In 1968, a few joints I gave away left me facing the possibility of decades in prison. More than half a century later, I walked into a legal dispensary and paid for cannabis at the counter.

My attorney peered at me from behind his imposing oak desk that night in January 1968 and told me what I faced: one felony charge that carried a maximum sentence of 10 years in prison and four that could each earn me another 15 years behind bars.

I didn’t know much about the law, but I knew enough math to be terrified. Four times 15 equals 60, plus 10 is 70. I was 19 at the time, so I figured I might get out of prison at age 89.

An Unexpected Visit

Stretched out on my bed in my mother’s house one night about five months earlier, I was pondering options for my first semester at Suffolk County Community College on Long Island, New York, that fall. Should I take the courses that sounded like fun or the ones that my guidance counselor advised would be most helpful in getting me accepted into a four-year school? I was still vacillating when the phone rang.

When I picked up the receiver and said hello, I heard, “Hey, Jeff, it’s Noel!”

I recognized the name and voice of one of the most high-profile kids in my high school class.

“Sorry I’ve kind of been out of touch,” he said. “A lot going on.”

“Been out of touch”? I thought. We’d never really been in touch. We’d had a few quick conversations, and he’d written a couple of witty lines in my yearbook before graduation, but we weren’t friends and had never even seen each other outside of school.

“I’m in the neighborhood with a couple of guys,” Noel said, “and I thought maybe we could stop by and hang out.”

“Sure,” I said. Though surprised to hear from him, I was flattered by the attention of such a popular kid. Besides, I was getting tired of looking through the college course catalog.

Minutes later, Noel showed up at the front door, his friends in tow. He was wearing his standard granny glasses, blue jeans, and Army jacket. As usual, he looked as if he hadn’t shaved in a few days. His companions, whom he introduced as Billy and Larry, wore jeans and T-shirts and, like me, had shoulder-length hair. Larry had a string of beads around his neck, and Billy had a mustache and beard. They appeared to be a few years older than Noel, in their mid-20s, maybe. They smiled at my mother as they passed her on the way to my bedroom.

I asked how they knew one another, and they said they used to work together in an electronics store. Then I asked whether they’d like to hear some music. I put on Pink Floyd’s debut album, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, which had only been out for a couple of weeks.

“Wanna get high?” asked Noel. “I’ve got some out-of-sight grass.” He stuck a hand in his pocket but came up empty. “Uh-oh, I guess I left it at home. You got anything, man?”

In fact, I’d tried marijuana for the first time only a few weeks earlier, and a friend had given me a small baggie.

“I do,” I said.

I pulled it out from a hidden corner in a drawer of my desk, closed and locked my door, and lit incense to mask the smell. Noel produced rolling papers and proceeded to make a joint, which we passed around.

Less than an hour later, when the album had ended and we all had a nice buzz, Billy looked at his watch and then at Noel.

“Hey, man, we’d better get going.” Then he turned his eyes to me. “But that was some good weed. Got any you could sell me?”

“I don’t,” I said. “Sorry.”

Billy smiled, and they said goodbye and left.

“Who are they?” asked my mother a few minutes later.

“The guy with the Army jacket is Noel,” I explained. “I went to high school with him. The other two are friends of his.”

“There’s something I don’t like about them,” she said. “I can’t put my finger on it.”

Stopping By the Campus

About a week later, on August 20, I drove over to the campus of the State University of New York at Stony Brook, where I often went to hang out and where I would later attend concerts by artists such as the Jimi Hendrix Experience and the Doors. The university’s archives document the campus’s remarkable concert history during those years.

The Stony Brook campus had opened only five years earlier, in September 1962, with 780 students and was rapidly expanding. It was attracting thousands of long-haired students. Some formed a campus chapter of the left-wing Students for a Democratic Society, burned draft cards, or picketed the draft board office in nearby Smithtown. Others passed out leaflets about the Vietnam War at local supermarkets.

The town’s residents weren’t happy about any of this. Until the school opened, Stony Brook had had a Norman Rockwell ambiance, with an anachronistic downtown, two museums, and half a dozen historical sites.

“This was a bigoted, conservative community,” university professor Paul A. Newlin told me for an article I wrote in 1975. “And before the school came here, let’s face it, this was really an idyllic place for the people who had something, who were upper middle class. The university changed all that. You could see the proliferation of shopping centers and that kind of thing. And people saw the university bringing more people into the area that they didn’t want. A lot of them thought the university was responsible for ruining the life they had back in 1955.”

