Blazers Cup 2015

Event Coverage by Tzvi


#15 Blazer’s Cup 2015, I think?

by Tzvi Peckar the Third


One of my two Molly pills pops out of my inner suit pocket. Actually I think the red and white spiraled straw jumped first, but who’s counting when you’re the guy in the All American WWII helmet, worn low past his eyes, being frisked in front of a thousand stoners waiting in line to smoke massive amounts of weed at Blazer’s Cup, San Bernardino, California, US of A, 2015—Mutha Fuckas.

            My editor in Manchester, England, has sent me out with a writer in training from San Diego—An eighteen, twenty-one? year old Ashley with died red hair, purple sunglasses, a few tattoos on the shoulders, says she listens to EDM in the car all the time, that I’m calling Ash Tag from now on. Management has graciously escorted us to the front of the line. “Our apologies for giving away your VIP passes,” he says.

            Special peoples get their own personal security guard to check for all things illegal. And you’d think he’d be the first guy to have been paid off right? Not always. “What’s this?” the guard asks me after picking up the fallen straw and the one hit of Breakfast Club. “What the fuck is that? Throw that away dude?” I bark. “This isn’t yours?” he distrustfully inquires again. “Fuck no. You find that on the ground? That’s gross. Drop that shit,” I say as Ash Tag watches in utter amazement. “So you’re saying you don’t know what this is?” he pokes me, but I’m not looking up from under my Helmet. Fuck no. I’m not gonna look at the drugs he’s trying to plant back on me. “Fuck no. Toss that shit. Who wants that crap? We good?” I instruct this dense head trying to do his job. He turns to the head of security, “I don’t think we should trust this guy.” The Big Boss looks at me, “He’s fine. Let him in”—“Thanks man appreciate it,” I say to the king, ignore my personal frisker and march Ash Tag through the front gates. “Well that sucked. That was my big Molly pill. All I got left is this quarter hit and this bullet filled with coke in my shoe,” I tell her.

“You brought coke?” she is intrigued.

“Gotta clean your nose after three hours of edibles,” I say as I wiggle my scarred schnozzle.

“Okay I guess? But I want to get way stoned,” she boasts.

“You should. But you gotta be a bit of a critic in the writing,” I advise.

“I’ll know dude,” she’ll know.

“I’m telling ya. You’re  gonna need a cup o’ Cocaines to clean your palate kid.”




Dov Sniederman from CCHI steps up to us. He’s got plank stiff gate to his stroll. Plank arms and a plank back. He’s got muscle issues. Good fucking guy. Knows what’s up. Medicates all day everyday. Prefers flowers, but has his CBD vapes for the deep tissue massage needed to combat the quality issue.

“Have her sign it. She hasn’t signed your measure yet,” I tell him and slide Ash Tag over to his clipboard.

“What is it?” she asks.

“The law,” I say.

Dov steps up to bat and begins his speech, “CCHI, California Cannabis Hemp Initiative written by Jack Herer. It’s the most positive initiative circulating right now. This allows for a real Hemp industry in California. Hemp’s more illegal than weed. Crazy to think huh?”


Ash Tag’s into it. She’s listening. Good student. Study. I hit my Jetty Vape and wait it out.


“What is more illegal than smoking pot is the non-medicinal, non-budding male plants that you make shirts, gasoline, cement, everything,” he pitches her, “This fixes that.”—Ash Tag signs the initiative and I grab her, “Moving on”—“Wait. I gotta pee,” she says. “Fine. Go pee. I’ll instagram,” I say and wait.

            I can see the line for the women’s toilet in the auditorium is forever. I dig the coke bullet out of my shoe and securely place it in my black jean’s coin pocket beside my 4Runner’s clicker. There is a small sideshow of hula-hoop dancers, rope swinger chicks, and a freak show where, “You can see the Bearded Lady! The Midget men, the Sword Swallower, the Penis Eyeball Man, the Marijuana Feathered Female Mole with No Vagina. All for just Five Dollars. You heard me folks. Just five dollars.”—I look over at Dov and he simply says, “All afternoon bro. All afternoon.” I smirk, “More like for the next 48 hours mutha fucka.” He shakes his head, “Don’t forget to get your medical wrist band”—Oh that’s a line we can’t cut. Doesn’t look too bad.




