If, like him, you also have a green thumb and an interest in experimental botany (not to mention a personal fondness for the weed), it's about the perfect combination of small business and hobby, with a constant whiff of danger to spice the routine.

Kevin started like most growers, raising a few plants for himself and friends using cuttings provided by another grower. It was a good strain when he got it, and over the years he's refined it through judicious breeding with other lines.

In his first 10 years or so of serious cultivation, Kevin produced only small quantities of pot for sale: enough to bring in around $20,000 a year at current prices. More recently he's expanded, so now the take is more like $50,000 to $60,000 a year: about as much as a stand-alone grower-marketer can distribute without undue risk and hardship.

Kevin raises his crop in his home in a nondescript semirural area near Seattle. The neighborhood is neither so populous as to provide nosy next-door neighbors nor so remote that business generates traffic noticeable above normal background levels. It's an ordinary house with a few unobtrusive modifications to facilitate farming while avoiding notice: nothing a weekend handyman with plenty of time couldn't accomplish.

The most ticklish aspect of commercial pot growing is managing power consumption. Fluorescent grow lights don't consume a lot of electricity, but when you double or quadruple your indoor acreage, it's going to show up big-time on your bill. But if your house was all electric when you bought it, a judicious use of alternative energy sources lets you shift juice from space heating to pot growing without any suspicious blips in the light bill.

Over the years, Kevin's business has expanded from stand-alone farming to franchising, providing new growers with cuttings and expertise, sometimes in exchange for cash, more often for a percentage of the first crop. But the business is still pretty much home-based: Potting up established cuttings grown in their own special room, maintaining the desired temperature and humidity, pruning large leaves, pinching for bushiness, and waiting 40-odd days until the flower buds are sticky and glittering with crystalline smoke-stuff. Then it's time to have a few friends over to help with the harvest.

These days, it's only the thumbnail-sized buds which have any commercial potential, retailing for around $45 for an eighth of an ounce. Leaves, which made up the bulk of a kilo of Mexican dirt-weed in the old days, are more a recycling problem than a profit center.

Kevin is not obsessive about security, but he's not careless, either. Most of his customers are close friends. The biggest risk to his operation is probably not the law but the lawless. He's been robbed in the past when someone in his circle indiscreetly boasted to the wrong people about their acquaintance with a pot farmer. At least once, fearful of such incidents, he shut down his operation.

Why did he start up again? Partly because the extra income does come in handy, partly to keep his own stash topped up--but also because he believes he's performing a public service. A number of his customers use his product medically, to increase appetite, kill pain, stave off nausea.

But as far as Kevin's concerned, they aren't the only ones who benefit. For him, marijuana has always had the nature of a sacrament--something that aids spiritual exploration as well as reconfirms the social bond with friends and loved ones.

Under the law, Kevin is a dangerous felon. Even he sometimes wonders how he's been able to operate for so long with impunity; surely after all these years, They must have their eye on him? It's a disquieting thought--but not disquieting enough to make him pull the plug on his operation. Maybe someday--when the kids are grown, when it's time to retire--he'll consider becoming a humble customer rather than a source. But not just yet.

Note: For one local farmer, pot is part hobby, part public service.

E-mail: rdowney@seattleweekly.com

My Time

By Laura Learmonth

The list of things I can do without thinking is long and boring; there's nothing interesting about autopilot. By the time I reached my 20s, I felt as if I had navigated nearly every imaginable body of water, I had trained my brain to negotiate the giant swells, the sudden tide changes, the peaceful calm. Whether that was naive, juvenile, bitter, or ridiculous is a question for an entirely different day. The fact is, I was bored, and I started smoking a lot of pot. I still do.

Deep drags unleash full circles of unadulterated enthusiasm, and my stereo is my best friend. Some smokers sink into the couch and gorge themselves on old movies and sitcom reruns, some dig into conversations about the absence of allegory, some stuff themselves with pizza. I hear music. The Stone Roses' "She's a Waterfall" curls around exhales. Yo La Tengo is next--anything off of Painful, and then Seam, Mercury Rev, the Feelies, Small Faces, Flaming Lips, Modest Mouse, the Jam, New York Dolls, Destroyer, David Bowie, and nobody can fuck with me. I hear all of it exactly as it is meant to be heard, and it never stops amazing me. Never.