“Many people didn’t want the school here in the first place, and then it started expanding all over,” another area resident told me. “The weird-looking people began going into the shops. I don’t think many people enjoyed that. There was a stigma against college students.”

Newspapers attacked the school for its alleged moral degradation, as did letter writers, one of whom wrote to the Long Island daily Newsday to speak up for “the rights of the student who was not accepted at the state university. He’s over in Vietnam now, and some pot smoker is taking his place.”

At the college on August 20, I took a seat on a couch in the student union and started reading In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash, a book by humorist Jean Shepherd. I was a few pages into it when I looked up and saw Noel, Larry, and a guy I didn’t know standing before me.

“Fancy meeting you here!” said Noel as they sat down.

We made small talk, and then Larry’s friend, Joey, asked whether I had any grass I could sell.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m not selling, and I don’t have much, anyway.”

“Just a little?” Joey pleaded. “I’m really low, man.”

I smiled and gave him a couple of joints.

“No charge,” I said. “Have fun.”

I ran into Noel and his friends on four other occasions between then and late October, three times at Stony Brook and once at a fast-food joint called Space Burger. Each time they asked whether I could sell them any grass, and each time, I offered to give them a bit. A couple of times, when they insisted on paying, I accepted a few dollars.

5 A.M. Knock at the Door

I didn’t see them after October, and the holidays came and went. By then, I had smoked grass maybe a dozen times, but I was now mostly preoccupied with adjusting to college and doing my homework.

Then, on the morning of Jan. 17, 1968, when I was on winter break, a loud banging on our front door woke me at 5 a.m.

“Police!” a man shouted. “Open up!”

As I headed for the door in my pajamas, my heart beating fast, my mother came up behind me and said, “Don’t open it! It could be robbers pretending to be police.”

But she peered through a curtain, saw two radio cars and several uniformed cops with guns drawn, and unlocked the door.

“We have a warrant for the arrest of Jeffrey Burger and another warrant to search the residence,” announced one of the men as they poured into the house.

My mother, in a state of shock, offered them coffee, but they waved her away. Several cops ransacked my bedroom while others moved on to search the bedrooms of my 14-year-old brother and 11-year-old sister.

In my brother’s room, a detective pulled drawers from a dresser until he came upon approximately 60 metal Band-Aid boxes, at which point he yelled out to his colleagues, “I found it! I found it!” apparently thinking he’d discovered a drug stash.

The first box he opened contained wooden railway ties for my brother’s model train layout. The second had tiny railroad spikes to fasten the track to a table. Another had a couple of dozen “grain-of-wheat” light bulbs to use in tiny streetlights or inside buildings on the large model train layout behind the detective. After opening most of the Band-Aid boxes and finding nothing but toy train parts, the detective gave up. He came downstairs, told my mother the police were impounding my car as evidence, demanded a key, and drove it away. Then one of his companions said he’d give me five minutes to get dressed.

After I threw on some clothes, the cops cuffed my hands behind my back, led me outside, and drove me to a police station in nearby Hauppauge for booking. On the way, one of them laughed and said, “Time for a haircut.” Another said, “You’re some big dope dealer, aren’t you?”

In Hauppauge, to my astonishment, I saw several of my high school friends, plus people I knew from Stony Brook University and Suffolk County Community College. As I later learned, there were about three dozen of us. Stony Brook University’s archives put the number at 35, of whom 24 were students at the school. All were first offenders aged 16 to 22, and most were charged solely with the sale of marijuana or simply possession.

The majority were Stony Brook students; others, like me, were what a police spokesman called “transients.” In its 1968 coverage of the raid, Newsday quoted the spokesman directly: “They’re like parasites who live with students and hang out on campus to use dope and have fun and games with the girls.”

Virtually all of us had been nabbed with the assistance of Noel, who we later learned had himself been arrested many months earlier and threatened with extensive jail time if he didn’t help undercover agents make drug buys from his classmates and friends.

Two Hundred Cops, With Reporters in Tow

His cooperation had led to what contemporary coverage described as the nation’s largest campus crackdown on drug users up to that point. It had been carried out by 198 police officers, according to the university’s own timeline, who had attended a 3 a.m. briefing and worked from a 107-page plan book that included dossiers on each suspect with descriptions such as “he wears an American flag as a cape” and “he is a member of the SDS [Students for a Democratic Society].” A 47-page appendix contained maps and floor plans of the homes and dorms where the suspects lived. At the invitation of the police, reporters had attended the predawn briefing and accompanied officers on the raid.