When Ash Tag finally returns from her women’s duties I walk us into the medical wristbands crowd-esque line. The crowd parts for the guy in the Helmet. They have no idea who the fuck I am, but the metal scalp demands respect. We get all the way to the second peoples in line. I turn back. Nope, just me. Where’s Ash Tag? What? She’s way back waiting in the end of the line. You’re kidding me right?—“Come on!” I yell at her. She scuffles through the crowd up to me. “Two please,” I request from the wristband dude in a poofed out beard. His beard looks stoned—“Did you see those two regular girls twerking each other in front of everybody? That’s what’s wrong with this world,” Ash’s first feminist critique of the day. I don’t see her point. I saw nothing wrong so I say, “Took a few good photos of that. What did they do that was fucked up?”—“Like they were out in front of everyone without music? It wasn’t a dance floor,” she says. I still don’t see her point. Human rights for all yo. I shrug and move us along to the Prop. 215 Area aka Blazer’s Supreme.


Ash is instantly Weed-Struck. “I can’t believe this,” she says, but I’m still moving. I see our first stop and walk straight up to B-Real. “What up? Friend of Serj’s,” I say. “Hey man. Good to meet you”—Chitter chatter about the arts and a card swap, “Call you this week,” he says and I’m out—“Was that B-Real?” Ash Tag asks. “Yeah,” I say. “You know him?” she asks as I walk her away. “I do now. Let’s get high,” and walk us straight up to a Dab table. My eye is on the bong. I let the Dab-tender know, “Alcohol rub that thing bro. Last thing I want to do is have my girl ask where I got Herpes from—Blazer’s Cup baby. I swear!” and the dude bursts out laughing like a mutha fucka, “Dab it up bro. Hit her first. She’s my writer in training. We work for,” and I push Ash Tag up to the plate. “Oh cool man. Yeah let’s give her an extra big one for a good review then,” and he sets Ash up to start the blaze. I didn’t take a photo of the stand. Sorry. Review Good. A-. Gotta start low to get high.

            A tray of hard candy strolls by carried by a girl a psychedelic owl shirt. I grab two. Pop one. Hand the other to Ash. I think her eyes disappeared under her sunglasses. “That was a free dab,” she is still amazed. Within time she actually sees the candy in her palm. Hmm?

“What’s this?”

“Eat it,” I say and move her hand towards her face. She eats it.

“Okay,” she mumbles sucking on the beveled hard candy.

“It’s a Candy Dabber Flip,” I say to a confused look, “The top’s coated in Acid, bottom’s got E, and a Dab for the gooey center.”


“No. But I should make those. Okay let’s get high,” I say and lead her to the next vendor tent, then the next, then she’s got it going on picking her very own, and I’m following her, and then I’m lost talking to someone I don’t remember and she’s somewhere around the corner looking at Joe Glass. “Yeah I know those guys. Good pieces. Come on we still need to get high,” I say and she looks at me from between her eye lids and mumbles, “Get high?”

            The soundtrack is all Hip Hop. But it’s not loud enough, and it’s not the danceable sort, so people just move along with no real rhythm to their step. A slow stoner pace I guess? But it’s not reggae? I’d like some jungle if could make that request. In the same breath I’m side stepping and doing the watusi through the crowds pretending I’m listening to Reverend Peyton’s Damn Band under this helmet. A little mental country goes a long way without jungle to dance you through a crowd with flow. In fact isn’t weed grown on farms? How ‘bout we mix in a little country with all this Urb. This is America. Look at this fucking harvest. America will survive. Mix it up mutha fuckas. This ain’t no one way street. And I dodge oncoming stoner traffic and nearly lose the writer in training.


*These vendors got us baked*

Round one.


Medicated Bacon - (I don’t eat the Hog. Not Kosher. Tastes like Cop.)

HHC Shatters & Dabs

Lit Owl - Candy! (Ash is already trying to Moonlight on us)

Infused Creations - Gummy Candies

Bud Brothers - A New Friendship is born.


Bud Bros are into us. They wanna jump on the SmokingCannabis bandwagon. They’re hooking us up with the other vendors along their table. They’re laughing. They’re knocking on the Helmet. They’re making me wait so they can fill my empty pill bottle with Girl Scout Cookies. “Done. We’ll smoke this shit when we write. Check. Sponsor,” I pronounce and turn to Ash who’s all consumed with the woman vendor, Boss Lady. The boss is all hyped to meet us. “Here, have another bag so you can carry everything,” she says as she hands us another gift bag. The Boss Lady half fills each bag with infused pasties, cookies, & cake-pops. “Wow. Keep her card,” I clue Ash in on the ticket here.