Conversations confound me in the best way. My friends astonish me with their brilliance. Strangers intrigue me. Everyone knows something. When I'm stoned, I write it all down: expressions, nods, smiles, handshakes. Each of us has our own ugly heart-shaped birthmark, our own badge of honor that we were born to take advantage of, our own manifesto, our own words about what burns brightly and what hurts the most. I appreciate them all without marijuana, but smoking pot gives me an excuse to record it, to write it down.

Marijuana allows me to experience everything with that much more light. It opens my eyes and increases my awareness. The filter is off, my mind moves freely, betraying old patterns. I travel through thoughts, ideas, pictures, and s tories like they're small towns on my own personal autobahn. Some smokers will tell you that marijuana allows them to slow down, unwind, and mellow out, but in my life--perhaps due to my metabolism, karma, or brain chemistry--pot is an antidote for a world that often feels too tidy, too rule-ridden, too slow, too thought-out and followed-through.

In certain circles, I am identified primarily as a stoner. I am the girl with the pocket-sized pipe at the ready, the one with the really good lighter, the easy laugh, and the head full of curiosity. But the key to using marijuana effectively is to often not use marijuana. If the idea is to subvert the static and increase the outliers, then one must stagger one's drug use with healthy doses of a smoke-free environment--otherwise it all becomes one big bore. As Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers said in "I'm Straight," "If those guys are so great/tell me/why can't they take this place/and take it straight?" It's the contrast that keeps both realms so interesting. I sleep less than most people I know and do more while I'm awake because I'm grateful for the experiences that awareness provides. I believe marijuana has given me that. So I suppose I am a stoner, but if you think about it--and I've thought about it plenty--this is all just a beautiful dream, and I like to dream in green.

E-mail: llearmonth@seattleweekly.com

This Time

By Michael A. Stusser

As I write this, I'm stoned to the bejeezus. Most my writing sessions begin this way, firing up a bowl, cranking the stereo, and then hitting the keyboard for all-night diatribes of psychedelic discourse (editing sessions are done sober, as a more steady hand is required for sentence structure, syntax, and coherent thought). Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, right. Thank god I'm not an air traffic controller.

As a modern-day pothead, I've replaced my hacky sack with a Saab, roll joints rather than smoke out of an 8-foot Graphix, and sport Kenneth Cole more often than tie-dye. But let not my closeted dope smoking be mistaken for embarrassment. I'm a proud Rain-City Rastafarian and light up in public as often as possible. Still, like the heads from yesteryear, I have no interest in getting busted by the Man.

Folks have smoked weed ever since it originally sprouted out of God's green earth, not because it tastes great, but for the euphoric rush that accompanies it. Through the centuries, this elevated state has been responsible for colossal breakthroughs that would not have come about au naturel: the notion that the world is not flat, for example--that guy was stoned on pot brownies.

Whether for invention, inspiration, or just plain recreation, cannabis continues to spark creativity and is damn festive fodder. Call me partial, but parties with people passing the peace pipe seem a lot more fun than bashes with bloated beer-bingeing and belching (not to mention less calories). In addition, with ganja you can usually maintain if necessary (unlike LSD), passing a joint is quite social (unlike blow), and, though ecstasy seems the substance of choice for the new generation, when the chemical effects make ravers forget where they live, you'll be glad you went organic.

Along with herb counterculture comes an "It's all good" vibe that, in our road-raging times, is helpful for keeping a lid on things (no pun intended). Something about firing up a fatty hits the Hippie Nostalgia button, harkening back to a "Make love not war" philosophy that's as relevant today as ever.

Marijuana affects different people differently. Many gave up grass because it made them sleepy, comatose, or they started seeing dark figures slip around corners. For me, ganja is like a quadruple latte--I'm jacked up and nimble, having (seemingly) deep, meaningful realizations that my overly stressed, multitasking, wildly distracted synapses cannot come to in their normally abstemious condition. As they say in the brochure, sinsemilla heightens the senses: Thus, Moulin Rouge was better baked, as is Laserium, Isaac Scott, and a Dick's hot fudge sundae. Once I become paranoid, tense, obese, or can't get it up, I'll quit. And yes, that's the talk of an addict.

No doubt there are harms to smoking marijuana; anyone who has ever had bongwater spilled on their carpet can attest to that. Over time, it may also make you stupid, fill your lungs with black sludge, and induce indolence and the urge to buy a Lava Lamp. But like alcohol, firearms, tobacco, and the freedom to drive a big-ass SUV, I should have the right to kill my own brain cells in the privacy of my own hovel.

Speaking of which, my tobacco waterpipe calls. Please hold. . . .

