Ice-T Says He Doesn’t Get High—So Why Did He Open A Cannabis Dispensary With A Playboy Playmate?

“I just never smoked,” he explains. “I’m an orphan. I don’t have a mother, father, sisters, brothers, uncles… And I just always felt being high compromised my position in the streets.”

As a young man, Ice wasn’t repulsed by cannabis. He was immersed in it. He sold it. He moved “five-finger bags” in the post-high school years. He watched a friend get kicked out of school for dealing dollar joints. But for himself? Smoking wasn’t part of the plan.

“I felt like being drunk or high was not attractive to me. I felt like if I hit the ground for some reason, it was nobody’s job to pick me up.”

Even as the world around him swirled in smoke and bravado, Ice-T carved out his own lane. No tattoos. No drinks. No drugs. Just eyes open, always scanning.

In one defining moment, a neighborhood OG pressed him to take a hit. Ice refused. The man tried to humiliate him. “You’s a [redacted] if you don’t hit the joint,” he snapped. Ice didn’t flinch: “If I am… Then, make me hit it.” That was the end of it. From then on, nobody questioned him. “He don’t get high,” the same OG would repeat. It became the line of defense. An identity.

“Whatever you’re going to do, it always should be a choice,” he says. “Maybe in college there’s a lot of peer pressure, but there wasn’t peer pressure to do it where I grew up. You just had to stand on your stuff.”

He sees it all as performance. “If smoking cigarettes makes you look cool or drinking alcohol makes you look cool, then you got a problem… you’re doing something else to look cool.”

“So, some people just got it,” he shrugs. “And I don’t know, there’s a lot of people using crutches…”

In his crew, Ice became the default designated driver before the concept even had a name. His friends liked it. They respected it. His sobriety wasn’t a buzzkill; it was a flex, a shield, a stance, a benefit to his friends.

As time passed, the streets shifted, but Ice’s stance didn’t. He left crime behind. Got famous. Got smart. Cleaned up everything, down to the smallest habits.

“Once I got out of the game, I stopped jaywalking. I was like: I don’t steal toothpicks out of a restaurant. So nothing illegal was attractive to me at the point when you guys started to know me. Ice was rapping about his past. I’m not like one of these rappers that’s going to rap themselves right into jail.”

This refusal to bend—to fashion an image around bad behavior—is part of why Ice-T survived, and others didn’t. His definition of “gangster” isn’t some Instagram aesthetic. It’s composure. It’s clarity.

“People ask me, what is gangster? I said it means I don’t back up. I’m cool, but when you start issuing me ultimatums, then I don’t really rock with that.”

And for anyone still trying to measure authenticity by how loud, high or flashy someone is: “Street cred is a word nobody in the streets ever uses. You either got it or you don’t. That’s like, white people say, ‘Do you have street credibility?’ I was never challenged. People just can feel how you move… You either have it or you don’t.”

Still, despite his abstinence, Ice never turned his back on cannabis. He watched the industry bloom. The stigma shrink. The culture shift.

And eventually, he tried edibles. Dabbled in mushrooms. Entered the age of “chronic delay.”

“My son smokes a lot. We say weed gives you chronic delay. So what chronic delay is, if I say, ‘What’s your name?’ You say, [pauses for 3 seconds] ‘Javier.’ I go, ‘You want to go to the store?’ [Pauses for 3 seconds] You’re like… ‘Okay.’ That’s that chronic delay.”

Turns out, even when you don’t smoke, proximity counts.

“I’ve been high off weed,” he says, recalling the aftermath of another visit to his son’s dispensary. By the time he got home, he was in full-blown munchie mode. “We stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts. It was 11:30 at night. I imagine I just needed some donuts,” he shrugs. “It’s not like I don’t do weed. But it’s just never been something I’ve been into.”

Still, he’s quick to acknowledge the joy it brings others. The laughter. The relaxation. The munchies. The vibes.

“It just makes people laugh a lot and eat. That’s all it does. All of a sudden, any comedian is funny as heck. So, that’s fantastic.”

There’s no holier-than-thou attitude here. No superiority. Just perspective. A life built on vigilance that eventually found its way to nuance. And in the background, the business wheels began to turn.

“At the end of the day, I knew that it was a great business opportunity. As time went on, it became clear to me that this was a new wave—and it was something I wanted to get involved in.”

And that’s exactly where the story shifts—from past to present, from personal to professional. The man who never got high has now opened his own dispensary in Jersey City.