Newsday‘s big front-page story, “Drug Raid Hits State U Dorms,” reported that federal and state agencies had participated in the action and that “undercover agents posing as hippies were able to buy dope at the school on their first day there.” Headlines of sidebars included “DA Plans Grand Jury Probe of Stony Brook” and “Raid Climaxed 4-Mo. Probe” but also “A Third Have Tried Pot: Dean” and “Students Say Why Not?” A New York Times article, “Students Decry Stony Brook Raid,” quoted one undergraduate as saying, “I think someday we’ll look back on this raid like our parents looked back on police raids of the Prohibition Era.”

While newspaper subscribers were digesting all these articles, I and several dozen other young people were being booked and fingerprinted in Hauppauge. Then we were ushered onto a police bus for the 45-minute drive east to Riverhead, the county seat, where we were jailed, about a dozen to a cell. Sleep-deprived and rattled, I sat in one of those cells for about four hours. Finally, a guard called my name and led me to a courtroom, where he told me to sit and wait for my name to be called for my arraignment.

I did as I was told and listened as the judge set bail for a man who’d been arrested for shooting a gun at his neighbors. Then I heard, “The State of New York versus Jeffrey Burger.”

A second later, a man seated behind me called out: “Stuart Namm, your honor, representing Mr. Burger.” I turned and saw my mother sitting beside him. She’d made some quick early-morning phone calls to request the attorney’s appearance. She had paid him a $1,500 fee and he arranged for my release on $2,000 bail, which she paid via a bail bondsman by using her house as collateral.

Facing Decades in Prison

I left the courthouse and met with Namm that same evening, which is when he explained that giving marijuana away was legally equivalent to selling it and said I faced up to 70 years in prison.

A few days later, I was summoned to the office of the dean at Suffolk County Community College. He told me that townspeople were up in arms about the drug use exposed by the raid and that it was not in his school’s best interest to be associated with the arrests. Consequently, he said, I could attend classes in the spring only during the evening, when my attendance would be less noticeable, or I could take a leave of absence. I opted for the leave.

Some weeks later, my mother got a call from Namm. He’d negotiated an agreement for the felony charges against me to be dropped in exchange for guilty pleas to misdemeanors for being a “youthful offender” on five dates. (This was possible because I was under 19 at the time of the crimes with which I was being charged.) I went to court shortly thereafter, said “guilty” five times, and received a sentence of three years of probation.

I considered myself lucky, not only because probation sounded much better than the prison term that I’d originally faced but because a few of the arrestees did do time. At least one didn’t even get out before trial because his parents refused to supply bail money.

A probation officer visited me monthly for a while, then confided to me that he was leaving the department to join a commune out west. In the fall, meanwhile, I was allowed back into daytime classes at Suffolk County Community College and, after finishing there, I transferred to the State University of New York at Albany, where I was assigned a new probation officer.

He met with me once, after which I was asked to complete and mail in a monthly questionnaire to attest to my good behavior. It included queries such as “Are you avoiding habits, places, or people which led you into difficulty?” and “Where do you spend your evenings?”

Then, on Nov. 13, 1970, I received a notice that read, “Effective this date…your probation is hereby terminated. Very truly yours, William H. Stalker, Chief Probation Officer.”

Half a Century Later

Flash forward more than half a century to 2023. Cannabis legalization was spreading nationwide, and the legal adult-use market in New Jersey, where I now live, was still relatively new.

At a dinner party at the house I share with my wife, I mentioned to a friend that I sometimes had trouble staying asleep through the night. She said she’d had the same problem and told me that she used cannabis gummies. She suggested trying a 5-milligram gummy marketed as indica and said she typically took half of one at bedtime.

I hadn’t used cannabis for many decades, but I decided to give her suggestion a try. After Googling “marijuana retailer near me,” I found two multistate chains with local stores, Ascend and RISE, and drove to the former. As I entered the parking lot, an attendant approached my vehicle. When I rolled down the window, he asked, “Medical or recreational?”

I said the latter because I didn’t have a medical marijuana ID, and he directed me to the parking area for recreational users. Inside the building’s lobby, I showed my driver’s license to prove I was over 21. I was in my 70s by then. Then I entered the retail facility, a large room with high ceilings.