Ash says she’ll wo-man the bags for us.

“Why thank you kid,” fist punch, explode, and we move on.




We don’t know where we’re going in this outdoor grid of weed connoisseur-ism. I’m wondering where Ash Stoned will take us. She has no idea where we are. “You good?” I ask. “I’m great,” is all she wrote. I guess I’m covering this story. My phone alarm goes off. “Hold on. 4:19. I gotta Insta-fart this real quick. Work to be done,” but she’s not hearing any of it. She’s not moving either. She is in the zone of zoney-ness facing nothing at all except the blur of mixed stoner nationalities as they hazily pass by. We are so just hovering in the center of an intersection—Instagram loads my 4:20pict and I lock out the phone, “Now what?” I ask the writer in training. “Huh?”—“This way,” and I lead her somewhere—Ding. I get a text from my lady, “What are you doing now?”


*~Round Two~*

Life is too short. Eat more Cupcakes - See Pict. Too Stoned to Figure out name

Hail Mary Productions - Shatter and Dabs

Sun Grow - Had Big Trophies, Dabs, and Stuff


I’ve lost Ash Tag again. There’s nowhere to go, but VIP cabana.

“Yup,” to the guard. I walk in without a VIP badge.

This VIP lounge is as boring as a turd that never drops.

I see a Stupid Instagram cardboard cutout.

I ask this woman to take a shot for me.

Clickity Click Click

“Thanks,” fist bump, explode, and she does this poofing smoke away maneuver.

“That was it. Right there. Done. I’m stealing that,” I say.

“All yours Helmet.”


Everyone’s vaping. I’m Jetty vaping, all day, everyday.

 I don’t feel stoned yet. I am just on the same level of all these other fools.

That’s the new normal. I need to get stoned soon.

I move along out of this white couch wonderland where no one is doing blow yet,

or ever, ‘cept me I presume. You just get that feeling you are on a solo trip.

At five o’clock I’ll snap up. Wait ‘till 5. That’s the rule.

Now go get stoned bro.

So I leave VIP.

—What up Writer?—

And she hands me a large plastic cup and straw of Cherry Punch.

“It’s fucking good,” she says. She might actually be slightly less stoned now.

“Yeah that’s good,” I say, “Where do I get mine?”


R+ Remedy - Fruit Punch


And we decide to take in the show that is about to begin.


Enter the Auditorium and it’s all, “Welcome to the first annual Blazer’s Cup, San Bernardino!” and the crowd cheers and some smoke rises from the mass of heads. The stage is rap-starred out with the rise, projected DJ tables, and a suitable stony  light show. There will be rappers soon.

            The host, Adam Ill from B-Real TV’s Getting High, is going to do this thing for a minute. And he’s shooting t-shirts from a shirt gun and fanning the audience with Pre-Rolls and more smoke begins to rise from the heads of the crowd. A rapper struts on. Unsure of his name. Announced unclearly. Not the main line up. Some of the crowd knows him. Some are stoned and sway like they’re into him. No. Correction. Everyone is stoned. I give him a couple tunes. “Okay, I think it’s time to get some more goodies before the other six guys get up here,” I say to Ash Tag. She nods still clenching her punch. I finished mine lickity split. I think she heard me. “Come on,” I lead her out.


Guy in the helmet can’t go up for seconds so easily. We wander aimless for awhile passing the same places. People are giving me the helmet nod as we pass. I salute. Wave. Yup, no seconds for us until sundown. We find a new vendor. Sun’s almost gone and it makes for the Pot-Corn booth to carivalize this play. Ash doesn’t want any. I take a handful and pop ‘em as we walk—I recall losing the big Molly—“Man that was a really dumb move on my part,” I say to Ash. “What the Molly?”—“Ha. Yeah the Molly”—“Why’d they take that away?”—“Oh the War on Drugs is strong young Skywalker”—“I am pretty high,” she says. “Lets find a seat in there”—and I walk us into a black tent with one white bar table surrounded by two stools just beside the projection of what I do not remember—

