelling out the terms of my acceptance into a nonprofit collective run by members for the benefit of patients. Membership does have its rewards.
Then he unlocked another door and took me into a small room with jars of buds on display, just like in a candy shop. Charlie recommended a strain called Indica, which he called a good muscle relaxant for back pain. I opted for something called Chunky Munky and found myself craving the ice cream without even lighting up. He weighed a gram and put it into a prescription bottle, like it was Vicodin, and I handed him a $20 "donation."
Was this really happening?
It'd make more sense, I told Charlie, to completely legalize, regulate and tax marijuana rather than have this crazy charade we've got now in Los Angeles. Meanwhile, billions have been spent on a drug war that has transferred wealth to drug cartels and domestic gangs, filling up the morgues in the process.
"The emperor has no clothes," Charlie agreed.
Councilman Ed Reyes told me he believes that despite some legitimate need, the majority of "patients" are scammers. But it's a murky area. Once you've said it's legal for people in pain, how do you determine whose pain is real?