And yes, Jim’s name is a terrible pun.

1.

F passed the bong to Jim, who waved him off, “I dunno man, I think I’m good for now.” It was midafternoon, and they were sitting around Jim’s apartment. It’d been a couple days since either of them had been able to get anything.

“You sure? This shit’s dank!” F said, coughing as he exhaled the smoke. A TV blared in the background, another “expose” about the border. Ever since the border collapsed, the networks had a field day. Stories about the escalating violence and all the refugees were a constant.

“I know, that’s why I’m good,” Jim replied, changing the channel. Presidential address, more troops to Texas or something. What a mess that was. No matter how many troops they brought back from Iraq and Afghanistan, the border kept getting worse and worse.

F chuckled, “Haha, man, your loss,” as he hit it again. F was right, it was Jim’s loss. It was getting hard to get bud these days, and good bud like this was a special treat.

“So anyway, can you get me some?” Jim switched from broadcast to streaming to see what shows had some new episodes. Good Lord, the Simpsons 20th anniversary special? He remembered when that first aired a several years ago. That show was older than he was. He wasn’t sure he had seen the first episode. Considering the idea of a pre-Simpsons world was beyond him. Even they had switched over to streaming when everyone transitioned in 2012.

“I dunno man, stuff this good doesn’t stick around. I can try to call him though, see if he’s still got any,” F managed before dissolving into another coughing fit. “Fuck me, this is good bud!”

Good stuff rarely stuck around anymore. You’d get some overpriced mids touted as kind, and real kind was usually already kiefed anyway. Hell, because of the whole border thing, it was even tough to find schwag. People getting busted all the time, even nobodies. Nothing really heavy came of it unless they had a lot, but just the ordeal of getting arrested, booking, then having to go to holding until you can get out. If you couldn’t pay, sometimes they let you join the military and work it off.

Most of the reliable hookups had been picked up a few times, and weren’t willing to fuck with it anymore. Lots of growers had been busted, even small time home grows. Even Jim had been picked up a few times, and he’d only buy for friends when he could get a good deal.

Later that evening, F’s phone rang. “So what did he say?”Jim inquired.

“Ya man, he said we’re gravy anytime. You wanna swing by here then?” He only lived a few minutes from Jim’s apartment.

“Alright, I’ll be over in 20.”

“Cool, see ya then.”

—

A few days later, Jim and F were sitting around Jim’s living room again having another sesh. “Man, that’s some really good shit. What did you say it was called?” The guys Jim picked up for had all agreed. These days, it just had to be smokable to sell, and this stuff was good.

“Shit,” F replied, “that’s the G-13 bro, you seriously ain’t ever heard of it before?” Jim and F were something of connoisseurs when it came to bud, and the long draught and constant enforcement press were somewhat unwelcome realities.

“Of course I’ve heard of it, but I’ve heard of all kinds of shit I ain’t ever actually HAD before. It’s not like you can fuckin buy this shit in a store anymore!” That might have been the most frustrating part – 35 of the states had passed medical cannabis laws, but since the border broke and martial law was declared in the Border States, President Nalin had temporarily suspended medical cannabis laws in order to better fight the escalating violence. This was her logic, and many thought it made sense. For a nearly a decade, medical cannabis had been available in a growing number of states.

F laughed as he exhaled. “Well fuck man, now you’ve had it… fuckin’ eh,” as he passed the bong to Jim. “Don’t take it for granted, man, who knows how long we’ll have it.” Sometimes they could get bud from local growers, but it was rarer and rarer. This hookup of F’s was a treasure.

Jim laughed also. “Fuckin’ eh, man.” He milked the bong, pulling a big hit which made him choke out. When he was done coughing, he turned back to F. “So hey man, can you get more of that shit? I got some other people who want some too.”

F looked skeptical, but started to grin. “Fuck dude, I can try, I mean why not? How much?” F wasn’t really worried about getting picked up. The widespread unemployment meant a lot of people didn’t have any income, and pot was a lot cheaper than alcohol when you grow it. Getting busted was really common because of all the cops and soldiers running around these days, but they usually just let you back out with a ticket. Now, if you had a few unpaid tickets, you might start thinking joining the military was a good idea. But F hadn’t been picked up before, as he usually depended on Jim for his hookup.

Jim knew that F didn’t to do it, but Jim kind of needed this. He wasn’t getting as much work these days, and he was starting to rely on these hookups to get by. “Honestly F… how much can you get?”

—

Jim was making dinner. His phone rang three times before he got to it.

“Well he says he can do like a zone, maybe more later.” F had talked to his hookup. This was good news. An ounce, that was twice what Jim usually moved. Maybe more? Even better. Jim couldn’t believe his luck.

“What the fuck man, is he growin this shit or something?” It was a perfectly reasonable question, because of all the border violence, most bud was homegrown these days. It was funny, the government and media kept telling everyone that drugs were the cause of the violence along the Mexican border, and the martial law in the Border States, but not many drugs could actually come through that way due to all the fighting. Jim didn’t believe all the bullshit he saw on TV, so he tried to read what he could on the internet. Or what was left of it, anyway. Since the transition to Internet II, if your site wasn’t on the government’s white-list, you had to officially apply for admission. That usually took weeks.

F didn’t know anything about his hookup’s source, though. He wasn’t the sort to really consider it in the first place. “How the fuck do I know? What the fuck do you care? Since when can either of us get something like this for that fuckin price?”

Jim knew he was had. “Yeah, I know, whatever. Alright man, I’ll be by in a bit with the money.”

—

Jim was skeptical. “You sure?”

F was sure he was sure. “Fuck, man, I’m tired of runnin around with this shit, you smoke me out anyways, and if you go yourself, you don’t need me to be able to come with you, right?” F was right. He hated carrying, and didn’t want to get stopped. It’s not like the cops even had to give you a reason these days to pull you over and search your car, President Nalin had taken care of that last spring, right before the riots. Funny how the people rioted after Nalin signed away the need to get a warrant for any searches or seizures. Who’d have expected? The media said anyone who wasn’t doing anything wrong didn’t have anything to worry about, but who believed the government mouthpiece that made up the major networks these days?

F didn’t want to have his car seized, it was a luxury that he was lucky to have, and barely able to hang on to anyway. Gas was expensive, and since GM, Ford, and Chrysler collapsed, and with the global economy in the gutter, not many new ones were being produced. Even Honda and Toyota were on rough times.