The Long Road To The Medicine Woman

For Ice-T, stepping into the cannabis industry wasn’t a celebrity stunt—it was a calculated move, rooted in trust and vision. He wasn’t chasing hype. He was looking for people who’d done the work.

“I knew Luke and Charis,” he says, referring to his longtime friends and now business partners, Charis and Luke Burrett. “I’ve known Charis and them for many years, from L.A. I knew them when they had a clothing line. I knew that they were running a legal cannabis dispensary in L.A. for years.”

The Burretts, founders of The Medicine Woman, had been in the cannabis game long before Ice came knocking. Back in 2015, under California’s Prop 215 framework, they launched the brand as a nonprofit delivery service, long before sleek branding and dispensary lounges became the norm.

“As a legacy brand starting under Prop 215 in California, there have been so many changes and learning curves,” says Charis Burrett. “The Medicine Woman prides itself on being the best experience for customers, from service to education to product sourcing and pricing.”

That legacy is what Ice wanted to tap into. But what started as a mentorship conversation quickly evolved into something deeper.

“I called them and said, ‘If I have action at getting a dispensary, would you guys mentor me?’ And they said, ‘No, we’ll partner with you and we can franchise The Medicine Woman.’”

The opportunity wasn’t random. Ice had been politically active in his home state of New Jersey, rallying support for then-gubernatorial candidate Phil Murphy. That effort paid off, both for Murphy and for Ice.

“We were involved with the governor… we kind of helped him get the Black vote. We were out there working for him,” Ice says. “And during that, I said, ‘So where do you stand on cannabis?’ And he says, ‘If I make it in, I’m going to legalize it.’ So I felt like I had inside info.’”

That spark turned into a five-year journey. Bureaucracy, real estate, licensing, background checks, compliance—nothing came easy. But Ice, Charis and their team kept checking boxes. Veteran. Black-owned. Woman-led. LGBTQ-represented. They weren’t building a vanity project; they were building a blueprint.

“It’s just that complicated,” Ice says. “Now you know why people just sell it out of their trunk.”

“We had myself, who’s a veteran. I’m Black. Charis is a white woman. Our other partner, John, is a gay man. We were checking every box that they wanted to give these licenses to.”

“Even though I have white partners, they have a Black partner,” he adds. “So, there you go.”

The result? The Medicine Woman Jersey City—a 10,000-square-foot facility located at 660 Tonnelle Avenue. Just north of Manhattan Avenue, along Route 1 and 9, the flagship dispensary opened its doors in late March of 2025.

It’s a well-timed bet. Nationwide, legal cannabis sales reached $32 billion in 2024, with projections pointing to $55 billion by 2030. But in a crowded space, celebrity-backed ventures are hit or miss—making legacy know-how and local equity initiatives like The Medicine Woman’s even more important.

“We are so excited to bring that same experience [from California] to New Jersey,” says Charis. “There are so many things that change or are a challenge behind the scenes that most people don’t realize.”

Among them: sourcing. Because of state-by-state restrictions, they can’t bring California product east. “Dispensaries can only purchase their products from growers and distributors that are licensed in the state of New Jersey,” Charis explains. “Meaning we can’t bring California cannabis products to New Jersey. So sourcing new products and making new relationships with the cannabis community in New Jersey is exciting and ongoing.”

Everything from storage to staff training to sticker placement is governed by local law. “There are thousands of regulations and laws that differ from California, so it’s extremely time and monetarily-consuming,” she adds. Still, their motto holds firm: Nothing but the Best.

Ice puts it more bluntly: “Nowadays, with the fentanyl and all the different issues, it’s safer to go to a dispensary where it’s straight up… you know what’s happening.”

And that includes their people. The Medicine Woman Jersey City runs with a 15-person team, each one recruited locally. They’ve partnered with Hudson County Community College to provide internships and job training. And they’re collaborating with the Last Prisoner Project to support cannabis justice reform.

“One of the biggest challenges in any community is opportunity,” Charis says. “People with cannabis offenses are at a huge disadvantage when it comes to employment opportunities. We intentionally hired directly from the local community and prioritized those who had been adversely affected by unfair cannabis laws.”

And it’s not just talk. “Now that we are open,” she adds, “we will be able to include these organizations in our events and give opportunities for those affected and those who need more information about their options.”

