I've got a close friend who is one of the last remaining original hippies from the Ken Kesey days. He has a box he wants to sell me. In the box are all the things you used to be able to buy mail order from chemical companies. And some of the more industrious hippies purchased a lot of this stuff mail order and set up ... umm ... businesses. Making ... consumables ... that people like the Grateful Dead highly praised ... Welp. This box is from them. Contains all that, and more. And has the name and address of someone that pretty much everyone alive today would recognize. This thing is a fucking national treasure ... if it weren't so goddamn hot and illegal and just possessing the contents would put you on every watchlist for every three-letter agency, who'd just assume throw you behind bars and take the stuff out and sample it to track strains and compositions that still circulate today. But man... I want that box.
I used to work at the Fisherman's Terminal. I used to walk around while I ate my lunch. Ethiopian dude walked up to me once. "Merchant marine?" "Excuse me?" "Do you know to the merchant marine?" "Directions? No I'm sorry - " "Do you like to party?" Dude holds up a rag. Opens it up. hockey puck of black tar heroin, Arabic stamp on the side. I aver that I don't like to party that much and the dude moves on. I don't even like weed and I still wish I bought that fuckin' horse-chokin' slab of horse from time to time.