Jim knew F hated carrying, but he didn’t want to risk any offense to the hookup. These were scary times, and trust could easily be broken. This was a good thing, and Jim didn’t want to fuck with a good thing. “Well fuck man, I’m down, but I don’t want him to get upset or some shit, I mean…”

F butted in before he could finish. “Nah it’s cool man, I already asked him last time.”

Jim resigned. If the guy already knew was fine with it, what could he say? It would be easier this way. “Alright, well, if you’re sure it’s cool.” F was sure.

—

“How do you know this guy anyway?” Jim asked F.

“Ah, we went to high school together,” F replied. “We lost touch while I was in college, but I ran into him a few months ago when I was home visiting my parents. After a couple drinks, he asked me if I wanted to smoke up, and well, I mean of course, right? So anyway, he said he could get me some, and here we are,” he said, as they pulled into the driveway. Neither of them saw the black sedan that stopped a few houses down.

D’s house was nice, in a nice neighborhood. Nothing ostentatious, nothing that stood out, just nice, quiet, unassuming. That can be a good thing, or not. Some nice neighborhoods are also very nosy neighborhoods. Thankfully, this wasn’t one of them. Winding drives, lots of trees, space between the homes. Apparently you can make some money selling good pot cheap. The neighborhood association employed their own armed security, a sure sign of class and privacy these days. Not all the suburbs were homeless and refugee wastelands. Yet.

D greeted them at the door. They stepped in, and he shut the door behind them. He offered them drinks – labeled stuff – and they got down to business.

“Hey man, it’s nice to finally meet you,” Jim said, “That’s some fuckin fire you’ve got!”

D smiled, “Glad you guys like it.” He was a bit shorter than Jim, but looked pretty well built. His house was nice, and he was wearing a suit. He seemed professional. Jim liked that. Professional was usually dependable.

“Yeah, hell yeah. Thanks for meeting me. I mean with people getting busted these days and shit, I mean, you know…” Jim knew all too well. He’d gotten picked up a few times. It’d been a while since he’d had a run in with the cops or MPs while he was holding, but it was always a risk.

D laughed, “Yeah man, I hear you. I’m not worried. This is a nice place, I know my neighbors, they know I’ve got a good job, nobody’s worried about shit. Just don’t get pulled over… One more thing. The price is set, man. You’re getting a good deal. Don’t get greedy, don’t attract any attention. Don’t be fuckin stupid, bro. You lead to me, I lead to you. Don’t be fuckin stupid.”

Jim smiled at D. “None of that will be a problem. I think this is the beginning of something big. A toast!” he said, tapping his phone against D’s to complete the transaction.

—
It really was good bud, that’s why it was so easy for Jim to get in over his head. Buy some for a friend, he shares it with some other friends, and now they want some too. If you’ve can get good stuff, everyone comes looking for you. As dry as it had been, Jim’s phone was ringing off the hook.

The hookup was safe, fast, and professional. Jim loved it. Everyone loved him, and everyone wanted to give him their money. And the girls… something about free drugs and extra money brought out the sex in women. It was paradise.

With the economy in an apparently perpetual slump, money on the side was important. And lucky for Jim, the hookup kept coming. Ounces moved to quarter pounds, and it was all business. The money was rolling in, and the cops weren’t anywhere to be seen. He was even selling to a few people he used to buy from. D was nonchalant about it. “Quiet times are good for business,” he’d say.

After a while, Jim started hearing about other people with the same stuff – same product, G13, same price, coming through different channels. Whoever was making this was taking ground from a lot of the guys who’d gotten busted. What was getting to Jim was that he hadn’t heard of anyone that was moving the same stuff getting busted. I mean, small time here and there, some dumbass driving drunk with some in his pocket, but nobody up the chain that he heard of. None of the other guys selling the same stuff, either.

That’s what got him, in the end. I mean, avoiding the cops was great, but Jim couldn’t help feeling like the sword of Damocles was hanging over him. Were they waiting to take them all down? Were they really just that stupid? They couldn’t be. It didn’t make sense. Everybody else gets nicked, not just for silly shit or big time shit, either. But not with this stuff. Good, cheap, easy. Too easy.

At least, it was all too easy when he didn’t have to do it. Jim was skilled, he was good at what he did. A software engineer by trade, he had gone to college and was a professional. But his firm laid him off for lack of work, and nobody else was ever hiring these days. He’d even waived his paycheck several times in the past to help the firm stay afloat. But in times like these…

Jim decided he had to step it up. This was a good hookup. He was gonna put down some of his savings and buy a pound. He was worried, though. Sure, he was experienced at buying zones for friends, but even these QPs lately seemed deeper than he was comfortable with. A pound was a whole new ballgame.

F didn’t seem to give a shit about the bud, the money, or the job. Then again, he never gave a shit. “Why fuckin worry about it when you’re getting good cheap shit, good fuckin smoke man, makin good money. I mean fuck dude, you’re movin what, a quarter pound a week? I mean you don’t really even have to work anymore.”

Jim sighed, “It’s not even about that, man. My job was ok I guess, but now, I dunno what the fuck else to do. But fuck man, that’s good money. I mean, at a QP he gives me a break, so I mean, that’s a cherry on top, right? But it’s not like I’m selling eights anymore man, so it’s not as much profit per ounce anymore, I have to sell in like quarters and halves. There’s no break on a quarter, but a half will get a break. That’s still clearin like, almost a thousand a month profit. But fuck man, he said he’d give me another break at a pound…”

F whistled, “Man, I mean, that’s like… damn. I mean, are you really… that’s… I mean, that’s… I could use some extra cash.” Who couldn’t?

Jim laughed. “A pound of bud, man, I know, it’s deep shit man. I’m fucked if anything happens. But I mean… nothing’s happening. The cops are like, I dunno, man. I haven’t really seen any bud other than this for weeks now, at least not in volume, and that’s fucked up. We used to get all kinds of different shit. Busts on TV every fuckin night, but now the last bust I really heard of, you know, someone we know, was Ahmed, you know, a couple days after he had that fuckin sick fire shit he said some friend of his grew. It’s fucked up actually.”

F laughed, “Fucked up, man. Thousand a month sellin bud. That’s what’s fucked up. Fuck you! Load that shit. A nigga’s gotta eat, man.”

They both laughed, and Jim loaded the bong, handing it to F. “Fuck it, dude. I’m buyin a fuckin pound. I mean, I figure I can buy a half pound and he’ll front me the other half right? Probably. Fuck it I’m buyin a pound. Load the bong man. And order a fuckin pizza!”