Ice agrees. “This isn’t just about selling cannabis: it’s about creating opportunity and correcting injustice in communities that were hit hardest.” And he adds: “I brought in my partner T from Naughty by Nature… we’ve got a whole bunch of co-signers—Redman, a lot of people from Jersey have jumped on board with us. My buddy Mickey from the Bronx.”

But even with the doors open and the shelves stocked, their mission isn’t finished. A grand opening weekend is set for April 19–20, complete with ribbon cutting, celebrity guests, local vendors, giveaways and what Ice calls a “Blazing & Praising” celebration—part culture, part community, part communion.

What started as a business play has turned into something more: a socially conscious retail space with roots in legacy, identity and second chances.

Justice Isn’t Blind—It’s Selective. Just Ask Ice-T.

Ice-T’s entrance into the cannabis space isn’t rooted in novelty or nostalgia. It’s built on principle. He’s been watching the contradictions for decades. The hypocrisy. The politics. The damage.

“I mean, I don’t see why it’s not legal,” he says. “I’ve never heard about anybody dying from cannabis. They like to say it’s a gateway drug or this, that and the other. I don’t believe that.”

His logic is direct. No flourishes. No slogans. Just lived experience and the sense that some systems were never designed to protect everyone equally.

He brings up opioids. Not in theory; in practice. After knee surgery, he was prescribed Percocet. It worked for a bit. Then something shifted.

“I found out I was no longer taking it for the pain. I was getting addicted to this stuff. And I was like, yo, I’m taking this so I don’t feel sick. And so I just went cold turkey. I poured the pills in the toilet and shook it in about five days.”

The clarity of that moment—realizing the substance was in control—left a mark. It’s why he backs plant medicine when it’s safe and accessible.

“If you can go get some marijuana and it will solve a medical problem, by all means, I think you should,” he says. “Because we don’t know what big pharma is putting in that.”

And for veterans, the issue cuts deeper. Ice doesn’t pretend to be a combat vet—“I just was in military training,” he clarifies—but he understands trauma. The kind that doesn’t wear a uniform.

“I mean, if I have PTSD, it just comes from living in South Central L.A. I’ve seen people get killed. The door slams and I duck. So I know what that is.”

In a country flooded with prescription solutions, he sees cannabis as a better option for people trying to cope. Something that offers peace without addiction. Still, the irony doesn’t escape him: in places where weed is now legal, people are still locked up for it.

“They should be letting people go,” he says. “If you’re in jail for weed and it’s not a violent offense… Just simple weed convictions, they should be all pardoned, yesterday.”

To him, it’s not complicated. If the federal government legalized cannabis, governors and presidents could act fast. They just haven’t. And until they do, freedom depends on zip code.

But he’s skeptical about how the federal government would handle legalization. Not because he’s against reform; but because he’s seen how bureaucracy twists good ideas.

“I don’t really know if the federal government making weed legal in the United States is a great thing,” he says. “Because then you have what’s called federal oversight. And that always ends up screwed up.”

He’s not waiting around for Washington to fix things. That’s why he’s backing projects like the Last Prisoner Project and working to build real infrastructure in Jersey—jobs, internships, access.

And when it comes to law enforcement, the subject gets tense. Ice has played a cop on TV for decades. But he’s never confused the role with reality.

“No, they don’t [love me]. That’s the thing about it. Cops are humans. Some of them are cool. Some of them are not. So you never know. Some of them are like, ‘You make us look good.’ Some of them are like, ‘You get paid for one episode more than we make in a year.’”

His conclusion? Simple.

“I don’t trust anybody with a gun.”

He tells a story. Chris Rock once said, “I’m famous from about 10 feet away in good light. Up to that, I’m just another Black man and they will shoot me.” Ice doesn’t laugh. He nods.

He understands the law. But he doesn’t worship it. “Cops don’t make the laws,” he says. “They just enforce them. So you can’t get mad at the cop for enforcing the law.”

In that enforcement, he’s seen weed get the lightest touch—unless you’re moving pounds. But now, in legal states, the tension has shifted.

“Now that it’s legal, the question is, do you smoke it in the movie theater? Do you smoke it on the bus?” he says. “They’re just handing out summonses.”

But the stakes are still very real. A 2020 ACLU report found that Black people were still 3.6 times more likely to be arrested for cannabis possession than white people—even in states with legal access.

As the system catches up, Ice keeps moving forward. With his partners. With his dispensary. With his mission. Always with the same steady lens: power, justice and survival.