In the Early Days

      Lucky Tailor and I couldn't find any grass, if you can believe that, but the reefer scene wasn't always what it is today. Things are better now, but we still have a ways to go. Thirty years ago we suffered dry spells in the Midwest, usually in late summer and worsening before election cycles. It wasn't classic rock then. It was just rock.

      I can remember back in the Park Layne days, going to the park in August and giving the High Sign and somebody telling me it's dry. That sinking feeling. Days of searching, looking for the friend of a friend. Sitting by the phone, sitting down the road while a friend went to check the prospects at some third-or-fourth-party's house. Pay phones and parking lots and suburban streets. Trying to look like I wasn't waiting on a drug deal.

      I remember one particular summer in Muncie, 1989, and the trials we endured looking for a bit of smoke. We went from Crawfordsville to Dayton and the story was the same. Waiting and driving and waiting some more and it never panned out. A sure thing was never a sure thing and eventually somebody would try and sell us lettuce opium. Sometimes we bought it.

      The fucked up thing is, this was how pot was a gateway drug. You know how they tell you Marijuana is bad because it leads to harder things? Well this is how.

      When it dried up, you'd ask everybody you knew where to get some pot. Eventually somebody would say “Everybody's dry now, but I know where to get some coke”. I lost friends to this every year. They'd think “Well hell, they lied to me about pot. Told me it would addict me and make me an ax wielding maniac or at the very least grow titties like a girl. Maybe they lied to me about the blow too”. Next thing you know they're selling blowjobs on Penn Street in Springfield or popping their collars and listening to Billy Ocean.     Like I said, I lost friends to this every year.

      This is why I started selling pot. It was never about the money. Selling pot for the money is like running a pizzeria for the money. The risk is greater than the reward if you do it right and don't take advantage of people. You do it for the love of it.

      In the dry spell of '89, the Connersville boys called and said they had a sure thing. A friend of a friend who lived on Jackson Street had the hookup. I picked them up and they took me to a guy's house who had us drive him to Whitely. He took our money and walked in the front door of a house and fifteen minutes later I saw him go out the back wearing a different jacket and hat.

      I was all for storming the joint, but the Connersville boys talked me down. We waited fifteen more minutes and then I went and knocked. The residents claimed a total stranger entered their house, exchanged jackets, and escaped out the back way. I knew he couldn't have made it back to Jackson Street yet by foot. I assumed he would stop for crack somewhere 

      I had the Connersville boys drive me back to his house where I kicked in his door and stole his color TV and a box of fried chicken from his freezer. I got my fifty bucks back on the TV. We ate the chicken.

      The next day they called and had another sure thing in Connersville. They had a friend holding a half ounce for me. They dragged me 46.1 miles to their “sure thing” where I waited at a railroad bridge, hunting geodes. They arrived and gave me three thin joints and thirty five bucks back. Lucky and I smoked one with them, on the 46.1 mile ride back, and dropped them back in the village where they came from.

       It was Wednesday night, so we smoked a second and went to the “Skin to Win” wet tee shirt contest at The Golden Fox. It was a good way for Ball State girls to make rent.

       I tucked the last doobie behind my ear and we returned to my place on Wheeling to smoke it. When we got there, my girlfriend who didn't live there, had locked us out. She would do that. She said she was never trying to keep me out of my own house. She just wanted to feel safe and wanted to know when I got home 

      I had ways around that.

      I had a window I liked to keep unlocked for such situations. Failing that, there was a door behind the refrigerator I could jimmy and push through. This particular night the window worked well enough. I climbed in, and opened the door for Mr. Tailor.

      Once we were safely inside and Amy not woken, I reached behind my ear for the last hardworn joint and it wasn't there. We panicked. We searched the car and the gravel and bushes outside the window and nothing. There was a rack of albums below the window I had climbed in. LP's. Vinyl records for you youngsters. Zepplin and Halen and Rush. Kansas Leftoverture and Frampton Comes Alive and Journey Escape. 

      We dumped them all out looking to see if the spliff might have fallen inside when I climbed in.

We searched the gravel and bushes again, flicking our bics until they melted down and we eventually gave up. Lucky made me promise to call him if I found it, and he was headed out the driveway in the Tercel when I ran my hands through my hair...

                                              ...and found the joint behind my OTHER ear.

(We were joyful. We might have hugged).

Let this be a lesson. ALWAYS check behind the OTHER EAR.

Police complicity in the deaths of thousands

The crack epidemic was engineered to take down the poor black man. The Meth epidemic is engineered to weed out the ignorant white people. For every one pot meth lab busted, fifteen bigger dealers go free...and they (as snitches) provide the fodder to make the system look like its doing it's job. Nobody's trying to take any of the dangerous drugs off the street. It is all just a numbers game to generate revenue and control the populace. Heroin, Meth, they do not care who lives and dies! Save your town! Stop the cycle. No more get out of jail free for snitches. Stop police sanctified sales of hard drugs!