—

Jim got his pound. It was some different shit, looked a little different. “Fuck,” Jim thought. “D,” he said, “so what’s up, man… ?” Jim didn’t like to fuck with a winning ticket.

“Ah, man, yeah, I guess it’s a different grow or something, you know how it is,” D said, “G13 they said, good shit.” Jim was vaguely concerned, but hell, it was hard to argue with the price. And it looked just as good as the stuff D usually had. “Look, if you don’t like it, come back, I fuckin swear, bro.”

“But I thought the other stuff was G13,” Jim asked. I mean, that’s what F had said, right? If they didn’t look the same, they couldn’t both be G13.

“Don’t worry about it, man, it happens a lot. Two seeds from the same mother can grow up different like two brothers can look different. Don’t worry about it, I swear.” D was right. Oh well, money was money, what was Jim gonna do? Refuse it? Fuck it. D was a good guy. That was good enough for Jim.

—

A fuckin pound. Do you know how heavy a pound of weed is? Okay, well it only weighs a pound. But fuck, it’s huge! When you’re used to dealing with eights, or even ounces, a pound just seems… inexhaustible. And it was gone in two weeks.

The next one was gone in a week. Jim was makin a killing. People were coming out of the woodwork to buy from him. The cops still hadn’t been seen, and Jim was big time now. All the shit on the street seemed to be coming from the same place, and it wasn’t getting touched. “Fuckin cops,” Jim thought, “they probably finally figured out they could get their cut too.” Who gives a shit? Jim was moving from his shitty one bedroom apartment into a nice 2500 sq ft house, and wanted to plan a party.

The pound had been a good idea. He was big time now. Women, parties, and labeled booze. The cops hadn’t fucked with him. Well, he got popped once, coming from his hookup for personal bud, but they just roughed him up and let him go with a ticket. Didn’t even take him in or confiscate his bud.

It was the party, really, that fucked everything up. I mean, it was a great party, but in the end, the party was the beginning of the end. Not that that was a bad thing, I mean, you might as well end an era with a great fuckin party, right?

He’d even scouted a pretty damn nice house in one of the suburbs that wasn’t overrun. It was empty, but since the banks collapsed, most were just rotting. With a little fixing up, and some cash paid to the neighborhood association and watch to look the other way, he was taking a serious step up in the world.

However, Jim was a little concerned. He didn’t like this new type of G13 he was getting. It made him feel too dull, like it worked too well. Just zonked out, not that he couldn’t function, but that he functioned without thinking. He’d been getting some other stuff from an old hippy who grows for personal, not enough to move, just enough to get him by without zonking him. Jim still kept moving the G13 though, if his customers like it, who was he to refuse? Not to mention it was the only game in town that was in any way reliable.

—

It was a great party. Jim invited all of his best friends, and some of his best customers. It was in his new place. He was making more selling pot than he had been when he was working. He only cleared about $1300 a month, but it was more than almost all of his friends, and it didn’t take forty hours a week to earn. No boss, and pretty good job security. Unless he got busted, that is, but the fuckin cops, man… As long as he was pushin this stuff from D, the cops seemed like they were lookin the other way.

Apparently not everyone was looking the other way, though, because it was at the party it all came down. Jim was on the dance floor with some girls, havin a drink, pretending he knew how to dance, when this guy came up. “You Jim Close?” he asked. Jim looked the guy over. Pretty stereotypical stoner, few years younger than him. Dreads, hemp hoodie with Indian pattern, sandals. Scraggly facial hair. “Yeah, I’m Jim. This is my party. What about it?”

“Fuck you!” the man shouted, and slapped at Jim. “The fuck’s your problem, man?” asked Jim angrily, stepping into an aggressive stance.

“What the FUCK you sell, man?” the guy demanded.

“What the fuck you think, asshole? It looks like you’re pretty fuckin familiar with it, aren’t you? So what the fuck’s your problem?” Jim was looking for a reason to take a poke at this asshole now, coming up, talkin shit in front of his ladies.

“G13? Do you know what the fuck G13 is, dickhead? Don’t you wonder why you haven’t been busted? Why only people not selling G13 get busted? What the FUCK do you think G13 was, man? Haven’t you ever fuckin heard of it before?” The bouncers grabbed the man and started pulling him away. “Learn your history, man! What do you think G13 is? Fuckin government stooge!”

Jim was boggled. He had no idea what just happened. But he had a party to attend to. Fuck it. He had time to worry about that later.

—

Jim straggled out of his room around noon. F was passed out in his living room. Jim started making some food, and the smell was enough to rouse F. “What the fuck was that guy all about last night, man?”

“Fuck if I know. Something about G13. He said I should learn my history. I got no idea what he meant.”

“That’s fuckin strange, man. I mean, I heard the stories about G13 before, but I figured it was bullshit like so many other bud stories. You know, a good bullshit to tell when you’re smoking.”

“What do you mean?” Jim said, intrigued.

“G13, man. Government issue pot, strain 13. Supposedly, during the Vietnam War, the government started breeding their own pot. A super potent genetically engineered strain that would, like, totally zonk you out. Get you too stoned to like, go to the protests, or give a shit about anything, really. I mean, after the Civil Rights movement, and all the war protests, they just wanted a way to make all the protestors shut up. I guess they figured some like, genetically engineered bud or something was a good way to do it. Get the stoners all strung out, and there’s nobody to go to a march. Government wins by default.”

“… That’s fucked up man, that’s fuckin bullshit. No way. Fuckin stupid bullshit.” Jim didn’t believe F’s story, but he was concerned. That guy was right about one thing, nobody pushin this G13 stuff got picked up. It was about the only kind out there these days. The guys who had anything else wouldn’t sell it. Fuckin hippies. He was lucky he was able to get his personal hookup. But G13? “No fuckin way that shit’s true,” Jim thought to himself, “It’s just some good bud.” And some good luck, apparently.

—

Jim started asking around discretely about what people knew about G13. Mostly old stoner tales, much like what F had told him. His newfound muscle in the distribution industry gave him access to a wider range of users. Jim decided to ask the old hippy he’d been getting personal from. This guy had been around the block, growing and selling pot since the late 70’s at least. A fuckin’ eternity in drug years.

