When my father asked me if I had plans on a Sunday evening several months ago, I expected it was going to be his standard way of ensuring we would have dinner together, something we both cherish. When he instead said, somewhat hesitatingly, "So, how about if we smoke pot together?" I thought he was joking. I looked around, fully expecting a camera crew to pop out of our apartment's shadows to capture the shocked expression plastered on my face. "MY father?" I thought to myself, "The man who is supposed to protect me from the world's darkest influences and offerings is saying that he wants to smoke pot with me, his 16-year-old son?"

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