They put everything they seize back on the street! That's why I am free. Those awesome blue squares of LSD with gold stars...The cops sold them as part of their "investigations". Proof enough. If they cared and wanted the drugs off the streets, IF THEY GAVE A SHIT! they wouldn't put them back out there after they were confiscated. They do this with DANGEROUS DRUGS TOO! Heroin they confiscate? Back on the street. Meth they confiscate? Back on the street. And you call them heroes.

"We don't want to bust people for crack and hard drugs, because they're junkies. They don't own anything. People with marijuana, people with LSD, they have bank accounts. They own property. That's who we want, people with something to lose". - Muncie Police (1992)
It is these policies that advanced things to where they are today

"Talk to the arresting officers, they have authority to make decisions in this instance" -Rick Reed, former prosecutor

"I am probably the most intelligent man in Delaware County and I am telling you, if you try to run, you will never make it. You need to talk to Rick Reed. I made you an appointment. He's waiting". - Geoffrey Rivers, Public Pretender.

"They are going to hang you, boy. Don't you know Americans hate drugs"? -jailhouse guard

"Where have you been getting your information? America LOVES drugs!"-TSB

  It's not about me now. I had my time. People are dying. Towns are dying. Our children are dying, and this is why. Fuck you war on drugs and fuck you war on drug mongers. I have a lot of fun with my story, but this part of it really pisses me off.

A.K.A. Bill the Sailor and One Eyed Peter

I sat with my back to the one way mirror in the interrogation room. Across from me were two of the biggest criminals I had ever been face to face with. On the left, was the one they all called Sarge. The one on my right had the nickname “Jump Street” because he looked younger than his age and often worked undercover.

These two would go on to rob hundreds of accused drug dealers. Sarge rose in rank, enjoying the support of crooked politicians and attorneys. Jump Street was wise enough to use his resume to get out of town before their playhouse collapsed under formal charges, disbandment, and restitution.I think Sarge mows lawns now, and answers phones for somebody.

But at this time they were young, barely older than my twenty five years, and allowed to do as they would. The town had once been known for the corruption of it's police. Many from that era were retired, or soon to do so, and there was a new generation of gangsters with badges aspiring to fill their shoes. The hysteria of The War On Drugs was at it's pinnacle and provided the perfect opportunity for bribes, “forfeitures”, and outright theft. H.W. Was President and Dave had just been elected mayor.

They had me sign a Miranda statement, and were collecting my personal information. Sarge did most of the talking. Jump Street left the room a few times and returned with evidence bags, file folders, and the occasional supervisory agent. One detective, I had known as an outlaw biker and had no idea he was Drug Task Force. It turns out, he had investigated almost every unsolved murder in the previous decade. Many of the victims (women) had ties with law enforcement or politicians through either their jobs or personal relationships. That's a different story though, and for somebody else to tell.

We got to the part where Sarge asked me if I had any aliases or nicknames. Seeing a chance to have some fun, I answered in the affirmative. “Some people call me Redbeard” I told him. “Any others?” he asked, “Sure”, I replied, and really got into it. I told him how in elementary school, I wrote a series of short stories wherein I had super powers and used the name Barno and it had stuck among the boys I grew up with. Then I started playing word games with my names as he listed them. I was born with the name Todd Stuart Christian, so I gave him that one next.

Then I said Stuart Christian, Chris Stuart, Chris Barnes, Stuart Barnes, etc. I went on like this for awhile; enough that he had to turn the sheet over and keep writing. I was able to keep up the charade halfway through a second page before I began running out of ideas. I decided to give up the game. “Lefty”, I said, and couldn't believe it when he wrote it down and didn't even look up.

“Well”, I thought to myself, “might as well see how far I could go with it”. “Bill the Sailor”. I glanced over at Jump Street, who was taking notes as well. Neither of them looked up, both had paused to wait for the next name. I imagined them running all those names through some database and wondered what they would find. I was amazed they were still buying it and had to suppress the giggles.

“One Eyed Peter.”

Sarge wrote it, but Jump Street put his pencil down and whispered to his partner. Sarge looked out the top of his eyes at me and said, perfectly deadpan, “You're yanking my chain aren't you”. Unable to contain it anymore, the laughter burst out of me while they sat there looking at me stone faced.

Sarge asked me if I was on LSD “right now”. “Oh god no”, I responded, “That would be awful”. “Then why are you laughing and joking” he wanted to know, “Most people aren't very happy where you are right now”. “I'm just trying to make the best of a bad situation”, I told him honestly, “You have your job to do and I have mine”.

I figure one day it will all bite me in the ass. Some cop somewhere will run my numbers and all those bogus aliases will show up along with a warrant for Bill the Sailor or ol' One Eyed Peter and I'd better have a good alibi.