“G13, hmmm? Yeah, I remember G13. CIA buds. They said it was super-strong stuff, but that’s not all they said. The CIA’s been runnin coke since the 80’s, I’d imagine they’ve been involved in pot much longer. MMmmhmm, good way to make secret money, pay for secret projects…”

For years, it had been getting harder and harder to get good bud. Prices were going up, availability was going down, or at least, more secretive. Busts were way up, even small timers. The civil war in Mexico really stepped up the War on Drugs at home. When the refugees overran the border in late 2010, the Federal government had been using troops to guard the border and put down “unlawful assemblies”, as the media called them. After the Mayan riots in December 2012, the DHS began removing the protestors to “free speech zones” scattered throughout the states. Since the border broke, street patrols were constant. But now this bud, good bud, was everywhere, and cheap. The cops don’t seem to touch it, at least, no one but the guy smoking it.

Sure, politicians from the right and left were calling for reinstatement of the medical cannabis laws or outright legalization, at least to stem the violence in Mexico and the Border States. If it got much worse down there, no one would be surprised if the President ordered martial law nationwide. Then the military could operate everywhere, not just major highways and designated hot zones in and around the Border States.

It was a fuckin madhouse. A strong majority of the states had declared medical pot legal, but the Feds didn’t give a fuck what the states thought. They had suspended any federal recognition of medical cannabis last winter in the fallout from the Warrant riots. The world had gone insane over drugs, and Jim couldn’t get over the fact that he was pushing out dozens of pounds a month, rakin in the cash, and despite all the rhetoric on the nightly news, no one, not a single cop, had ever looked at him sideways.

“Well, what of it? You said that’s not all they say. What else do they say?” Jim was frustrated. Everyone had the same answers, and none of it made sense.

“What’s that? Oh! What else do they say? Well,” the old man laughed, “Some had other ideas about G13. They said it was more than a pacifier. They said it was a bigger experiment, to see if they could genetically engineer the pot, and sell it to the public. Whoever smoked it would… well I don’t know what it would do. Whatever they wanted it to, I guess!”

—

The party changed everything, but the black car really pushed the accelerator. Jim was walking back to his house from a sandwich shop a few blocks away. It was a beautiful day, great for a nice walk after lunch. As he left his house, a black sedan pulled silently behind him. After following him for a few blocks, it slid up beside him. The window rolled down.

“Mr. Close,” a man in black sunglasses said, “You have been very fortunate. Do not question your fortune, you have so much to lose.”

“What are you talking about!?” Jim was startled, and a terror was slowly dawning on him. This was a new car, and electric. Few people had the money to afford new cars these days.

“I’m merely looking out for your safety, Mr. Close. You wouldn’t want anything bad to happen, would you?” The man grinned at him in an unsettling way. He was nicely dressed.

Jim was getting angry now, too. Did this man just threaten him? “Who the hell are you?” Jim demanded.

“A friend, Mr. Close,” the man said, “and you know what they say, keep your friends, Close…” The man chuckled at his own bad joke as he disappeared behind the black window.

The car drove away, leaving Jim dumbfounded. Did a man in a black just threaten him? A “man in black”, how retarded. What was it he said? “Do not question your fortune”? That just gave Jim a lot more questions, and he was getting tired of them. Things used to be simple. Go to a work for eight hours, smoke some bud, eat some dinner, maybe hang out with a friend or go out with a girl. Sure, he didn’t date as much then as he was now, but man… in some ways, it was a whole different world. A lot easier world, with a lot less questions.

We had to go yesterday to get tickets. I knew the wait would be pretty long, but dayum. A buddy came and told me to go at 2pm to be sure to get tickets, when the tickets weren’t available until 4. I got there just before 2:30 and was about the fiftieth person in line. I read a comic book (Superman – Secret Identity) and talked to friends while waiting. Around 3:30 they went around passing out free water. It was almost 4:30 before I got tickets. When I left, the line was wrapped around three sides of the block. Friends told me the tickets didn’t last until 6pm, they were supposed to be available until 9. Only 1200 seats. I guess the whole town and surrounding towns turned out.

The wait to get in was pretty long. I bought three buttons, two that said “Friends don’t let friends vote Republican”, and an Obama one for a lady friend who likes him. The guy that sold them said the money didn’t go to the campaign, which I preferred as I don’t support Obama. I wore my red shirt with an outline of the United States and the phrase “Land of the Free*” “*Some Restrictions Apply. Void Where Prohibited.” I was mildly surprised that no one said anything about it, as they made everyone remove their buttons before they entered, and no signs or banners were allowed. Then I noticed a couple of the organizers were wearing shirts that said “STOP BITCHING! Start a Revolution!”, so I guess it’s hard to say anything about my shirt when theirs is even more inflammatory.

The cops were nice, which is always a surprise for me.

The campaign brought its own air conditioners to help keep the gym cool. I watched a bomb dog sniff the A/C units and generators while I waited in line. The dog then laid under the A/C units in the shade. I didn’t blame him.

Call me ignorant, but I didn’t realize there were so many black families in rural Missouri. I saw a kid wearing a shirt that had a picture of a game controller, a plus sign, a picture of a TV, an equal sign, and a picture of a monkey. I pointed it out to a friend of mine from Saudi Arabia. He said, “Video games turn you into Barack Obama?” Good lord. I don’t know sometimes if he’s racist or just stupid. I told him to watch his mouth.

Once we got in, we had to wait about an hour and a half. I asked several workers how the question selection process would work, and no one knew. Someone told me the questioners were the ones seated on the bleachers behind where Obama would be speaking. Rigged, I figured.

Eventually a pretty young thing named P.T. Meyers (sp?) came out and talked a bit about how she was from Rolla and graduated in this gym and was proud to support Obama and have him here to speak to us. A bit later, Robin Carnahan came out and talked about growing up in Rolla, then Jean Carnahan spoke a bit. Twenty minutes or so later, Barack finally came out with Claire McCaskill and Jay Nixon.

Claire spoke first, basically pumping up herself, Jay, and Barack’s upcoming elections. Then Jay took his turn at the same. Finally Barack spoke.

He spoke for about half an hour, and made some okay points. This was an Economic forum, so he spoke almost entirely about the economy. Usual election fluff. Nothing terribly noteworthy. I’m no Obama supporter, but I clapped for him when he deserved it. I’m sure if you care what he said, you can get the video on Youtube or something. One thing I do remember is he talked about troop withdrawals in Iraq, but he also talked about increasing the number of troops in Afghanistan. “The world’s hot-spot for terrorism,” he said, “is on the border areas between Afghanistan and Pakistan.” Well, he got that almost right. I’d point to Saudi Arabia, but that’s far too risky for a Presidential candidate to admit. The Pakistan-Afghanistan border is indeed a bad place. Note to John McCain – there is no Iraq-Pakistan border. Write that one down.

