“Tell Me Mary”
–Tomorrows Bad Seeds
Purchasing two hundred portals to manifest cannabis is what I’d consider a natural progression.
. . . Because the cannabis market I’ve always excelled in is now slowly but surely legally budding; because the search algorithm that’s captured my interest is ripe for a conquering midway through transition; and because I’m a bad-ass tactician with elephantiasis of the ballsack and an insatiable yearning to cash-in on my piety . . .
Fondling my computer with no witnesses present, I skip with the schmooze and get straight to the breeding: “What do you say, baby? You wanna make a hybrid?”
<Proceed to Checkout?>
Click.
<Please confirm your purchase.>
Click.
<Congratulations! You now own the following domains…>
Consider the venture a form of guerilla-grow: I’ve staked parcels of land to plant industry resources, up-to-date articles, price guides and reviews. All of which fertilize landings, nurture page rankings, and provide fecund soil to sprout fiscal opportunities. Opportunities I’ll mature to help me branch my way through networks and identify those needing to be clipped, cured or cloned.
Among the URLs I’ve harvested are the industry’s golden arches: I bought 420-everything, including all the states.
Also I discovered, in Trademark Registration, a club for cannabis enthusiasts is seeking protection in the US of A. Because I’ve always been a fan, and their application is still “pending,” I secured their national .coms and priced the package at fifty grand. I also acquired the links that I suspect they’ll need to franchise, if ever they decide to, one in each state. Those have been marked at twelve hundred per, a steal that makes me feel like we’re already friends.
All-in-all, for ten bones a play, I’m of the mind to think I did good.
A thought that’s quickly leveraged by an email from the registrar–and now I have mixed feelings.
<You forgot to use coupons!>
…
“Maaaan–” Saint Bizzy is processing my newest endeavor behind the venue he likes to play on our off-weeks at home. “I don’t really understand it, but it definitely sounds like some shit that Shippy would get into.”
Also partaking in our alleyway session, a talented duo, in from out of town.
Stax is laughing at Bizzy and fixing the blunt, burning uneven and making Case antsy. Case keeps pointing at the run, trying to assist, and catching Stax’s flack for the work he’s done already. “This is why Case isn’t allowed to roll. Don’t even let him try. He can’t roll for shit.”
Team Ponics is like the Mexican version of Bizzy and I: Disproportionate in size–the little one is dangerous–they partner weekends on the road to run their music game. We only differ in that they both work as artists, and I’m Bizzy’s tour manager (or so we like to say).
I don’t actually manage. Bizzy is self-sufficient. He books his own shows, supplies his own merch, and doesn’t present much of a need for the skills I’m known to hone.
Thankful for that, his tour is my vacation. I use it to relax on the weekends and entertain my wants. Which can vary quite radically between cities and venues. Same with the array of fame-fuckers and hustlers, good local eats and weird stoner love.
The van that we road with is what makes our shit official. Wrapped with his face, my brand, and a few random sponsors, we get tittied in traffic and photoed when stopped. It’s essentially a billboard when driving through cities, a beacon to party that one can park anywhere.
Saint Bizzy proposed we tour when I was going through some things–well before the funeral, not to be confused. An implosion at home called for Damage Control. My job was the opposite of “quietly make friends.” I flew east afterwards to unwind with some family. And then Boston was terrorized, and the news took effect:
I bought a ticket to New York
to try and sneak into Boston.
Up all night, convinced,
I would be wrong
not to.
An intervention in the morning:
No hunting for terrorists.
Earmarked, forever,
that feeling is
queued.
Later that week, Bizzy on the phone: “Shippy, man, you need to relax. I’m trying to tour this year. You wanna help make it happen? You can bring a set, maybe rock a few shows… Whatever you wanna do, man. Just say the word.”
Even though Bizzy and I were never really friends before that, I welcomed the offer, flew home and bought the van.
Now, there’s a lot of reasons that touring can suck–nerves start to wear, people can be shitty, and a lot of bad things just happen in general–but that’s everywhere with everyone. And Bizzy and I together, we just take it as it comes.
Team Ponics we met at a Washingon show and invited them to Vegas the following the month. It was a janky little bar sporting holes from a Glock, and for everyone involved, a complete waste of a time. Back at the casino, hotboxing our room, we swapped a few notes and got on to some trade.
When I asked Case, undocumented and employed by a slaughterhouse, to give a demonstration of his signature move, he spewed milk from his nose before describing wholeheartedly the extent of his artistry when dispatching cattle. It was less a question I asked than a formal acknowledgement, a communication between psychopaths that starts the competition.
Said competition started, this how it went:
I managed to book a party on the elevator with a septuagenarian mogul. It took me eleven floors, and I had to work around his bodyguard, but by the time the doors opened to reveal Team Ponics–who were headed towards their room when they stalled by the elevator–my new friend Rollo was ready to buy a club. “Well goddamnit, Shipwreck! Let me clear these hookers on outta my room and you can bring your boys on over for drinks.”
After we left Rollo’s, Case karate kicked a guy in the casino restaurant’s bathroom. He was approached from behind while blow-drying his hands by someone he assumed to be assailing him with a taser.
And then–
Three in the morning, there on the Strip, slinging CDs like some modern-day buskers: “Holy shit! Team Ponics and Bizzy?!” All the elements were present to commence with their training: A crowd full of drunks, an insidious fan, and a city that feeds on the ill-prepareds’ soul.
Embedded in their bodies from the dinosaur days was an instinct that told them to pick up the pace. But running from the spotlight only draws more attention–and the crowd, an organism moving in flux, even under heavy impairment knows how to prevent them.
Surveying their options barrage-deep in photos (two flashes got it going, the others knew to follow), they decided they’d escape through a cluster of ladies. An amateur move no match for a Jedi. “Hey! Where you going?” I screamed frantically. And then, pleading, while maintaining volume: “My girlfriend’s a model. She’s your biggest fan. You can’t do this to me, man. She wants to suck your dicks!”
It really didn’t matter that the three of them were nobodies. Fear of missing out is like a brawl-call for vagina: It’ll clear a Sea-Tac bench all the way from LAX. It’s the apex predator’s most prominent compulsion.
Hard to say exactly what happened after that. I got hungry for a burger, and wasn’t taking calls.
But they were all there when I woke up in morning. Along with Case’s new procurement of blunt-impact sporting goods
“Five Minutes, guys.” Somebody’s passing a message from the alleyway door. Their timing coincides with our fingering a stub.
The bar is mostly filled with supportive friends and family. Ours and other locals’, who came to warm the show.
Inside is an acquaintance that I distanced for a while. Her babies’ daddy is on the books for nine hundred with interest. After a decade, it’s getting pretty steep.
Bittersweet, the fact he’ll pay but never know.
Lucky for him.
His girl’s my biggest fan.