Long hair going down to the middle of his back, faded patched pants, beads and a psychedelic smile, he walked down the back roads of history, playing Sgt. Peppers Lonely Heart’s Club songs on a handmade wooden flute. He shunned dollars and material possessions, preferring flowers. He would often be seen hitchhiking and would always return your peace sign. He believed in free love, marijuana (which he held a religious sacrament) and peace on earth. He tasted of religious philosophies from eclectic Christianity to Mahayana Buddhism to the League for Spiritual Discovery. He was loved by children, hated by rednecks, featured in Hollywood films, such as Easy Rider, Godspell, The Big Lebowski, Zabriskie Pi. He became a familiar figure on the American Scene. And then quite suddenly, Jay Hippie, Esq., bright-eyed son of Joe Crewcut, disappeared.
Most of what makes smoking marijuana so pleasurable for people is that they have the necessary items to engage in the act of smoking it. One of the best protections against disappointment with smoking marijuana is to have a proper inventory of items and also an awareness of how to make the experience better. Let’s make the entire experience for you more calm and pleasurable.
There are two ways to grow cannabis sativa indoors. You guessed it—a right way and a wrong way. The wrong way is to throw a handful of seeds into a garbage can full of local dirt in a foil-lined closet with a desk lamp over it for twenty-four hours a day. The probable result will be plants that look like mutant bean sprouts, taste like the stuff between your toes, and give you a head like the morning after the night before. At least they're already in the garbage can.
In the later part of the 20th century, the young lawyer Keith Stroup, a key member of NORML, succeeded in influencing ten states to ease their marijuana laws. He hasn't stopped working on the other forty, where every day you smoke, you are threatened with jail. At a NORML conference, there was plenty of smoke. Hash, grass, pipes, joints, and a lot of proud homegrown, was brazenly passed in every direction, over lunch, over dinner, at the plenary sessions, in the corridors, in the public rooms, even to the hotel help.
I was talking to my good friend "the worm," whom I met because he was working as the worm in the bottom of the Mexican tequila bottles from which I was liberally drinking when they came in. I knew right away that they were Americans, not because that's the only clientele that this sleazy tourist trap just over the border gets, although it is, but because they had University of Southern California written all over their faces. And all over their T-shirts.
Unbelievable. It was right there on the radio, coming at you with 50,000 watts of power over every major AM station in the country. It was called "White Rabbit," and not only was there an assortment of LSD-laced lyrics about Alice in Wonderland and hallucinatory mushrooms, pinned by a refrain of "feed your head" bombarding you from the car radio everywhere you went, but the song was actually beautiful—a compelling melody with fascinating bass and guitar lines, the first of something they were calling the "San Francisco sound" that had psychedelics written into every quarter note. And God, could Grace Slick sing!