Then he opened the floor for questions. Raise your hands, boy-girl order, he picks. I had a question prepared just for this, as did a couple friends. My hand shot up and stayed up. I wanted to ask him this:

George Bush’s policies, in every aspect, have been unqualified disasters. Many have referred to Bush’s policies as “Privatize the profits, socialize the losses.” His appointees Ben Bernanke and Henry Paulson are presiding over the largest series of financial system collapses in American history based on the failures of unsound investments. Bush, Bernanke, and Paulson’s response to each collapse has been massive bailouts, forcing the American public to take responsibility for trillions in private debt, increasing the debt ceiling more than seven times, and taking on the largest amount of national debt of any presidency ever. Will you continue these disastrous policies of attacking the middle class, and destroying their savings and incomes through rampant inflation to protect the wealthy, or if not, what is your alternative monetary policy?

There was a man with a microphone immediately behind me. I turned around and told him I have a question, and he started walking over. Then Obama called on a person in front of me, and the man walked away. He didn’t come back. Perhaps my friend and I looked too serious for Obama’s tastes. All the other questions he took were on-message and pretty light, pretty well lined up with the campaign’s preferences.

Obama took six questions, if I counted correctly. None of them on economics, definitely none on monetary policy, the most important issue our nation is facing right now. He chatted with the first questioner about something or other. There was the obligatory ex-military person asking about military health care, the obligatory person who lost their job and wanted to know what Obama would do to bring those jobs back, the mother worried about affordable health care for her children, and the highlight of the questions, a man who wanted to know if Obama would normalize relations with Cuba.

Obama had an interesting answer there, he basically said the sanctions weren’t working and it was time to have normal relations. We have normal relations with other communist countries, and it’s time to have them with Cuba – “It’s only 90 miles from our coast”. He talked about how Fidel stepped down and put Raul in, “who’s no gem, but it’s progress” he said, or something like that. He then said it should be acceptable for Americans with relatives in Cuba to visit their families, and if Cuba were willing to increase its recognition of human rights, then America should relax its economic restrictions. That’s a step in the right direction, I guess.

“What about Chavez!?” a woman yelled. He turned. “CHAVEZ!?” “What are you yelling?” he asked, smiling at her. “What will you do about Hugo Chavez?” This is where he made, in my opinion, a tactical mistake. “I was ASKED about CUBA, I’m TALKING about CUBA,” he snapped, and turned away. Ouch. Bad move. She was rude, but that was rude also.

After 30 minutes of talk, and 30 minutes of questions, he thanked us for having him and closed it out. I’d say he spent about another 30 minutes shaking hands and greeting the audience members who swarmed the stage.

Time well spent. He didn’t say anything terribly substantial, nothing I remember at least. If there were anything revolutionary in there, I’m sure I’d have committed it. While I remember thinking I supported some of the statements he made, he also talked a lot about paying for this, and paying for that, and cutting taxes. Sir, how do you plan on cutting taxes while increasing obligations? And he discussed inflation, but didn’t discuss how inflation is created by government expansion of the money supply by taking on additional debt! That’s what’s most important!

I showed my question around to quite a few people, and several of them expressed regret that I didn’t get to ask it. One friend said I should go ask him while he’s shaking hands, but that kind of question isn’t for him, so much as it is for the audience. Like Aaron Eckhardt’s speech in “Thank You for Smoking” where he tells his son you don’t have debates to change the opponent’s mind, you have debates to change the audience’s minds. One friend said, “It’s a shame you didn’t get to ask, that’s would have been by far the best question today.”

And isn’t that perhaps why he only answered six questions? To avoid anything of real merit?

When I was talking to friends about this over dinner, I overheard another group – a group I see around all the time, but don’t associate with – talking about Obama’s answer to the lady about Chavez. I went over and talked to them a bit. We all agreed that he had snapped at her, that it was unwarranted, and it looked poorly on him.

Thanks for coming to see us anyway, Barack. I’m not voting for you, but best of luck.

One of my friends from France got astonishingly close to him and took the following pictures. Hope you don’t mind, Lili!

Most Ponzi schemes collapse relatively quickly. Ours has taken thousands of years to fully coalesce, and hundreds of years to begin collapsing. This is because the Ponzi scheme is far beyond those that are typically encountered, which are mostly voluntary and short lived. This scheme is involuntary, and every single person in the world has slowly, painfully, ruinously, been forced to participate. Most of us now are born playing the game, running the scheme, and so we never even notice. We are none the wiser as all our work is taken from us, all our material, physical, and intellectual wealth, and we are given nothing but debt while our concerns are ignored. Most Ponzi schemes don’t give you much for your participation, which hastens their collapse. The one we are all playing, however, has made its participation required for your very existence as you know it, which gives it more longevity as so, so many are so, so unwilling to admit the farce and stop participating in this worldwide, ancient Ponzi scheme. Many who read this, or attempt to, will decry all knowledge of this crazy “Ponzi scheme” idea, as they have far too much invested in believing in the divinity of its structure to acknowledge that it exists, and is man-made, no less.

We have repeatedly experienced pains as parts of the scheme have collapsed over the ages, the shocks coming faster and faster as the end comes nearer and nearer. A new scheme is always put in place to shore up the superstructure, allowing some different people to benefit, but those who truly advantage from the schemes are mostly those who did before. Some are left behind, and some new get in, but the same circles roll through history. Now we occupy the whole planet, and nearly all our cultures are agglomerating into a global super-culture, with great variation but also with homogeneity. There are more persons on Earth than it can carry, when we consider the natural environmental functions that Earth must provide for us to survive – we need it to clean our water, provide us with air, absorb our pollution, and submit to any other changes or pressures we weigh upon it. We draw from an account the Earth began four billion years ago, and we draw it much faster than it is replenished. Without more careful spending of our resources, we will exhaust the account and have nothing left to live on. The poorest of us have long struggled, and while in many places general welfare is much greater in the past, now for some it is much, much worse. In places where starvation, war, and strife are common, we forget that these were the richest nations of antiquity. Their problems often stem from our population size, and the unmitigated pressures this creates.

We are taxing the Earth to its limits. It cannot support the pressures we put on it, and remain healthy. Its animals are dying in record numbers, the oceans have been depleted of life and filled with plastic and trash, even the birds and the bees are in dire straits. Large portions are horribly polluted, our fresh waterways are either undrinkable or nearly empty. We use things once, or for a short time time, and throw them away. Vast man-hours are wasted, never to be had again, making things that are worth nothing, doing things that are valueless. They toil and slave to have it thrown away, busywork on a global scale. Use the jug and put it in the trash. Who cares where it goes after that, it is worthless to us.