            “Okay,” Ash sits and I immediately unload my pockets. This takes a minute or three. Stacks of biz cards. Phone. Wallet. Keys. Pens. Jetty Pen. More Pens. Folded fliers. Lighters. Smokes. Bottle of weed. More cards. The small Molly Pill. “See. Nothing. That shit ain’t nothing,” I say. “What are you doing?” she asks. I turn to the Budtender girls wearing tight, black, florescent green pattern print shirts how are watching me as well. “We’re just unloading our purses,” I answer Ash, but making sure the Budtenders are well aware of our actions. They smile and say, “Looks like you’re the one unloading his purse”—“Yeah you’re probably right about that. AH!” and I find my bullet and turn to Ash. “Wanna clean your nose?”—“No I’m cool”—“You sure?”—“Yeah man. I’m too stoned for that right now”—“That’s the point. Snap up!”—“I’m cool,” she drifts almost leaning off the chair, but she’s got it under control, I think? I twist the bullet’s lever and rotate the whole thing while untwisting the lever. Sniff, twist, rotate, Sniff. Yup. Good Evening. Selfie time. And let’s walk.


We’re just out of my mini-coke club and already I’ve lost her.


Round #3

Time to get High


Delivery Service the game - It’s a new gambling bingo sort of weed game.

Monkey J - A bubble-blowing toy. Fill your bubbles with weed.

Okay I am not getting High here.

Bump, twist, Bump


“What about you guys? What are you offering up to a Journalist today?”

Muffin Man - He’s got Muffin bits for me. I eat four.

Remedy + - Willy Wonka on High

Mantis Dab Kits - “Yeah man I could use a Dab” so they Dab me.


Somehow I’ve found myself playing the Delivery Service game again. You use a cup to toss wooden balls into a handcrafted box that has a hundred numbered holes.

Add up some of the numbers, in some convoluted way = your main number?

Check that number with the sheet and win drugs, free delivery, or lose.

I lost again, and again, and again. “It’s rigged,” I say to the mid-sized tattooed Carney. “Nah man you’re just stoned”— “Not stoned enough. I would have won”


Nectar Sticks — They look like Heroin Needles, but with Dab goo

New Amsterdam Naturals - Have a lot of weed for sale



Edibles, Dabs, Edibles, Vapes, Edibles, more Edibles, oh hey another Edible—I could really go for some flowers with this meal—And I see a dude rolling a blunt by himself on the inside of the VIP cabana. I step over the rope and pronounce, “There ya go. Real weed”—“Hey man. Nice helmet,” says the black guy in a Dabalicious T-shirt illustrated with a logo of a negro in white-face holding a bong. “Nice shirt,” I complement this real dude back. “You been to our stand?” he asks as he licks the blunt wrap and spins it closed. “Dabalicious? No,” I say as I snap shots of him lighting the blunt. “Cool. I’ll take ya,” he says leading me out of the VIP to his vendor stand hidden in the corner of the maze.

            “We’re all from Oregon,” he says as his blunt shows me to the counter. I like this troupes style the best. A+ with extra credit. It’s hard brake hip hop beats by their own DJ. They have Sharpie written all their $ signs and if they’re white Oregonians they’re in flannels with stocking caps and if they’re blacks they’re casually fingering you with their negro white-face logo shirts with stocking caps. “Let’s get you Dabbed,” my new friend says as I try to figure out what they were awarded the angel winged brass trophy for.

            Dabalicious doesn’t have the blunt anymore. The Oregonians chilling on the other side of the counter are passing it instead. Introductions to the flannelled Dab maker and then he sets me up. My friend gives him a nod and he puts even more shatter on the bong. “Yup,” I say and dive bomb onto the alcohol scrubbed bong hole. I can’t take it in with one take. I cough it out. It was really tasty. It also felt like a drug again. I take another third. Get it out. Another third—exhale—another, “Fuck I can’t finish this,” I say. “Yeah you can helmet man,” says the Oregonian Dab Doctor of Dabalicious. I think it takes me five minutes of toking, coughing, toking, exhaling, and toking to get close to the end of this Dab. “Dude,” I say. The Oregonian is smiling with no teeth. He’s stoned as fuck too. “Here I’ll clear it,” says one of the bystanders who I know has been here at this booth hours longer than I have. He clears it. I don’t remember. Part of me thinks these fuckers are too cool for me. I’m a fan. Yeah I become a Dabbed fan of the Dabalicious crew. So I peace out before I exhale something stupid off my tongue. Bump, Twist, Bump. Whoo-Hoo. Better see the rest of the show. Come back here tomorrow.


Yea. More Rap.

The Game? Really. Next?

Hmm? More Rap. Will it go off?

Could get out of here before all the stoners?