It looked and felt a lot like an Apple Store. Rock music played, and big video screens displayed messages about ending marijuana prohibitions in states that still had laws on the books. Plexiglass cabinets held attractively displayed assortments of cannabis products, everything from packages of loose marijuana and rolled joints to gummies and paraphernalia. A row of touchscreens offered a convenient way to place orders.

A staffer guided me through the touchscreen process as I selected a package of pomegranate-flavored gummies. Then he pointed me to the checkout line, where several dozen people of all ages, none of whom looked remotely like the hippies of yore, waited to pick up their purchases.

When my turn came, a cashier handed me my candies in an attractive metal tin that had a sticker listing ingredients and a “best by” date. She placed the tin in a bag emblazoned with Ascend’s logo and told me the price was $32.16, including state and local cannabis tax.

“Will that be cash or debit?” she asked.

I smiled at the cashier.

More than half a century earlier, a few joints had put me in handcuffs. My mother had put her house up as collateral for my bail. I had been pushed out of daytime college classes and left wondering whether I might spend decades behind bars.

Now marijuana was a regulated product I could purchase over a counter. The behavior that had once brought police to my mother’s front door at 5 a.m. had not somehow become more innocent with the passage of time. What changed was the machinery surrounding it.

In 1968, there were undercover agents, warrants, nearly 200 police officers, jail cells, felony charges, bail, and probation. In 2023, there were touchscreens, taxes, product labels, a checkout line, and a cashier asking how I wanted to pay.

I felt vindicated by the changed laws, and I wished my mother had lived to see this day.

But the transformation remains incomplete. Laws still vary widely from one jurisdiction to another, and the arrests never stopped. State and local police recorded 200,960 arrests for marijuana possession in 2025 alone, roughly one every three minutes, in a country where legal cannabis stores now operate openly in half the states.

As I walked out of the dispensary with my gummies, I thought about how much suffering decades of marijuana prohibition had caused, and how strange it was that an act once treated as evidence of serious criminality could now be processed like any other retail purchase.

Imagine how much trouble could have been avoided if marijuana buyers over the past half century had been confronted with “Cash or debit?” rather than “Police! Open up!”

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Four years running, a field in Brentwood, California, fills up with people passing joints the size of cigars. RBL Posse and the Mendo Dope Band played this one. The smoke did the rest.

A hash hole is a joint with hash rosin running down the center. The rosin burns slower than the flower around it, so the ash hollows into a ring. That’s the donut, and that’s the name.

Most of them are built with about a gram and a half of flower and half a gram of rosin. That is already more joint than most people finish.

The ones going around at Hash Hole Island were nothing like that. Doink’s builds theirs at roughly a quarter ounce of flower with an eighth of rosin, six times the standard, and at that ratio the thing stops tasting like a joint with something in it and starts tasting like rosin that happens to be wrapped in paper.

This was my fourth year. The event runs in Brentwood and it is built around one thing, which is people standing in a field smoking hash together until it gets dark. There is food and there are vendors, but the organizing principle is the joint.

Sundown

The crowd smoked and ate and dabbed through the afternoon. At sundown RBL Posse took the stage and the day turned into a show.

The Bay Area group has a following that goes back decades, and a good part of the field had come for them. They ran through “Don’t Give Me No Bammer Weed” and “I Thought You Knew” while the front rows disappeared behind smoke thick enough to swallow the stage lights.

Between sets, Kid Kone and Randy Dabbage filled the gap with a wrestling bit, throwing grinders and donated product into the crowd.

Then the Mendo Dope Band came on, fresh off performing at the California Cannabis Awards at Cal Expo in July. They played into the night and smoked with the crowd between songs, which is most of the reason to watch that band outdoors in the first place.

Both groups stayed afterward to sign things and take pictures. The field kept going after that.

If you have never had one, start with the standard size. Four years in, I still can’t get through a quarter-ounce Doink on my own.

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Researchers hooked a flowmeter to pre-rolls at social smoke sessions in five states and found three distinct ways people pull on a joint. All three moved more smoke than the cigarette settings cannabis research has been running for decades.

Researchers found three ways people smoke a joint, and you are almost certainly one of them.

That’s the finding of a new white paper from the Network of Applied Pharmacognosy, which took a flowmeter to social consumption events across California, Massachusetts, New York, Nevada and South Carolina between September 2024 and June 2025, handed people a one-gram pre-roll, and asked them to smoke the way they normally smoke.