Clearly, everyone should NOT get stoned; surgeons, psychos, and small children should refrain at least until after hours or till their homework's done. As for the rest of us, the key is moderation. Those who "wake 'n' bake" are probably using the shit in an unhealthy manner and should get off the couch, bathe, and take a hard look in the mirror.

(God, I look awful.)

For those of us who do use responsibly (I like the sound of that), the issue at hand is that we're criminals (forcing our friends who are cops and DAs to step out of the room each time we partake). According to NORML (National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws), almost 20 million Americans fire up at least once a year (22 mil are on Prozac). And 700,000 of those are arrested annually for doing so, which is not only apt to harsh your buzz, but costs taxpayers a mint.

Maybe you're one of those Bill Clinton types: "Didn't inhale, didn't enjoy it, don't support it." Well, that's bullshit, and you know it. You probably ran out of connections, and now have kids and conservative neighbors, but secretly wish more folks in your hood passed a blunt around the BBQ. I'm here ta tell ya, we Potheads need you. The country needs you.

Now that I think about it, maybe drugs DO lead to insurrection. My heart and mind race with thoughts of freedom, personal rights, interconnectivity, instant karma, and (back to the topic) legalization! I am angry. Not for the sorry sick fuckers who need to overcome tremors or glaucoma or nausea or chemo, but for the creative minds, seeking higher artistic heights, searching for meaning in a world that has too many limitations already.

Legalization will come about when enough people have the courage to speak up and admit to having smoked pot, enjoyed the experience, and support the RIGHT to do so. (Plus, it'll then make it a whole lot easier for you to get some.) So go to HEMPfest (Help End Marijuana Prohibition). Sign a petition. Burn one down. You may find it empowering to advocate something in this blasé age of nonradical politics. It might even make you more vigilant about other issues that are pissing you off. Get up, stand up, and "Question Authority," dude.

E-mail: info@seattleweekly.com

My First Time

By Christopher Frizzelle

I'm a writer, I'm gay, and I grew up near the coast--and most assumptions you might make about me are true. I'm in college, I have sex a lot, those kinds of things--but, at 20, I'd never been stoned.

My friends don't understand how this is possible. I don't quite understand their disbelief. Pot makes me think of frozen dinners and afternoon TV and fat people with back hair--and bands like Tool.

OK, maybe that's not fair.

Anyway, last week I told my friends Lynn and Elizabeth* that I'd never tried the stuff, and that I'd like to. They planned it and said it was going to be fun. We'd do it at Lynn's place, a total stoner pad--a whole house, actually--on a quiet little street north of the city. Someone brought several buds in a baggie and some wine. Elizabeth, who acts like she's stoned even when she's not, brought her girlfriend. Later a fifth girl joined us, one of Lynn's film industry friends from New York.

They had everything ready: the weed, red wine, Hostess Cupcakes. I didn't know anything about intake options, or what was better than what. I had figured we'd be rolling joints, but Lynn produced a pipe, which looked nothing like a pipe, and held it close to my face, and I flinched. Elizabeth said, "No, let me shotgun him!" which meant nothing to me. Then Elizabeth's mouth was on mine, and she was breathing into my throat, and Lynn was saying, "Suck it in!" and the other girls were squealing.

I held the smoke in my lungs. I was reminded of my first swimming lessons, as a kid, and having my head pushed under the water before I was ready: The sound of nothing. Head underwater. Being forced to stay down there.

"Hold it for as long as you can," Lynn said.

"You just let me kiss you," Elizabeth said. "You just made out with a girl." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

I cracked up and some smoke got away.

"No, you have to let it out slowly," Lynn said. The bluish haze rose out of my mouth. We were in the kitchen, under fluorescent panel lights, and it was unnerving to see this cloud come out of me. I had a sip of red wine, and Elizabeth shotgunned me again. I didn't feel much at all.

"Are you stoned?" someone asked.

I wasn't, but I was feeling a little rubbery, maybe from the wine. "Well, then, let's get this going already," Lynn said. She forced the pipe between my lips, a fresh pile of pot at the end of it. She flicked her lighter alive, the flame close enough to singe my hair. The weed wilted and began to burn. I started to inhale.

"There you go," Lynn said, "you're doing it." The flame from the lighter reached back and curved into the pipe as I sucked in.

"Oh, I wanna get a picture!" Elizabeth said.

"Just keep going as much as you can and then hold it."

"Where's my camera?" Elizabeth wailed and dashed around to find it. I was holding the smoke in my lungs.

