My courageous struggle to stay high through the marijuana dark ages of the ‘80s and ‘90s.
If you’re not listening to vinyl, you’re not listening, period.It’s vinyl or nothing for me. Literally. — Cannabis enthusiast, 1920s
Allan H. is a man of a certain age living in Los Angeles; a place where weed is now legal, plentiful, potent and cheap. But before reaching the promised land, he first had to pay his dues growing up bong-to-mouth in a Boston suburb when pot was very illegal, scarce and schwag-y as hell. Let us remove our caps as we read of his heroic trials of living through a pot-unfriendly time.
Part 1: The ‘80s
One day, when I was a high school junior, my math teacher, Mr. Pilch (“Pilch the Zilch,” as we should have called him), asked to see me after class. I figured he was going to warn me about failing math again. The first time he warned me was right after my band performed outside in the quad at an after-school event. After our set, I walked over to Pilch, all sweaty and proud. “How’d ya like it?” I asked him knowingly with a cocky smile, for I knew I had kicked much ass on the drums. He just said, blankly, “You’re failing math.”
Oh well, I’m sure Keith Moon failed all of his math classes. Probably not Stewart Copeland, but definitely Moon.
This time around, Pilch didn’t want to discuss my grades—he simply asked if I was on drugs. I was not offended; it was a perfectly reasonable question. After all, in every one of my classes my M.O. was to sit in the back of the room, never speak, and look completely lost. Hindsight 20/20, I should have told him, “ …
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Author: Allan Heifetz / High Times
