DISCLAIMER
This following is being written by a close friend of mine, who wishes to remain anonymous. In honoring his wishes, I can’t really stand up for the veracity of his experiences, but I’ll take him at his word and that’s why I’ve chosen to share it. Larry
I want to thank Larry for allowing me to share this story with you. I’m not really a writer, but I think what I have to say is an absolutely harmless diversion from all we are force fed on a daily basis. I tell Larry repeatedly to be careful about being too, goddamn serious all the time.
Somehow, I managed to get through college without getting high, which was probably for the best. I am a product of the New York City public school system, right on through college. I grew up in Queens and in my community, education came ahead of having a good time, which began to scream of conflict as I progressed through the grades. However, continuing to live at home and not experiencing the world of a college campus, shielded me a bit from the full power of what was percolating during one of the most extraordinary times in our history. I was pretty much drinking alcohol and puking for my fun at the time.
The more positive a first time impression or experience, the more likelihood of being inclined to repeat it, which is terribly obvious, but leads into my story.
In the summer of ’66, I had graduated college and was having the time of my life, working at the NBC television network, actually located at 30 Rock. While in school, I got a job there as an usher for the shows being broadcast. We were called pages and I got to work The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson for several years. I actually handed Frank, Sammy and the rest of the Rat Pack their dressing room keys!
i was kind of sheltered in comparison to most of the pages, many of whom were like gypsies trying to bust into show business. There were so many wonderful characters to me, especially considering my rather conventional background. Kenyon Slaney was very British. He always dressed in terribly, well-worn, double breasted suits and his hair was always slicked back. One night, he invited me and two other pages to his five-story walk up way over in the East 60’s. He had volunteered to enable us to inhale away our pot virginity, which felt long overdue for me.
We entered his tented bedroom, making me feel like Lawrence of Arabia, sorry Larry, it’s just part of the story. We passed around the joints and waited for something to happen. I got pretty high. One of the two guys was a college friend and the other was a very tall and very straight Roman Catholic. My friend and I were laughing our asses off in the middle of the Sinai desert, stoned in the safety of our royal tent. Our religious missionary didn’t take to it, primarily because it was simply too much fun and I don’t think he felt deserving. We lost the priest and headed down the five flights and into Friday’s, one of the original singles bars in all of America.
The Sixties were quite a time, energized by fabulous music and liberated by pot. Young people wanted to be out and the vibe was a good one. Please, I know there were so many people, who got enmeshed in the politics of the time and many lost their lives. Four boys were killed in Mississippi in ’64 and I remember there were connections to my City. The Vietnam War was a tremendous tragedy with no winners. As i said in the beginning, I can leave the heavy lifting for Larry, but this is all about smiles.
My friend and I were smitten and committed ourselves to getting some product. He was far more industrious than myself and managed to secure a periodic connection for a kilo of Mexican grass, always wrapped in a thick red paper. I think we would sell three quarters of it, which paid for our split. No, I did not hang around playgrounds and sell to children, we just off loaded to friends.
I am around the same age as our host and my history goes so far back that it is often hard to see in a clear focus, but the essence is always unmistakeable. My pot stories are endless. I would walk on Madison Avenue, attache case in hand, buttoned in a lined Burberry raincoat, smoking a joint. Guys would sell loose joints of awful stuff for a buck all around Bryant Park, on the corner of 42nd and Sixth Ave., the home of the fantastic, NY Public Library, with its carved lions guarding the entryway.
I am not sure I was ever the most discreet in marijuana matters. It has always been illegal and no matter where I was in my life, I never for a minute treated it any other way. On those occasions when i have been able to travel and have it with me, I have never regretted the decision. I have even punched holes in soda cans and used them as a bong in way more than one jam.
A little over twenty years ago, something unimaginable occurred. California approved medical marijuana and while no one was paying attention, it began to smoke its away around the country.
I am not naive enough to think we are becoming much more liberal and we’ll all be draped in tie dye robes, vaping and dabbing until we succumb to happiness hernias. It’s just about money, no different than the change of heart regarding alcohol and the benign palsy of Prohibition. Frankly, based on my history, I don’t give a shit how we got here, I am simply marveling at where we are.
Sitting in the smoke filled tent with my doubled-breasted, Brit safari leader over fifty years ago, I never imagined that you could now get a little piece of hardware, allowing you to heat and inhale from a capsule of oil, pregnant with THC. You can even recharge it with your computer port. It is well on its way to becoming a full on, huge industry and it is absolutely unbelievable that this can actually be happening in my life time. We never imagined it would have medicinal value either.
Well, nothing terribly earth shattering in all this, but I did ask Larry to keep my name out of a story shared by millions of us.
ANONYMOUS