"Are you holding it?"

I nodded. My eyes went blurry. A trail of smoke flowed back out of the pipe. My throat was burning. Then I started coughing, a sick, wheezy cough, and the smoke came puffing out. "I couldn't hold it any longer." I gasped for fresh air, but my mouth and throat filled with fiery cotton. "I can't breathe at all."

Someone said I should eat a cupcake, and the carpet got messy with chocolate crumbs. Then I felt sick to my stomach, lightheaded, headachy, and the muscles in my arms and legs started burning.

Three or four more times--well, who knows how many, I didn't count-- I breathed in on the pipe, held it, and got glassy-eyed. After midnight, I decided it wasn't working. Maybe I was trying too hard to feel the effects and to get it right for the camera.

Or maybe it was working, and this was all there is to it: losing my place in conversation and feeling stupid, short of breath. On my way home, I was convinced the cab driver could smell the stuff on me. Then, after I got out, I was convinced I'd overpaid him. (I hadn't.) I busted up laughing.

I told my boyfriend that it hadn't really worked on me, that I wasn't paranoid, that I didn't even have the munchies. Five minutes later I was making ravioli.

E-mail: cfrizzelle@seattleweekly.com

* Names have been changed.

The Last Time

By Peter Franklin

Mine is the familiar tale of someone who smoked pot pretty regularly during their late teens and early 20s. Over time, my interest in the stuff declined, and for the last several years I'd smoked only occasionally, until earlier this year when I decided that I'd taken my final toke. The decision didn't come on the heels of a bad high, an arrest, or a religious awakening. Instead, my reservations about smoking pot--some admittedly superficial, some more substantive--simply outweighed the pleasures to a great enough extent that it was time for me to quit.

Pot just isn't my style. Like the clothes you wear or the car you drive or the music you listen to, the drugs you take reflect a lot about your personality. While being a pot smoker doesn't mean you are required to wear sandals, drive a VW bus, or "jam out" to the Dead, it's definitely got its own aesthetic--just look around at the Hempfest crowd. Appalling breaches in fashion such as Caucasians with dreadlocks and that silly dance most of the audience at a Phish show do can only be attributed to marijuana use. I never smoked pot to be part of a larger lifestyle--I smoked it because it was easy to get and scrambled my head for a couple hours. The possibility that prolonged use would slowly warm me to the accoutrements of pot culture, though, always stuck in the back of my mind.

Perhaps because it is a plant, pot enthusiasts like to act as if it's a necessary nutrient. Though it's probably no worse (or even better) for you than drinking, it's not exactly a health-promoting hobby either. It's murder on your lungs, and you'll never convince me that regular use doesn't make you dumber. The spiel about it stimulating creativity is nice, but for every good idea unleashed by pot, thousands of horrible ones are born. Fortunately, the lethargy that goes along with getting high prevents the large majority of them from being unleashed upon the world.

I'd be lying if I didn't say that the process of getting older (I'll be 30 next month) and the increased sense of mortality that accompanies it wasn't a big part of my decision. After years of treating myself to a variety of vices in moderation, I wasn't very pleased with the results: considerable weight gain, decreased coordination, and, worse yet, the suspicion that I maybe wasn't as smart as I used to be. Pot may not have played a significant role in the decline, but it wasn't doing me any favors. The daily exercise, healthy foods, and ambitious reading list that have replaced some of my former habits may be "square," but after only six months under the new regime I feel better than I have in ages. There will always be a special place in my heart for the giant rotating salad bar that so entertained me during my first high, the hazy afternoons with the blinds drawn listening to Galaxie 500 and Jesus and Mary Chain records, and the giddy Thanksgiving blurred by an especially potent batch of brownies, but I'm sure I won't be missing anything.

Nightmare on Weed Street - The Pitfalls of Getting High

By David Massengill

Enjoy your stoned self while swaying to the reggae beat at Hempfest '01. But you should keep track of your most dependable pal, the first aid tent, and the nearest Honey Bucket. Not everyone enjoys turning on and tuning out:

BJORN: While visiting my friend at U.C.L.A., I went to an apartment party where I smoked way too much pot. I remember lying on the floor while everything started spinning around me. I could barely muster the energy to get up, when who do I run into but an old, barely-an-acquaintance junior high classmate. Being of "green mind," I found the situation so overwhelmingly random that I had to laugh out loud, then escape A.S.A.P. I knew he was stone-cold sober, and I felt like a complete jackass. My evacuation led me to a bench in front of the apartment. The next thing I remember is the campus police force arriving to break up the party. Just as people began filing out I threw up all over the ground. Even worse, when I got back to my friend's dorm, I puked on his anti-drinking and -drugs roommate's pillow (the poor guy was out of town so I slept on his bed). As if that wasn't enough, apparently I got up at 3 a.m. and took a leak in the wastebasket.

