Days spent gazing at full-spread centerfolds burned up most of my senior semester in college. I would start to get that shaky feeling right after I finished my last class of the day, around 2:30 p.m. My palms developed a slight sheen of sweat, my face got flushed, and my eyes couldn't stay still in their sockets. My feet took over on the walk home.
   The trip was quick, about 5 minutes, traveling past worn college bars and through the stinky cloud that surrounded the coffee shop planted directly behind my dwelling. My feet would rush me to my brick duplex without any thought for the broken Icehouse and Budwieser bottles strewn across the snaky path leading to my backyard. I'd finally make it to the front door, fumble with my keys and creak the metal door open. After a few quick, shifty eyed glances around the neighborhood, I would be inside. The deadbolt would snick into place with a solid click.
   I'd quickly dump my books on the floor, glance nervously around one more time and bolt up the wooden stairs, three at a time. A short stab underneath my bed would produce a healthy stack of glossy mags, ready and willing for my close scrutiny. A blow of warm lung air would clear any interloping dust bunnies off the spectacular covers and I would indulge my sin, my illegal gandering. The first few pages were swiftly passed by. The meat of the issues lay in the center, like the sparkling, gleaming center of a geode. The centerfolds were always stunning: glistening with golden liquid, beckoning with curvaceous plenitude and filling my head with tasty dreams. I would indulge myself, fantasizing about what could be, and then, almost fully spent, close the dog-eared covers and sigh. Those fleeting moments in a crumbling brick duplex nestled behind a smelly coffeehouse began and fueled my obsession: to find and cultivate the world's best marijuana.
   My initial search started with a friend mentioning that one of his friends who was going to dental school in Philadelphia had successfully obtained some high-quality seeds, and started a really nice, full garden in his row house. This prompted me to inquire as to when we could drive up and possibly score some clones or clippings to plant my own garden. By the time we motivated ourselves to make the long drive up to Philly, the formerly huge sea of green had been reduced to four plants. During the time we waited to make the trip, the friend's apartment (which was rented) was being shown to future renters by the owner. He had to move most of the plants, and about 80 percent of them died. The remaining four - one tall, stately Jack Herer plant, glistening with trichomes and dense bud, and three smaller, purpler Mighty Mites, fat with resin - were beautiful but not available for cloning.
   With my appetite whetted from seeing world-class marijuana growing up close and personal, I had to secure some seeds. As luck would have it, graduation season was upon us, and one of my friends was taking a trip to Amsterdam in the first part of summer. He was game to try and get good genetics for me, so I hit the Web. The Web is a wonderful place for criminals. Especially for crimes that aren't universal, like the cultivating and smoking of marijuana. Numerous seed shops in Amsterdam had Web sites - I chose the very professional and renowned Sensi Seeds (www.sensiseeds.com). The nice crisp pictures of the various plants - Jack Herer, Jack Flash, Mr. Nice Guy, G13, Big Bud, got me really excited. I printed out the address and operating hours, figured out the conversion rate for the seeds I wanted to purchase (Jack Herer and Big Bud), and devised a plan to get the seeds back to me.
   Unfortunately, by the time I figured out all the logistics, the friend (who was sort of a secondary friend) was leaving the next day. (They don't call me Gene Slacks for nothing!) I scrambled to the get the dough together, caught the friend as he was leaving for the airport, and crossed my fingers. The delivery system we decided upon in our haste was the mail. The mail works, but you have to follow a few simple rules. In my haste I fucked up. I told him to just mail 'em in a padded envelope. Not the brightest plan, but a plan. He got to Amsterdam, bought the seeds, went to London on a train and then mailed the special beauties from the airport! From the airport! Of all the places to mail marijuana seeds from, why the airport! They look at everything that goes on planes!
   Oh well, needless to say, the seeds got confiscated. My dreams of world-class weed went down the tubes that muggy summer day I found my padded envelope in the mailbox. My heart leaped when I spied the brown package poking out of my mailbox. When I opened it, though, my heart crashed to the floor. Inside was a single sheet of paper from the U.S. Customs Department. It said items sent to me had been deemed illegal and if I wanted more information on the issue I could call a 1-800 number. Yeah, right. Anyway, I found out later, when my friend got back, that he could've kept the seeds on him the whole time - he never got searched.    Back to where I started. My mind whirled to find a way I could get quality seeds without expending a hefty chunk of dough on a plane flight to Amsterdam. Now, the guys up in Philly had gotten their seeds from Mark Emery in British Columbia. But, when I checked the Web site where you could order the seeds, police pressure from the U.S. had shut down Emory's American connection. A December perusal through a current High Times issue, though, drew my attention to a full-page ad for another Canadian seed company. The seeds were fairly cheap and the ad looked legit, so I sent my money in for 10 seeds of Russian Jack, a cross between White Russian and Jack Herer. I waited. And I waited. Finally, at the address I set up to receive the seeds, I hit pay dirt. An inconspicuous white envelope with a U.S. Customs label on it arrived.    At first I was a little crestfallen when I saw the Customs seal, but a quick rip and a tear revealed ten nice little seeds safely protected in a glass tube surrounded by cardboard and piece of yellowed newspaper ripped from a local B.C. daily. I couldn't believe it. The seeds were actually in my hand, no black-faced storm troopers with bristling automatic weapons at the ready had busted through the door.   I had succeeded at purchasing seeds. It sounds kind of funny when you write it down - how can it be that a human can't legally purchase the seeds of plant that grows naturally on the Earth? Enough proselytizing, I had the seeds and nothing could stop me! Ha, ha, ha, ha...
   As of this writing, the seeds are nestled deep under some nice, dark soil. They are just starting to break their shells and wiggle up toward artificial light, yearning to live and survive and bring joy to humans that just want to get high. Just get high. Is that really so wrong? <-- Back