Does Jeff Sessions Have a Memory Problem? Maybe a Little THC Would Help

Recently we suggested that Attorney General Jeff Sessions might need a little toke to calm himself down before a committee of U.S. senators plied him with questions about Russia meddling in our elections and who was meeting which Russians when, where and why?

Now, it turns out, that the attorney general should have actually heeded our advice but for another reason: to help his failing memory.

Sessions would have done well to read Nature Medicine last month about the German scientists who found that aging mice treated with daily low doses of THC had experienced a reversal of cognitive decline.

Read more at High Times

MUSIC, MEMORY, WOODSTOCK

Music or memory? Which comes first? Do you get a sudden glimpse of the past while listening to music? Or do you remember the music only after recalling the times gone by? I think for all of us it’s a little of both. Add in an odor that curls in your nose—that’ll take you back as well. Sometimes, when I find myself in heavy humidity, pressing itself down into my shoulders, that languorous late summer smell of decaying leaves ready to drop and turn to dust, I flash back to those times I sat with five hundred thousand like-minded souls on the grass in that natural amphitheater, then later in the mud, rain coming down in windy torrents. There are many ways to gaze into the past, not the least of which are friends to help you along. Yes, I remember it well. I garnered memories for the days of future past. And then, the music started. We were one.

Richie Havens and Frodo

When I hear Richie Havens, I’m immediately transported to Woodstock in the summer of 1969. Sitting beside my friends on blankets while joints were being passed around, jugs of cheap wine and beer—all were in ample supply. Amazed at the size of the crowd. I had never seen anything like it. It swelled like a huge wave crashing in on a beach. I don’t know how Roger was coping. He was lying under his blanket, arms around his dog’s neck. The bottle of scotch was empty, lying on its side in the grass beside him.

Read more at Dope Magazine