By OG Strain
The Plug’s Pages Magazine

I’ve lived on both sides of the fence.

I’ve been the bar guy.
And now I’m firmly, proudly, unapologetically the cannabis guy.

And after years of hanging with both crowds, I can say this with my full chest:
who you choose to get intoxicated with will tell you everything about the kind of people you’re surrounding yourself with—and, honestly, the kind of person you are.

Let’s start with the bar scene.

Life in the Bar: Loud, Sloppy, and One Bad Song Away from Violence

Bars are loud.
Not fun-loud.
Annoying-loud.

Drunk people don’t talk to you—they talk at you. And half the time, they don’t even finish a sentence before starting another one that somehow makes even less sense than the first.

And let’s talk about how drunk people “show love.”

They touch you.
A lot.

Hands on shoulders.
Hands on arms.
Faces way too close to your face.

Personal space? Never heard of her.

And the wild part? That “love” can flip into anger or violence faster than a light switch. I’ve watched best friends—people who claim they’d die for each other—end the night in full-on fistfights over something neither of them can remember by morning.

That’s not bonding.
That’s Russian roulette with emotions.

And if someone gets sick in a bar? Forget compassion. I’ve seen people puking while everyone else points, laughs, says “eww,” and runs the opposite direction like empathy is contagious.

Real classy.

Enter Cannabis Culture: Same High, Completely Different Vibe

Now let’s talk about cannabis users.

First thing you’ll notice?
Nobody’s yelling.

People are relaxed. Conversations actually make sense. And instead of invading your personal space, most stoners respect it like it’s sacred ground.

When cannabis users show love, it looks different.

They offer you a hit.
They share what they have.
They check in on you.

I saw this firsthand at a Cannabis Cup.

There was a girl who clearly had too much—maybe an edible contest, maybe just underestimated the dose. Instead of laughing at her or abandoning her, a group of people gently walked her over to a couch, sat her down, and made sure she was okay.

Let me say that again:
Strangers stopped what they were doing to take care of someone they didn’t even know.

That would never happen in a bar.

And here’s another moment that stuck with me: I met a woman at the Cup for the first time ever, and she noticed I had ketchup on my chin. Now, as someone who records content and is often on camera, that matters. Instead of laughing quietly like a drunk would, she helped me fix it.

That’s cannabis culture.

“But Stoners Get Moody Sometimes…”

Sure—we do.

But here’s the difference: when cannabis people argue, it’s usually because they’re passionate. About the plant. About their work. About their craft.

Not because they’re blackout drunk and woke up with a bruised eye wondering, “Who did I fight last night?”

Alcohol leaves you sick, dehydrated, anxious, and sometimes still drunk the next morning. And some people’s solution to that?

“Just keep drinking.”

That’s not a lifestyle.
That’s a warning label.

Cannabis, on the other hand, has historically been the substance of hippies, creatives, healers, and peace-loving people. It mellows you out. It opens conversations. It makes people kinder—not meaner.

The Company You Choose Is the Life You Choose

Now let me be clear: I’m not saying every cannabis user is perfect. Every industry has ego, greed, and a few straight-up villains.

But if I’m being honest?
Ninety percent of the people I’ve met through cannabis feel like family.
The kind of people I’d trust.
The kind I’d give the shirt off my back for.

I’m also not attacking casual drinkers. Have a beer. Have a glass of wine. Get drunk once in a while if that’s your thing.

But the hardcore bar crowd?
The every-night drinkers?
The people whose personalities dissolve the moment alcohol hits?

Those are the ones I’m warning you about.

You can drink, or you can smoke—but the crowd you attract will follow that choice. And that reflection? It’s real.

Me?
I’ll choose cannabis.
I’ll choose peace.
I’ll choose people who look out for each other.

Every time.

I’ve got over a decade of experience growing cannabis — indoor, outdoor, trial-and-error, learn-it-the-hard-way experience. I’ve used the expensive stuff. The fancy bottles. The “trust us, bro” nutrients with names like Tiger Bloom and Big This and Mega That. Back in the day, Fox Farm was king, and I ran their whole lineup like a proud little scientist.

But here’s the truth nobody in a hydro shop ever told me:

The best fertilizer I ever used in my entire life didn’t come in a bottle.

It came in a bucket.

And it smelled like regret.

This story goes all the way back to the 1990s — high school me, no grow books, no YouTube, no forums, no idea what I was doing. Just curiosity, time, and questionable decision-making.

One afternoon I was fishing the pond behind my house and caught about half a bucket of sunfish. I planned to bring them home and fillet them… until I realized that was a lot of work for not a lot of meat. Motivation gone.

On the walk back, I remembered a fenced-in, overgrown wooded area where I had already been thinking about growing my first weed plant. So I did what any teenage genius would do: I went home, grabbed a shovel, and headed back with the bucket of fish.

I picked a spot.
I dug a hole.
And I dumped roughly 30 whole sunfish — not gutted, not cleaned, not even apologized to — straight into the ground.

Then I buried them.

That was it.

No potting soil.
No amendments.
No nutrients.
No plan.

