It's no secret that I can drink. Not always successfully but always excessively.
When I was a teenager I was the party 'till you puke guy and spent the next 40 years of my life as the party leader but life almost went a different path.
There was a year and a half in there where I stopped drinking and was going to live the more peaceful and harmonious lifestyle of weed and psychedelics BUT I got arrested on my way to West Virginia for possession of marijuana, liquor (dry county) and a concealed weapon. The weapon was a knife about three or four inches long that had a blade that was perfect for opening my tobacco tins and it had fallen under my seat next to an old, empty Jim Beam flask hence the liquor charge.
The trooper who initially pulled me over for suspicion of a radar detector (illegal in Virginia) smelled the joint I had just got done smoking as the sun was rising before he stopped me. When I left Florida it was June and 88*, when I got out of the car in the mountains it was 34*.
The trooper was nice enough to let me put on jeans and a jacket after he searched them. As he walked back to his car I reached in my car and grabbed this 1/4 ounce bag of really good sinsemilla I had in the center console and shoved it in my jacket pocket that he had already searched and stood by the guardrail. I knew I was busted so when the officer offered to give me a break if I "just hand over all your 'drugs' to me now instead of making me search" so I grabbed the big ounce of regs from behind my seat and handed it over. Things were looking good, maybe a warning...
As he is setting in his car several more troopers pull up and they are agitated. The coal miners are on strike again and there's been gunfire and they don't really want to go deal with it as it sounds worse than it actually is, the miners aren't really shooting AT each other at 7:00am, they're just acting out but it's no fun for the troopers.
This was during the 80's and a long haired faggot with Florida plates in a fast Mustang GT going north was definitely probable cause for the zero tolerance drug policies of the war on drugs. These Virginia state police guys just knew I was loaded down with cocaine.
They convinced the original trooper that I needed to be searched THOROUGHLY and proceeded to disassemble my car on the side of I-77 on a chilly mountain morning.
They grab my acoustic guitar out of it's warm case and sniff the sound hole and decide it has "pounds" of marijuana inside the hollow cavity and proceed to smash it on the guardrail which, as alarming as it was, I had to appeal to them not to break it without sounding hysterical thereby giving them probable cause to kick my ass.
"I'll take the strings off, you can feel inside, there's nothing in there but air" and the 6'4" state trooper reluctantly relinquishes the guitar back to it's case while another trooper grabs my spare tire, not the little donut spare but a $250 Goodyear high performance, speed rated tire and starts to slice it open with his buck knife saying" I bet there's 10 pounds of cocaine in here" and once again, without sounding hysterical I say' Please, I'll take it off the rim but don't cut my good spare" as he bounces it on the ground like a basketball and they determine that, it too, is full of nothing but air.
Now I'm sure I'm going to jail so I drop that 1/4 ounce bag of really good sinsemilla over the guardrail so I don't get busted with that as well, possibly making the charge felony possession.
Going to jail is never pleasant but this was a small town and the jail was a 'portable', a trailer that was in poor condition with gaping holes in the walls and floor, it was comical.
After making bail and getting my car back in pieces, I spent three hours trying to put the interior panels back on and looking for the clips and screws as they just ripped and tore everything off in a frenzy... fucking assholes!
As I got back on the interstate I approached the area where my day had been so rudely interrupted and pulled over.
I got out and hurriedly ran down a ways looking over the guardrail and there it was, that 1/4 ounce bag of sinsemilla hung up in some tall grass. I reached over and grabbed that bag, full of paranoia but fucking determined, got back in my car and as I crossed into Wild, Wonderful West Virginia I sparked up a nice fat one of that glorious green with red hair, seedless marijuana called sinsemilla.
Green with red hair sounds like a hot chick on a Star Trek episode but in late 80's America it was some of the finest stuff around. I hope the troopers enjoyed that big bag of regs as it didn't appear in court with the rest of the evidence against me.
Neither did the Jim Beam flask, probably was gifted to grand ma trooper, they wouldn't even give me my little knife for opening tobacco tins. It cost $2500 to buy my freedom back and I had to pay with MasterCard at 14% interest.
Thus ended my healthy, zen, peace and love, weed and psychedelics lifestyle.
I considered it a student loan as I learned how fucked up the justice system is. Peace and Love!
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