Over the many years I’ve spent lighting plants on fire and inhaling the chemical result of the ensuing decarboxylation, I’ve come to befriend a number of people who’ve made at least a portion of their living selling said plants.
I’ve mentioned a few of them in this space before. There’s my most recent former dealer, the ever-trusty Mr. Nickname; there’s The Guy, an interior design visionary whose doorless and dilapidated trailer home practically birthed the concept of minimalist decor; and of course there’s That Guy, with whom I have very little memory outside of a terrible night spent watching Natural Born Killers in his home. There are a couple of other otherwise nameless Guys about whom I’ve shared anecdotes as well: my former dealer with a doorbell hooked to his basement window for ease of purchase, a friend and his dad who used to employ mustard to keep police dogs off their scent, and on and on. I’ve shared these