We evolved on a planet that seemed limitless, resources unknown and inexhaustible. We thrived on this wealth, living off the fat of the land, the great deposits of useful raw materials, thick throughout the continents. We prospered and we multiplied, we learned, and grew in knowledge. We conquered this Earth, and became masters of it. Now, it trembles in our grasp. We have seized it, and made it ours, but do not know how it works. We exploit it, and use up the very things that allow us to survive and be wealthy. We process its ores, its oils, and its produce, and make things that are garbage to us, designed to be obsolete, to fill our vast garbage dumps. We would squeeze it to death – our death.

We had vast social and environmental safety nets, where persons were part of a community, who knew and cared for each other, and were usually related. If anyone had a problem, everyone knew about it, cared, and contributed in some way. The community provided for itself, and worked together towards common goals. Now we are strangers in buildings, where everyone has their own problems, and we barely greet each other in the halls. We all fend for ourselves, and work towards our own ends. The bounty is not so great, and the people are vast, so competition for survival is fierce. You must participate in business as usual, or die.

Now that our accounts are nearly drawn, the poorest of us feel the greatest pressures. Those with the most troubles, the worst circumstances, and the poorest luck have no one to turn to, no one knows them, and no one cares. They have the least opportunities in business, and the least stability. But despite the vast increase in difficulties for the poor, the wealthiest grow ever wealthier, with largesse unthinkable in prior generations. If we had limitless natural resources on Earth, as we seemed to in the past, the rich could get ever richer without much affect on the poor, by simple industriousness. But now that our economy is a zero-sum game, to grow richer you must deprive the poor. And ever greater persons are being driven into the poor-house, the middle-class are being decimated by their accumulation of credit debt, mortgage debt, and overhead costs like food, gas, and taxes. What will become of them as prices continue to climb, while wages stagnate?

We are told the answer to the environmental crisis is reduce, reuse, recycle. This is about the same as saying the answer to wage stagnation is to work more hours. Cut your consumption, stop driving so much, don’t buy things you don’t need. The many are vast, and consume much. Great savings could be had by reducing waste. But those who make the decisions and control the companies that create the things that we consume continue to find new ways to force us to be ever more wasteful, to drive us further into the poorhouse, and spend our money on ever more things without value – packaging is a constant waste of material in every sector, fashions change like the wind, clothing in general is poor quality and wears out quickly, all manner of consumer electronics have a shelf life of a year or two, we are induced to buy new vehicles and houses and absolutely everything under the sun as often as we can get a loan for a new one or more of this or that. At the same time, the ultra-wealthy, the masters of all mankind, live in ever more extravagance, ludicrously lavish lifestyles that are beyond our dreams or imaginations. Not only do they exploit us for our wealth, they waste it on insane trivialities, grandiose displays of opulence, and insanely costly behaviors. We break our backs to profit another, and they waste it, they waste it! Yet we continue to do as we are told. For nation. For capitalism. For ideology. For the party. For religion. For any cause that is fed to you.

The United States as a general public is now broke. Only a small few own a huge portion of our nation and world. Our industries are going bankrupt, our institutions, our businesses, our banks, our lenders. The money that is to be had, is already had, at the top. The people have nothing left to give, the income we make is only to eat, to survive, and every year it is harder. The collapse of the American economy is just beginning, and will take many years. The world will follow. As we collapse, we must reorganize; we must change ourselves, if we are to survive.

All of us must change, not just the few on top, not only the many below. We must break this pyramid if we are to survive. We must stop allowing them to exploit us, to take our time, to take our labor, to waste our lives. We must stop investing in others, and giving ourselves as slaves and employees, and start investing in our selves, and employing ourselves. We must stand up, and say, I will waste no more. We must stop taking orders, and start taking responsibility.

Next Up: Breaking the Ponzi Scheme

Judge Simpson has declined to recuse himself due to his obvious conflict of interest. This case needs to be held across the state from Judge Rochester’s jurisdiction, where no one knows of him and he holds no influence. This has not happened.

I, like Loretta, do not think that non-violent drug offenders should go to jail. HOWEVER, I do think that John Rochester needs to be treated in the same manner as the other drug offenders who have gone before his notoriously harsh father, Judge Rochester. Perhaps having his son put in jail for a long time would demonstrate to Judge Rochester the injustice of non-violent drug convictions.

Another point made by a poster at Reddit is that perhaps Judge Rochester was aware of his son’s activities, and sentenced other offenders more harshly to keep down competition. While it’s a stretch, it’s an interesting point to ponder.

You can and should contact Judge George Simpson’s office at

District Judge Circuit: 40

George C Simpson

(256) 354-7633

P.O. Box 880

Ashland, AL 36251

You should also contact Judge Rochester, and ask him if his son’s experience will cause him to reconsider his harsh treatment of other offenders.

Circuit Judge Circuit: 40

John E Rochester

(256) 354-2242

P.O. Box 40

Ashland, AL 36251

I contacted Judge Simpson’s office earlier today, and here is the exchange I had (originally posted at Loretta’s blog).

“Judge Simpson’s office.”

“Why has Judge Simpson not recused himself from the case of John Alexander Rochester?”

“Who is this?”

“I’m an interested citizen and would like to know why Judge Simpson has not recused himself from an obvious conflict of interest.”

*click*

I called back.

“Judge Simpson’s office.”

“I think there was an error, we were disconnected. I would like to know why Judge Simpson has not recused himself from an obvious conflict of interest.”

“We weren’t disconnected, I hung up on you.”

“Why did you hang up on me?”

“I don’t speak to people who don’t tell me their name!”

-I told her my name-

“Now that you have that, could you tell me why Judge Simpson has not recused himself?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything!”

-This went back and forth a while, the only information I obtained was that the person on the phone is apparently not employed by the state but privately by the Judge.-

“But doesn’t the Judge employ you using his official budget? That makes you an employee of the public.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything. I’m not at liberty to discuss anything.”

“So you, as an individual, don’t see any problem with the Judge not recusing himself from an obvious conflict of interest?”

“He has not been before the Judge.”

“Then how did he set bonds for Mr. Rochester that are much lower than bonds set for comparable cases?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything. Please do not call us again.”

*click*

Called again.

“Judge Simpson’s office.”

“Yes ma’am, do you really not see a problem…

*click*

[with the Judge providing favors to the children of his friends?"]