Sixty-two people did. Eleven recordings were thrown out for bad data. The remaining 51 sorted, almost embarrassingly cleanly, into three groups.

Which One Are You?

The intense puffer is the majority, 57% of the group. Sharp pull, peak flow almost immediately, done in a couple of seconds.

The slow puffer is the smallest group, 20%. Long, steady draw that takes nearly twice as long and never spikes.

The double puffer, 23%, takes two hits back to back, one or two seconds apart, as a single event. This is the one you can spot across a circle.

Riley Kirk, a co-author on the paper, put the difference between the first two in terms anyone who has ordered a drink can follow.

“It’s really a difference between a fast intense pull, almost like you’re sipping boba from a straw, versus a long, slow pull that’s more like sipping a thick milkshake.”

Riley Kirk, Network of Applied Pharmacognosy

And here is the counterintuitive part. The gentle one moves more smoke.

“The intense pull hits its peak strength almost immediately, under a second in, and the whole thing is over in about 2 seconds,” Kirk told High Times. “The slow pull takes almost twice as long to build up, and never hits as high a peak, but it holds there instead of spiking. Interestingly, that’s what actually pulls in more total smoke per puff than the intense style. The slower pull feels gentler, but the extra time more than makes up for the lower intensity.”

The numbers back it up. The intense profile peaks at 41.7 mL/s and averages 59.3 mL of smoke per puff. The slow profile peaks at barely half that, 22.4 mL/s, and still averages 72.5 mL. The double puff, counting both hits, comes in highest at 76.8 mL.

Science Has Been Studying You as a Cigarette Smoker

Here is why anyone outside a smoke circle should care. When a lab wants to know what is in cannabis smoke, it doesn’t ask a person to smoke. It programs a smoking machine. And for decades those machines have been running puff settings borrowed from tobacco research: roughly a two-second puff pulling 35 to 55 mL, the ISO and Health Canada standards built to model a cigarette smoker.

Every one of the three cannabis profiles is bigger than that.

“Cannabis smoke research has been borrowing cigarette puff settings for decades, and the issue is that cannabis consumers just don’t smoke like cigarette smokers do,” Kirk said. “Cannabis consumers typically inhale far more deeply and hold their breath much longer than cigarette smokers, which produces very different puff volumes.”

She added that some smokers in the dataset had puff volumes well over 100 mL, “so we’re likely underestimating smoke and compound delivery just by using the cigarette numbers as a stand-in.”

What that means in practice is that the existing body of lab work on what comes off a burning joint has largely been built around cigarette puff settings that don’t fully reflect how cannabis consumers actually smoke.

What the Chemistry Might Do

This paper measures behavior, not smoke. It does not tell you whether one style delivers more THC, more terpenes or more of the things nobody wants in their lungs. But it sets up the question, and Kirk has a hypothesis.

“Our working hypothesis is that puff length and flow rate change the temperature of the ember itself, and that a longer, slower burn could produce meaningfully different chemistry than a short, hot pull, resulting in more or less of certain cannabinoids, terpenes, or combustion byproducts,” she said. “We haven’t measured that chemistry yet, though. But that’s exactly what this data sets up, and it’s the focus of the next paper.”

That next paper will run the three profiles on smoking machines and analyze what each one produces. “This paper showed us there are clear, distinct ways people smoke cannabis,” Kirk said. “The next one will tell us what that means for the consumer, whether one profile delivers more THC, more terpenes, or more of the byproducts we’d rather people weren’t inhaling.”

Real People, Real Sessions

The thing that surprised Kirk was not the shapes. It was how tidy they were, given where the data came from.

“This wasn’t a controlled lab session. We collected data at real social gatherings across five states, with different products, papers, and filters, all factors we know introduce variability. Given all that, I expected the puff shapes to be all over the place. Instead, three clear patterns emerged anyway.”

Riley Kirk

The authors are upfront about what that setting costs them. Sixty-two people at parties is not a randomized sample, and the profiles reflect who happened to be in those rooms. Paper, filter, grind, moisture and age of the pre-roll all vary and all affect the draw. Each recording covers at least three minutes, not a whole joint, so it misses how the pull changes as the coal settles, the joint shortens and resin builds. And the device itself, with its tubing and altered mouthpiece, may change how somebody smokes.

They also note something that no cigarette protocol has ever had to account for: people pass joints around, while cigarette smokers generally smoke their own.

