No signage. No pricing. Just 8ths in designer jars and a crowd that looked like Hypebeast got jumped by the 710 Labs fan club.
LOS ANGELES, CA — FIELD REPORT
You don’t get invited to a Doja drop. You solve a riddle, pass a vibe check, and hope Ryan Bartholomew’s algorithmically selected gatekeepers feel generous that week. Half the people there weren’t even buying weed — they were just chasing dopamine and Discord clout like it was Pokémon Go for emotionally unavailable men.
The location? A blank art gallery next to a vape shop that died during Delta-8 season. The password was whispered like a confession — “It’s the Z for me.” I said it. A guy in an NFT hoodie, holding a jar labeled Doja Pink Bukkake, nodded me through like I was being admitted to a sex cult that only speaks in strain names.
FIRST CONTACT: THE GAS BAPTISM
The room smelled like grape Flintstone vitamins and expired Juul pods. People were vaping out of glowing space-tech contraptions like they were testing prototypes for Elon Musk’s dab rig division. There were no counters. Just tables covered in overpriced jars with strain names that read like rejected SoundCloud handles:
Platinum Yeastwater
Melon Musk ’44
Zope Godface x Crisis Berry
When I asked someone what was actually in the jar, she exhaled, looked through me, and said:
“This isn’t weed. It’s data.”
If that’s true, this entire scene is a corrupted hard drive.
POP-UP RULES: FUCK YOUR RULES
No menus. No pricing. Just QR codes taped to the ground that rerouted me to broken Shopify pages, locked Telegram threads, or JPEGs that looked like 2019 Runtz packaging re-skinned for Doja’s house cult.
One link was a monkey eating biscotti with the phrase: “Ask no questions. Buy fast.”
Another just said: “SOLD OUT.”Sold out of what? Self-respect?
A guy behind me whispered,
“If you have to ask, you shouldn’t be here.” I asked anyway. He vanished like a VPN subscription expiring mid-bag.
INTERVIEW: “THE CURATOR”
He introduced himself as “a curator of consumption.” Not a vendor. Not a grower. Just another merch-addicted mouthpiece in a Balmain vest.
Boof: “What’s the deal with Doja?”
Curator: “It’s not a brand. It’s an energy network.”
Boof: “Where’s the weed come from?”
Curator: “Respectfully, you’re not asking the right questions.”
Then he added: “It’s mostly Ten Co genetics anyway, but like… don’t tag them.”
So there it is. Zushi in the jar. Doja on the label. Accountability nowhere.
WEED THAT TALKS BACK
The jar I left with was labeled Mango Menace x Slanderberry Sherb, allegedly grown by a “ghost grower” who “doesn’t do drops anymore.”
Translation: No face. No farm. No accountability. Just vibes wrapped in mylar.
I asked a kid in a VLONE hoodie how it smoked. He said:
“It gave me sleep paralysis.”
Another guy posted it on IG with the caption:
“$80 well spent. Might be fake but I’m in the comments already.”
That’s not a culture. That’s a fucking pyramid scheme.
SLICE OF THE DMS
@Zazalord710: “Yo is the drop still live? My homie got locked out tryna barter with a hash coin.”
@DojaRep: “We’re full. Unless he’s got 3 reposts and a burner story. Screenshot it and send. But hurry.”
@BudBrandingBae: “Deadass cried when I smelled that Giraffe Piss. Shit healed my trust issues.”
@BoofDuJour: “We’ll be tagging all of you. Thanks for the fucking chaos.”
EXIT STRATEGY: NONE
You don’t leave a Doja drop. You dissociate out of it. I stumbled through a hallway lined with dead LED wristbands, obsolete COAs, and melted vape pens. A man with a neck tattoo offered me a “non-infused terpene recovery elixir” for $12.
I declined. He said, “Good call.” Like I’d passed a final test.
FINAL THOUGHTS FROM THE ASHES
Let’s be clear: Doja isn’t a cannabis brand. It’s a hype laundering operation.
Ryan Bartholomew isn’t building culture — he’s selling fog with a font license.
The Ten Co does the heavy lifting, Doja slaps on stickers, and the rest of us get locked in IG loops wondering why the weed smells like Fruit Gushers and cognitive dissonance.
If this is the future of cannabis, we’re regressing.