We may not be able to get to Judge Simpson, but if we can at least put that seed in the head of his secretary… “Why is my boss getting so many calls about conflicts of interest? What’s going on here?” Maybe she will talk to him about that, “Judge, we’ve been receiving many calls about the Rochester case…”

Please call Judge Simpson and demand he recuse himself, and please call Judge Rochester and ask that he reconsider his positions based on his son’s experience.

I chose to do Multi-Hop Routing in Wireless Sensor Networks, which is extremely close to what I want to do professionally. I ended up talking to the Research Adviser about my future plans with free open source wireless communication systems, and he decided to modify my research to be voice over multi-hop wireless networks. That means I’ll be using their wireless voice comm system they’ve already developed, and integrate it with additional nodes to pass the signal on (hop) to propagate it to more distant nodes that can’t communicate directly with the source.

After I get that done, if I have time, I’ll then try to implement the SDR (software defined radio) equipment they have so I can experiment with different multi-hop wireless protocols like multi-channel, spread-spectrum, frequency hopping, and other types of encoding.

Its gonna be tough, since lots of this involves programming and I’m definitely no programmer, but this experience is exactly, and I mean exactly, what I need to advance my own designs. Wish me luck!

The balance I keep in my books is time-ordered, that is, they are recorded in the order they are created. The only exception is a deposit, which are preferred and processed first in the day. As far as I was aware, time-ordered systems of bookkeeping are the norm for most legitimate banks, with the exception of preferring deposits by recording them first at the start of the next day. Imagine my surprise when, in order to explain the problem, a useless customer service drone printed off their second set of internal, falsified books that they use to maximize their fees-taking. Taking from you and I, with a second set of books the ordinary public does not have access to – a set of books that are not reflected in your online account summary, which we are expected to believe is accurate.

This second set of internal books is apparently the mechanism by which they re-arrange charges, hold some from the visible record, and otherwise orchestrate to screw you as deeply as they can. Here’s what I saw, from my online banking page.

Starting at 3, the charges for 6.98 and 20.40 have been reversed. The first charge was 6.98, and the second charge was 20.40, but that’s not how they’re listed – which netted two overdraft fees for Commerce instead of one. Sneaky. Up at 2, you see a deposit listed with the same date as the last two purchases and the three overdraft fees. Notice it wasn’t deposited when the other charges were processed. You might also notice that my balance wasn’t negative until after the overdraft fees were applied – first. They have purposely set up the system to process the charges in a preferred order that maximizes their overdraft fees. But that’s not the worst of it! Check out 1. What’s that other $50 discrepancy?

Hello! Its two more overdraft fees! But where did they come from? I thought banks were supposed to be good at math, and this doesn’t add up. Good thing I keep my own books.

I was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt – again. I wasn’t able to log into my account all day 5/13, I figured there was a computer error. I also figured there was an error when I made that $20 deposit and it showed me as being -$94.05. But make no mistake, this was not an error, because when I asked if it was, I was told it was purposeful, and a second set of books was printed and shown to me. I wasn’t able to keep them, so I cannot show them to you, but it showed an amazing thing that explained everything. There were two sets of dates by each transaction – when it originated, and when it posted. The charges had been re-arranged so that it created five overdraft fees. I’ve been trying to figure out how they did it, seeing as how I didn’t get to keep the copy of their cooked record, but I suppose I’m not a sophisticated enough thief to understand their shell game. I’m going back tomorrow to try to get another copy of their internal books, and this time, I’m just going to walk out with them.

Every time that Commerce engages in their questionably legal but extremely unethical attempts to steal my money – maximize their profit, that is, sorry, only doing our job here – they compound the insult by behaving as if I have been somehow irresponsible, like it’s my fault that I am poor, and they keep a second set of books to screw me. Every single time they give me a condescending speech about being more responsible, and how this and that is not their fault et cetera, and each time it’s something they have done, a trap they have set, a game they have rigged, but oh, no, it’s my fault, I was irresponsible enough to wander into their traps or play one of their games. Gotcha! Irresponsible punk.

I understand that banks use fees to make money, but I cannot justify their bald attempts to steal comparatively large sums of money from a relatively small account. And I am quite certain that I am not the only one this happens to. What makes them think that the poorest of their customers are also the easiest to steal from? Oh, that’s right – because they are. Anyone with a large account can easily keep it positive, or have access to credit. They have money and influence, and are catered to. The poor, however, do not have money and do not have influence, so they are marginalized, exploited, and let’s be honest – screwed in every single way imaginable. They don’t have a voice with their aggressor, and they don’t have legal recourse – what attorney works will take their case, anyway?

Furthermore, doesn’t a good bank, run by an able management that knows what they’re doing and knows how to really make money, doesn’t a good bank make its fees from making good investments and giving out good loans, and not from fees charged for overdrafting accounts – which means your customer doesn’t have any money, anyway? Isn’t a good bank a financially sound institution that doesn’t rely on broke people for it’s bread and butter, but on making wise decisions?

Not every bank is like this. UMB has not once engaged in any of this despicable behavior, largely because their transaction record that they show me appears to be the same one they operate from. That is, they don’t appear to keep a second set of cooked books to manipulate for their own ends. All my charges show up immediately on my online account, they don’t show up days, weeks, or months later, in different orders. Furthermore, the one time I accidentally tried to overdraft my UMB account, the card reader did a novel thing, something that Commerce has never done – it refused the transaction for insufficient funds. Imagine that – giving up an overdraft fee to keep a straight set of honest books with positive balances. Now, Commerce, who is being responsible?

There are many problems in the banking industry right now, and I can understand that Commerce may be struggling from its participation in extremely questionable loan practices like so many dishonest others; but if the fat rich pricks in charge have lost their asses by being greedy lying pigs, it’s not my responsibility to clean up their mess by providing them with new funds I don’t have, obligated by possibly illegal transaction manipulations.

When I screw up and spend too much, Commerce is happy to charge me a $35 fee. When they screw up and lose money, Commerce is happy to charge me a $35 fee. When I spend hours and hours of my own time trying to fix the mess, just so that I don’t have to pay outrageous fees that I don’t even owe, who is going to pay me?

This event, and all the troublesome ones preceding it, are an accurate snapshot of the banking industry in America today – rich greedy executives making ridiculous money by screwing over the middle class in every way possible, and buying the legal and political clout to avoid any government intervention with the money stolen from the people. In fact, I would say this is a snapshot of banking in any time period. It’s no wonder smart people don’t trust banks, when crooked people run them.

Aren’t Republicans supposed to support small government?

Aren’t Republicans supposed to provide balanced budgets?