What the paper claims for itself is narrow and worth stating plainly. It is the first documented set of cannabis-specific puff profiles, and the first set of parameters a lab could program into a smoking machine instead of the cigarette defaults. Whether that changes what we know about cannabis smoke is a question for the next study.

In the meantime, the next time somebody in the circle takes two quick hits before passing, you know what to call them.

Disclosure: “From User Behavior to Laboratory Standards: Developing Cannabis Smoking Machine Protocols from Real-World Puff Topography Data” is an open-access white paper Updated by the Network of Applied Pharmacognosy in June 2026. It has not been peer reviewed. The measurements were taken with the CannaFlo, a flowmeter made by Cambustion Ltd., and two Cambustion employees are co-authors. The authors say the white paper itself received no direct funding, and that the broader Science of Smokability research program is supported by industry sponsors including Abstrax, Boveda, Cannatrol, Curaleaf, Custom Cones, Day Savers, the Ganjier Group, the Hemp Mine and Plant Life Co.

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California should ease up on taxes for marijuana businesses like the one they own together, Woody Harrelson and Bill Maher say.

The actor and comedian jointly complained about the state’s harsh cannabis taxes in a podcast interview released on Monday, known as the unofficial marijuana holiday 4/20.

“California sucks as far as—look, all businesses, but certainly this one,” Maher said on the episode of his Club Random podcast. “They still treat it like it’s poison.”

Harrelson agreed, saying, “They treat it like you’re lucky that we allow you to do this, and so we’re going to tax you 35 percent, which is way more—it’s more than double anything.”

“I don’t even know what’s the second” in terms of highly taxed items, the actor said, citing guns and beer as facing lower rates than cannabis.

“It’s ridiculous that they can just tax the fuck out of you and make it so hard,” he said. “Anyway, I don’t want to bitch and moan. I’m a happy person, generally.”

But Maher said, “I’m not happy about this.”

“I’m never happy when anybody fucks with my money,” he said. “I’m gangster like that.”

Harrelson and Maher own The Woods, a dispensary and cannabis consumption lounge in West Hollywood, where the two smoked joints while filming the new podcast episode.

In California, cannabis faces a 15 percent state excise at the point of purchase, as well as local excise taxes that vary from jurisdiction to jurisdiction. There are also regular state and local sales taxes that apply, plus taxes at other points of the supply chain such as at the cultivation level. Marijuana businesses can additionally face steep licensing fees in order to do business.

Harrelson further complained during the interview with Maher that “they also don’t allow you to write anything off,” an apparent reference to the federal provision known as 280E that blocks marijuana companies from taking tax deductions that are available to businesses in other sectors.

California lawmakers, however, like those in a number of other legal cannabis jurisdictions, have taken steps to decouple the state tax code from the federal policy, allowing operators to write off business expenses on their state taxes.

Maher, for his part, also noted the cannabis industry’s banking access issues.

“For the longest time, it was a very risky business because you couldn’t put the money in the bank, right?” he said. “The banks wouldn’t take ‘your dirty fucking pot money that you fucking hippies got by smoking pot.’”

“And everybody would have truckloads of cash around,” Maher said. “So of course, they were a target for robbers.”

To that point, Harrelson and Maher’s dispensary was burglarized in what appeared to be part of a string of crimes targeting cannabis businesses in the region.

While the situation is changing and more banks are taking on cannabis clients, as the two noted in the new interview, federal legislation to provide a broad fix for the issue has remained stalled for years.

Maher and Harrelson have long publicly embraced their cannabis consumption.

Last year, when Harrelson was asked to pick anyone living or dead he would like to patronize the dispensary’s cannabis cafe, he zeroed in on marijuana icon Bob Marley. But the actor also conceded that he doesn’t think he could go “toke-for-toke” with the late reggae star.

The actor also got involved in marijuana reform advocacy in California, calling on Gov. Gavin Newsom (D) to sign a bill legalizing marijuana cafes that passed in 2024, which he did end up approving.

Earlier this year, Harrelson joked about his experiences getting kicked out of two bars for smoking marijuana indoors with the mother of fellow star Matthew McConaughey.

Harrelson separately disclosed in 2017 that used cannabis to help get through a dinner with President Donald Trump.

Last year, Maher said he didn’t get high before attending a dinner with Trump at the White House, joking that it was a “missed opportunity.”

Image element courtesy of Angela George.

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