Day 125: Venti mille lire di hashish per favore.

I’m embarassed to admit it but my most vivid memory of spending a year in Florence Italy (1991) is the hash we used to get in Piazza Della Vittorio. I lived in an apartment nearby with 5 other semester abroad students from around the country. They’ve all grown to become professors, lady lawyers and a dude who married a female tugboat captain. Clearly, I don’t want to tarnish their reputations by mentioning them here. It was the same story every

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Day 104: Legalize it, I guess.

Pot is legal in California and the potheads are gonna blow it because they can’t be cool for even a second. We were at Venice Beach today which is like an outdoor head shop at this point. It’s difficult to explain a bong to a 3 year old. Every block there was a shirtless bro holding a sign advertising “$40 Kush Dr. Consultation.” Ok, first of all, if you want all the squares to accept that you can now legally

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Day 75: This might be the drugs talking …

There are situational prerequisites for every drug. Different ones require different moods, have unique effects and all result in beautifully different hangovers like little snowflakes of pain and regret. I’m sober now, but here’s my take on the more popular ones as I experienced them. Alcohol Before: Uh oh, there are people here. During: Look who just joined a dart league! After: Yes, chili sounds good in an omelette. I hope that was a fart. Marijuana Before: This is like

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Day 73: Help Slipknot Franklin’s: A tale of trips, fake shrooms, and nitrous balloons

If you’re a a level 4 dead head who knows me personally and was with me that day, you’d know this post is about selling fake shrooms at a dead show to subsidize an LSD fueled nitrous oxide binge. It was 1990, and I was 18 yrs old. I was familiar with the Grateful Dead and enjoyed a few songs; Ripple, Franklin’s Tower, Estimated Prophet – basically the popular songs that any true dead head would never admit to liking.

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Day 66: Ice Cream on White Bear Lake

The summer after my sophomore year of college, I joined my friend Jeremy (the same Jeremy from the post The White Rabbit) on a pilgrimage to Minneapolis, Minnesota to drive ice cream trucks. Actually, they were vans, but the term “ice cream van” makes everyone shudder. Jeremy had rented a studio apartment only slightly bigger than a room at a Red Roof Inn. We dumped two single mattresses on opposite sides of the room and separated them with a 3

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