Not So Fast My Friend…

Australian fiend Graham Potter has been hiding out for ten years and they finally caught his sick ass. How this crazy decapitating weirdo blended in with normal society, kind of makes you wonder about “normal” society?

At least he can spend his remaining years with no eligibility or hope for parole.

I wish him long life.

Cento anni.

Good riddance.

I was in a little California coastal town called Summerland in the early seventies. Half of the town, which sits perched on the side of a cliff, was rumored to be populated with drug smugglers, and the other half were purported to be Drug Enforcement agents.

I was at a party of about twenty people, all in their mid-thirties and older who had never worked a day in their lives.

They weren’t DEA agents.

They were smoking what I found out to be Black Temple Ball hashish that they had smuggled from Katmandu.

I have never had a coughing spell like I did after my first hit; it literally brought me to my knees much to the approval of the crowd. I was only at the party because I was in a hot little rock band (of course before I met Karen) and I knew one of the players, but mainly because of nothing more than the reputation of my brother from the times he spent there in Summerland. I never asked him, and it was before he met and married his soulmate Marijo.

In a half-century of partying, I can’t remember (there’s a clue Einstein) when I have been so lit.

With no concrete evidence, I can tell you that when I was introduced, I was “in.”

With everyone and their drugs.

With the ladies.

They liked great-looking sculpted Latin love machines and although I started earlier than most. Starting at age four, I have been the darling of the ladies. (Oh very funny; Karen, aka the Domestic Despot overheard me writing the last sentence and she said where would I find one of those to give her?)

Very funny.

I guess she can be so blasé about it because she is spoiled by having me.

Back to the party: Before I ended up in a three-person slumber party (relax, it was with two girls) I walked into the den where the hosts had gathered. All around the room there were maps, scuba gear and tanks, etc.

Evidently they were trying to smuggle hashish back by using a known scuba diving route and by de-pressurizing their tanks before filling them with drugs and then re-pressurize the tanks before heading to customs.

It worked for years before someone got sloppy and did not cover the lead nut before re-tightening it. It left a telltale ring of scratches on the gear.

Not so fast my friends…

That’s the other side of that business a side that I danced around but quite frankly, didn’t have the balls to go “all-in.”

Thanks again, God.

Here is a song:

Call Up Trudi on the Telephone

Stay well.

Published by maddogg09

I am an unmotivated genius with an extreme love for anything that moves the emotional needles of our lives.

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