CHRIS: The setting: inside a cozy pot cafe in Maastricht, Holland. The characters: me, an American who'd been studying abroad in England; my two best European friends; and their pals, including a 6-foot-4-inch German lad named--no joke--Hulgar. Longtime dope smokers frustrated with having to scrape up hash on campus, we were thrilled to be able to order joints from a menu. But after the third time we'd passed around the "Super Jamaica," Hulgar's face turned a pale green. When we asked if he was OK, he replied weakly, "I'm going to the rest room." Our eyes slits, we watched the giant German take a few steps toward the bar, and then--like a redwood after a lumberman calls "Timber!"--fall to the wooden floor with a violent CRACK! A lady at the bar guffawed; the manager, concerned his patron might be diabetic, slipped sugar cubes into Hulgar's mouth. When Hulgar awakened, we dragged his 200-pound-plus body onto the street, where we propped him against a wall, pushing him back up every time he flopped over.

SYLVIA: I got my cat, Coco, from my pot dealer. Most people think their cats are smart and intuitive. Not me. Little Coco may be the cutest cat in the world, but she's not very bright. Who can blame her? During her all-important infant stage, Coco was subject to the terrors of a dealer's den. Each day, a fog of marijuana smoke descended on the innocent kitten as she foraged for food in the house of sin--corn chips, leftover pizza dough, cigarette stubs. As a result, little Coco acts a little brain-dead. Most often, you'll find her vegging in front of the TV. If you ask her what she's watching, she'll meow and then run to her food bowl. It's as if she's forgotten what the question was, much like the guy in Memento with no short-term memory. Poor pot-headed creature, she'll spend the remainder of her undoubtedly shortened life in the margins of feline society, excluded from other, more honorable cats. Take it from Coco; smart cats just say no!

B.J.: The "bad experience" that put me off pot for good happened over 20 years ago. I had just divorced my first husband and had a young son, so I moved back to my parents' house until I earned enough money to get my own place again. One day a childhood friend came by offering weed. I hadn't smoked pot for over two years, so I figured, "Sure, why not?" I held off on ingesting the stuff until an afternoon when my parents--rather conservative folks who insisted that "pot leads to heroin addiction"--left the house. Unfortunately for me, this weed had been sprayed with Paraquat, which the government had been using in Mexico. I found out this bit of information from the lovely medics who resuscitated me. I had an allergic reaction and couldn't breathe. About that time my mother came home, heard me fall to the floor, and called 911. Needless to say, I haven't been too interested in the stuff since.

E-mail: dmassengill@seattleweekly.com

DEALERS

The Artist

32 year old male

How did you start selling the reefer?

The reefer? Um, let's see, I have a friend that sells it, and when I quit my job, she got me started selling it.

Where does your product come from?

From her. I don't know where it comes from--up north.

How much do you charge?

It depends--bags for $40 to $50 [an eighth-ounce].

How much of a profit do you make on an eighth?

Maybe $10. Not much. I'm not real greedy about it. It pays my utilities. I don't really have to do anything like go pick it up; it just comes to me. I may make about $100 a month.

Do you deliver?

Do you?

Do you sell anything else?

Art.

Do you have another job?

I paint. I used to have a "real" job, in retail sales at Nordstrom, but I never sold pot then.

Is there a hobby/interest that your Mary Jane enterprise supports?

You mean like kiddie porn? I already told you, I paint.

How much do you smoke?

Not that much.

What's your favorite stoned activity?

Painting, writing--something creative. I use it as a tool.

Do you prefer a sweet snack or a salty snack?

When I'm stoned? Or at any time?

Either.

It depends; I like sweet and salty. But not at the same time.

What's your sign?

Aquarius.

How many of your friends just want to hang out with you because you have weed?

Just you.

Who's got the kind buds?

I do, dog!

The Businessman

46-Year old male

How did you start selling the reefer?

As a way to make ends meet in the '70s.

Where does your product come from?

My basement.

How much do you charge?

I'd rather give it away than sell it. If I do sell it, I make certain that it is the best product for the least amount of money that anybody can find anywhere. And so a prime ounce of the best skunk bud, I would charge $280 for--$10 a gram.