This was late October, maybe even November. I didn’t touch that spot again all winter.

Fast forward to spring.

I go back out to plant seeds and immediately realize I don’t even need to remember where I buried the fish — because the spot was glowing like radioactive turf. The grass there was aggressively green. Healthier. Taller. Brighter than everything around it.

Nature left me a Post-it note.

I planted seeds right on top of that spot and didn’t do a damn thing else the entire season. No feeding schedule. No pH testing. No “week three veg boost.” Nothing.

That plant grew over eight feet tall.

Now, I’ll be honest — one of them turned out to be male, so yeah, everything got fertilized and seeded up like crazy. I wouldn’t call it a championship-winning grow.

But for the first cannabis plant I ever grew in my life, with zero knowledge?

That was a success.

A messy, smelly, fish-powered success.

The wild part is, someone told me about this method beforehand. I don’t remember his name, but he was a Mexican dude from Stillwater I worked with back then. He grew outdoors near the Schuylerville battlefield. One day he looks at me and says, “You put sunfish in the ground.” Then he raised his hand way over his head and said, “Plants grow like this.”

He wasn’t lying.

Now, do I still use this method today? No.
Would I recommend burying 30 whole fish in your backyard if you live in a subdivision? Also no — unless you hate your neighbors.

But if you’ve got land, a pond or lake nearby, and patience? This method works. And the best part?

It’s basically free.

Compared to the price of fertilizers these days — which I’m sure cost about the same as groceries, rent, and your sanity — this costs nothing. Especially if you already fish. You could even eat the fillets and bury the scraps.

My advice if anyone ever tries this: do it in the fall. Bury the fish where you plan to grow and let winter do the work. Give the soil six months to break everything down and turn it into rich, living dirt before you plant anything.

No bottle ever impressed me the way that fish-fed soil did.

Sometimes the best grow advice doesn’t come from a label or a feed chart — it comes from a dude at work, a shovel, and a bucket of sunfish.

And if you know, you know.

Christmas is supposed to be about family, love, and gratitude. But sometimes, it forces you to face the truths you wish you could ignore. As a father, I’ve learned that love isn’t always returned the way you hope—and some lessons in life are harsher than any holiday cheer can soften.

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Life’s Test Comes in Many Forms

Life has a way of testing you. Sometimes it stretches you. Sometimes it reveals the cracks you didn’t know were there. For me, that test came in the form of my sons—specifically my two oldest. I have more, yes, but this story belongs to them. Two boys, two very different worlds.

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The Son Who Stands With Me

My eldest son, Jake, came into my life when I was just eighteen. He’s the rapper, the one making waves alongside Afroman, Bizarre, The Game, and Tory Lanez. But more than that, he’s my supporter.

He sees the work I do in my community, the respect I’ve earned, the lives I touch—and he’s right there with me. He understands the vision. He gets the journey. He’s my ride-or-die.

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The Son Who Turns Away

Then there’s my second oldest. He works for the town. He can’t smoke cannabis because of his job, and that’s fine. But the real barrier isn’t a rule or a policy—it’s fear. Fear of judgment. Fear of being seen as his father’s son. Fear of living freely.

I saw it clearly this Christmas. One of his friends called, excited, saying, “Yo, is this your dad?” And instead of pride, instead of joy, he shut it down. “No, that’s not my dad,” he said. Denial. Embarrassment. In a single sentence, he turned his back on a lifetime of love.

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The Pain of Rejection

It hurt. Of course it hurt. I’ve fought storms he couldn’t imagine. I survived a house fire that nearly took me and my children. I clawed my way out of addiction, pain, and scars that were both physical and emotional. I’ve rebuilt my life into something meaningful, something I’m proud of. And yet, this son, who could witness that journey, denies it. Denies me.

I remember when Jake started rapping. His brothers laughed. His friends mocked him. I was the only one who believed.

“Do it. Chase it. Work for it. I’ve got your back,” I told him. And now, years later, Jake stands beside me, proud, understanding, supportive.

His younger brother? Not so much. He is controlled by fear, by what others think, by the chains of jealousy. He shows up only when obligated. He dismisses what I do, turns away from the life I’ve built, and rejects the love I offer. That’s not just sadness—it’s tragedy, the kind that comes from being enslaved by other people’s opinions.

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Freedom and Resilience

It hurts, yes. But I have learned this: life isn’t measured by the approval of others. True freedom comes from courage, from standing in your truth, from giving even when it’s painful and receiving even when it’s denied. I fear no one but the Lord. I live for the people who see, who care, who respect what I do. That is where my heart belongs.

Jealousy is a sin. Denying your parent is a sin. Rejecting love is a sin. My second son may be bound by them—but I am free. I will continue to move forward, to serve, to touch lives, to give, to create, to inspire. And despite the silence, despite the denial, despite the rejection, I remain unshaken.

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The Measure of a Man

Life is bigger than pride, ego, and fear. Life is bigger than embarrassment and denial. Life is about love, resilience, and unwavering purpose. My eldest son stands with me. My second son may not. That is his loss. But I will continue to walk my path—unafraid, unapologetic, unstoppable.