How I Wound Up in Muncie, and What I Found There

I didn't really have a good reason for moving to Muncie.

I'd left my first wife in the spring of '88 and returned to Ohio. I rented a bungalow at a vintage motor court on the Dixie Highway and got a pizza job. By August, I still hadn't found an apartment and was getting discouraged. A girl I worked with told me it was shame I wasn't looking in Muncie, Indiana. She was returning to school in the fall and one of her roommates had backed out of their lease. She said there were plenty of pizza joints in town, and I should check it out.

On a whim, I traveled to Indiana and did a walk through. My room had double pocket doors, a marble fireplace with a mirror and columns all the way up to the twelve foot ceiling, and a private entrance. My portion of the rent would be $150.00 per month. On the way out of town, I got a job managing a pizzeria on campus. By September, I was living with three sophomore girls; two topless dancers and and the sweetest little architect student.

When I called my dad to tell him about the move, he said I was dumber than owl shit.

Friends from Dayton threw me a going away party and we dropped acid. At about 2:00 am they headed back to their wives and girlfriends and I got on the road west. I took the interstate and there was one lane from construction all the way from Dayton to Richmond. Large barrels crowded in on me, festooned with flashing lights that sent my LSD high into overload. My forearms were sore from clenching the wheel so hard and I kept forgetting to breathe. Even though I had the cruise control set at 40, I alternately thought I was creeping or racing. I should have stayed at John's place, or at least taken the farm roads.

Somehow, I found my way to Muncie and located my new home. The girls weren't due for another week. I wasn't really supposed to be there myself, but I knew the house was empty and I had a key and couldn't see paying another week at the motor court when there was adventure and exploration ahead of me. I stashed my grass, unloaded the hot rod, hung a hammock, and slept until four the next afternoon.

I posted a few posters and considered myself unpacked. I grabbed a manageable amount of buds from my quarter pound and jumped in the Buick, eager to see where the hell I landed. My first stop was the pizzeria, where I let them know I was in town and would report for work the following week as planned. Then I just drove around getting high and familiarizing myself with my new environment.

I found a street on the south side that was about thirty or so blocks long and bumper to bumper hot rods. The parking lots were full of pretty girls milling about in frilly little skirts and teased bangs. On one end of the cruising strip was a genuine old fashioned burger joint. It was like going back in time. On my third pass down Madison Street, I found a race. A '69 Nova lined up with me at the Memorial Drive stop light and by time we reached the railroad bridge about twelve blocks north, I had him by two lengths.

Suddenly, he turned off and just as I was thinking he was a sore loser for not pulling into McDonalds to meet me and talk cars, I saw the cop falling in behind me. First day in town, out of state tags, reefer... no thanks. I went the wrong way down a one way and punched it, turning off before the officer showed up in the mirror. I did that a couple of more times, and then headed back to campus where they had different cops.

I checked out the village, and was impressed by the counter culture scene. There were some good bars, and great music. I walked down University Avenue smoking fat joints and meeting groovy people. I fell in love with that town

I thought I'd end the night by stopping by the pizzeria for a take home pie and meet some of my new co-workers while it cooked. The pizzamaker was a pale, skinny, brooding fella who reminded me of Edward Scissorhands. The closing driver that night was an Irish guy with an afro who looked like a Hanna Barberra character. The shop was built in an old house and business was slow since classes hadn't started yet. The Hair Bear dude had a guitar out and played some old Cat Stevens and Don McLean on the porch while we watched the pretty girls go by.

Scissorhands offered me the pizza for free if I'd stay and help close. We locked up and the three of us smoked the last of my night's walking around stash in the walk in. Hair Bear invited me back to his place to sample his doobage when we left. I remember heading up the street I lived on and turning just before the fairgrounds and winding through a neighborhood to a huge yellow house. I tried to go to his house the next day and see if he wanted to hit the bars, but had a wild adventure trying to find it.

I turned just where I thought we had the day before, but it looked a little different. This street curved to the left and came to a tee at a dirt road. If I turned right on the dirt, I figured I might come out somewhere near where I was heading. I did so and a little while later the road curved to the left, then again. Then AGAIN! I had almost gone in a complete circle. Then, looking up, I noticed the grand stand. I had unwittingly driven onto the horse track at the fairgrounds.

I thought I was probably already busted, and anyway, when would I get another opportunity like this? I dropped it into first, floored it, did two laps and got the hell out of there. I headed to the village (where they had different cops).

Once again, I gravitated to the pizza joint where I thought I might get better directions to Hair Bear's place. I was told he was at another driver's place helping him move and they showed me a note on the bulletin board from Lucky Tailor, requesting assistance and accompanied by a map and the promise of free beer.

I now had plans for the evening.