How much of a profit do you make?

It's sort of a karmic thing. What I try to do to keep the flow going is just do it in the most positive way that I possibly can. I grow it organically, and I like people to feel like they're getting a good deal, so nobody feels like they just got the smallest bag for $40 that they've ever seen in their life. I'm mostly concerned with my own stash and being able to give stash away to people I know and love. So I do a real minimal thing--also because there are federal parameters to the repercussions for being involved in it, so I keep it under the numbers.

Do you have another job?

Yes, I'm in the service industry. I deal with people. I'm a successful small-business owner.

How much do you smoke?

It rounds off my rough edges at night. I don't use it during the day because I want to be at my sharpest for my work, but it is something that's part of my life in the evenings when I get home.

What's your favorite stoned activity?

Watching the Mariners.

Do you prefer a sweet snack or a salty snack?

Well, I guess after I've had my little smoke, I kind of like my cold cereal, so it's sweet. I do like Captain Crunch, but it hurts the roof of my mouth--and you have to eat more than one bowl, so after that second bowl, you've got the raw mouth. I've gone to Quisp now; it tastes just like Captain Crunch, but they're saucer shaped. You've got to check it out.

What's your sign?

Leo.

Any other pot philosophy?

I would hope that people would realize that it's a benevolent thing, capable of being abused like anything is; I do have some concerns about young people being involved because it has an effect on motivation, but I believe that basically it is a good and loving thing in our world. And many people who are loving, God-fearing, responsible citizens use it, and that's OK--many more than any-body thinks.

The Girl Next Door

35-Year old female

How did you start selling the reefer?

I'm not really sure; it just happened over time, through many contacts and a lot of trust.

Where does your product come from?

Locally, Canada, and Oregon.

How much do you charge?

$300-$375 per ounce, depending on quality and demand. I won't sell to just anyone, and I won't buy from just anyone. You have to be extremely careful, regardless of who you are dealing with. I never buy a quantity that will get me more than a one-year sentence on a first-time offense.

How much of a profit do you make?

$25-$150 per ounce; it depends on if I'm doing a favor for a friend or strictly selling. It could also have to do with where it's coming from and the cost from my seller. And if demand is very high, it does drive the price up, especially if the quality is exceptional. Though I'm not really in this for the money--you can't really make much being a MJ seller. It's mostly because I believe that pot should be legal, and I don't think that people should have to go through hell to get something that is far less of a danger to society than alcohol. It just so happens that I can get it and believe that I should pass it along to people.

Do you deliver?

Almost always, with very few exceptions. I never deliver more than two ounces at a time, and I don't sell dime bags. When you're doing that, you're doing nothing but pissin' in the wind, collecting the riffraff. If you sell in larger quantities, traffic is slower, which of course slows down phone calls.

Do you sell anything else? If so, what?

I have been known to on occasion if the buyer is qualified. It has ranged from ecstasy, cocaine, occasionally heroin, to prescription drugs.

Do you have another job?

Yes. Sales.

Is there a hobby/interest that your Mary Jane enterprise supports?

This can vary, but mostly just little stuff that I would not normally purchase.

How much do you smoke?

None at all.

Do you prefer a sweet snack or a salty snack?

I guess it would depend; usually salty. Sunflower seeds in the shell are my fave. They last longer and seem to satisfy always putting something in my mouth! Being a woman, though, I do love my sweets; so when PMS strikes, you can bet that it's sweet over salty.

What's your sign?

Taurus.

How many of your friends just want to hang out with you because you have weed?

A handful. I have over time, though, "weeded" out the ones who are just a pain in the ass.

Who's got the kind buds?

Me!

Any other pot philosophy?

It is a joke of epic proportions to pretend that your next-door neighbor, your white-collar asshole boss, teacher, or just about any "law-abiding citizen" isn't smokin' dope. Everybody loves to get stoned. I've been buying and selling for over nine years and have rarely ever sold to some young street punk.

Source: Seattle Weekly (WA)
Published: August 16 - 22, 2001
Copyright: 2001 Seattle Weekly
Contact: letters@seattleweekly.com
Website: http://www.seattleweekly.com/

DL: The Politics of Pot - Seattle Weekly Series
http://www.seattleweekly.com/supplements/pot/

Pot - Seattle Weekly Special Series - Part I
http://cannabisnews.com/news/thread10673.shtml

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When the people of this country see us all as we are; it'll be a lot harder to justify the bullshit that this war on drugs has dragged us into.


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