And who is gullible enough to believe that bullshit anyway?

PopulistAmerica published an excellent article today by the late Harry Browne, adapted from his work “The Great Libertarian Offer”.

“Until the early 1900s, the federal government did little to regulate or control the sale or use of alcohol or drugs - except for taxing alcohol.

There always will be people who are susceptible to addiction, and who take a big risk by consuming any alcohol, drugs, or tobacco. But when there’s no money to be made pushing those items on school grounds and street corners, fewer of the susceptible get hooked.

Just as today, alcohol and drugs were food for tragedy - bringing hardship and ruin to those addicted, and often to their families as well. But before government regulation, the circle of tragedy reached no further than the addict and his immediate family.”

The article goes on at some length about the connections between the enforcement of Prohibition and the growth of crime, and it’s really an excellent article, but I think that in his diplomacy Browne has missed the main point behind Prohibition and the Drug War.

That is, in my opinion, key to understanding why a failed drug policy continues to thrive, decades after it was shown to be a failure.

The drug war continues because it is the easiest and most expeditious means to institute the military style policing and political-governmental policies that facilitate the police state.

That is, the drug war is an easy excuse and ready means to wage war on the American public.

When we are all frightened about the dealer who may be living next door, the Godless, soulless, murderous junkie dealer who could be JUST NEXT DOOR, ready to molest your daughters and addict your sons – or vice versa – when we fear those around us, we are all to happy to support attacks on civil and human rights, and the erosion of freedoms and openness. Then dealers, now terrorists, if we are scared of an unknown threat that could be anywhere, any time, we are compliant.

The War on Drugs accounts for over half of all arrests in the United States in a given year, more than all violent crime combined – say it again – more than all violent crime combined. The War on Drugs excuses the highest imprisonment rate in the world, extravagant police investments into military vehicles and tactics like urban assault vehicles and SWAT teams, Gestapo tactics like no-knock warrants and nighttime raids, and all the other trappings and table dressing of a police state.

If not for the War on Drugs, the United States government could not justify its incarceration rate, its military policing and corrections investments, its spy tactics, and its outright attacks on individual privacy and autonomy. It could not justify its use of our public education systems as indoctrination systems for good-little-citizen behavior, its court systems for excusing official lies while punishing the innocent.

Over 25% of American states now allow Medical Cannabis (I really dislike the term marijuana), several more are debating doing so, and some of them are also considering decriminalization schemes, while a few major cities have already made cannabis the lowest priority for their officers. Public acceptance of Medical Cannabis is at an all-time high, as medical studies are producing positive results after being unable to study cannabis for many decades, and a large portion of the public – just about everyone I speak to, honestly – rightly believe that alcohol and nicotine are more harmful than cannabis.

It seems like cannabis has a tailwind and is making great strides towards achieving public acceptance after a 70-year reign of lies about a very useful product.

Good thing the Great Satan came up with a new public enemy #1 to keep us all scared and compliant, fearful of the unknown threat – Terrists. If not for the new fear to slot in as “DRUGGGZZZZZ!!!!” is slowly extracted, our (and I use the term “our” lightly) government might actually be put in the position to explain its outright violent aggression against civil society, peace, human rights, and personal choice.

This summer I’ll be working on an NSF research project into self-forming wireless sensor networks, right on topic for what I’m aiming to achieve. My faculty adviser at my Uni is into ultrawideband microstrip antennas also.

Anyway, I’ve got a laptop now, and should have wireless throughout the summer, so hopefully I’ll be able to put out more articles. Right now I’m really focusing on doing well in school and on this research project so I’ll have the money, experience, and education to stop talking and start doing.

I’m deeply devoted to providing free communications service for everyone, not just those who can pay extravagantly overpriced bills for the value-added government spying services, but truly everyone. I think it is our first amendment right to the freedom not only of speech, but of communication, and I think once the world can all talk to each other without worrying about whose paying the bill, we’ll all be better off.

I myself, having grown up in dire poverty and lived at mere subsistence levels in this once great, rich, powerful nation, know firsthand the limitations that come with not having enough money to do ‘basic’ things like call your congressmen or the press or a company that has wronged you somehow. If you can’t afford the bill for a call to Washington, how are you being represented? Communication is a basic human right, and we have the right to communicate without intervention, filtering, spying, eavesdropping, aggregating, or whatever other bullshit people want to claim is a necessary government function.

I think free communication services, as well as individually controlled data services (that is, hosting your own email server et al) and social networking services will transform the face of our planet, harboring a new, true direct democracy and a government that truly represents the will of the people, not just the powerful.

Thank you all who read my site, and I hope I can continue to have something interesting to say.

How?

Well… grow your own. Seriously. It’s not hard at all, if you can grow tomatoes you can grow weed. It is, in fact, a weed, and will grow with a minimum of attention – but for the best stuff, you do need to tend to it daily.

I’m not going to sit here and tell you how to grow your own pot, there’s a million books and websites on that topic much more experienced and knowledgeable about it than I am. Look up Jack Herer or Jorge Cervantes, or go to Google and search for “How to grow (pot, marijuana, cannabis, weed, ganja, whatever you want to call it)”. This guy seems to know what he’s talking about.

What I’m interested in here is the philosophy and social impact if all of us potheads were to grow our own. Here are my principles to ponder.

1. Only grow enough for yourself – 1-3 plants, maybe 5 if you’re a heavy or have lots of friends.

2. DO NOT SELL IT – not a pound, not an ounce, not a dime bag. If you have more than you need, give it to your friends. Yes, I said GIVE IT TO THEM. If they offer you money, don’t accept it. Let them buy you some beer or a new bong or something, accept an item, not cash.

3. Don’t tell anyone you’re growing – if you give them weed, just tell them a friend is growing – a friend that you NEVER NAME – and that s/he gave you more than you need.

4. Don’t drive around with it – keep it at home only! If you give some to a friend, make them come get it.

Alright, now what’s the impact of this behavior if we were to adopt it widescale?

The energy costs of your own personal grow will be about 300-500W, maybe 1kW depending on setup, undetectable by the po-po.

You don’t have to buy it, sell it, or transport it, so there goes 90% of the risk in using it.

The price of the drug will crash, putting violent gang members and drug cartels out of business.

You will always have as much pot as you want, and don’t have to pay out the nose to get it. Imagine, enough pot to eat it instead of smoking it? Enough to cook it into your meals regularly?

You’ll be the delight of all your friends – until they catch on and get on board. Who can argue when everyone benefits?

More money AND more pot? Sign me up.