Day Two—


Starts at 1pm. I get there by 1:30pm. I am impressed with myself. I did not kill any of the hundred Elite motorcycle gang members on the freeway getting here. The road was over run with a swarm of two wheeled buzzers zig-zagging and soaring between cars fifteen cycles at a time. I know one of them side swiped my rear side coming through, but they held their balance as the girl passenger looked back like, “Wow we didn’t die.” I realized I woke up stoned two hours after I woke up.


The line is even more major this early afternoon. I’m not getting the walk up this time. That’s okay. I need to mingle with regular peoples. I see Noah, Jaffer’s eighteen year old stoner offspring that I hung with at Chalice this summer. “What up Nooooah,” I say through the gate. He’s too deep into the line behind the chain-link for me to sneak in with him—Too the end of the line with me—I traded in the suit and tie for my punk safety pin strapped leather lined with my hoody while sporting aviator’s and the helmet. I’m not the only punk today. Yesterday there were no punks. Today, lots of Latino punk and metal heads. Sunday is different although it’s gonna be more Rap for sure. “No rock n’ roll in there,” I say to a collective of Metal Heads. “We don’t like rock,” one of them says and the line moves.

            The dude next too me can’t wait to get stoned in event. He’s lights one fatty while he holds a second one in the same fingers so he can chain toke through the line. Everyone’s doing it. Everyone’s smoking already. Pipes. Joints. Blunts. One Hitters. Vapes. This is not the Prop. 215 area. None of this is legal. Maybe I don’t need to hide my powdered sugar bullet in my shoe this time. Better safe than sorry.


I am so fucking sorry I almost don’t want to write about it.

The bullet opened in my shoe.

Happy now? No.

I even did my best not to let the rest spill out, but I only saved a third and if you add that up in bumps that is merely two hours if, of cleaning the pupils with a little nasal maintenance. Fuck me. I’m gonna be licking my shoe by the end of the night. Fuck balls.


Not totally sure how I missed these two rows of vendors yesterday, but I guess there is something to be said about the sun today. “Ha! Garden of Weeden!” I bark as I approach a sponsor of mine, “Melissa Miller the Jetty Rep didn’t say you’d be here?” I shake the man’s hand—“Yeah she didn’t come”—“Yeah, I know that. Whatever…I took your Dried Banana to AFM and Thanksgiving. I am very happy with your product my friend”—and he shows me two punch bowls full of THC induced dried fruit. “Have some,” he says. “Breakfast of champions,” I commend him and take a few bananas along with some apple slices for my early afternoon breakfast chews. “They got coffee if you need,” he says as he directs me toward the Ganja Grindz vendor sharing his corner.

            The vendor has ice coffee. I get some ice coffee infused with liquid green gold. I think about whiskey with my weed coffee. This, my friends, is America. Whiskey when you get home. Pick me up coffee now. Cut the edge. Good. Now go get stoned some more. I take another coffee, swipe a few more dried bananas and move on to some other Cabana—“Hey what up Angela Mazareti”—Snapshot—Moving along to—“I am so stoned dude,” I say to invisible Ash Tag who has yet to show up and not going too.

            What happened to that writer in training? I have my suspicions. She text cried Family Emergency last night. If that wasn’t true then it could have been code for, “My Brain is having a weed emergency and will never get unstoned from this—I’m going home.” She did swipe both our goody bags. That in itself has me high-ly suspicious. But I could be wrong. I’m not calling you out. Oh hey Dabs~*


I’m sitting down. I’m not gonna wander this early. Fuck it. I take shelter in the green couch lounge supplied by Goldstar. I find Noah and his crew of stoned mates. These kids say nothing. And I don’t mean spewing useless knowledge—I mean they’re fucking mutes.


“I thought you said you’d find me first,” I punch Noah in the back of the shoulder. “Oh hey man,” and he leans back as I sit my helmet ass into a one person green lounge.


I snap a shot of the stoned little man boy. He doesn’t even ask how’s it going. He just leans there slant eyed looking at me. “What up kid?”—“Ah. Ha. Ha. Nothing really”—“Didn’t think so. Those your friends”—“Yeah. Ha”—“Right”—“Hey,” he says and digs a flier out of his pocket, “If you give that to the girls over there they’ll give you a joint.” I unfold the flier. Sure enough he is correct. “Good cause I gotta pee. I’ll cash in now,” and I get up, but I stop. I see a joint on the pavement. Is that theirs? Could be theirs? “Is that yours?” I ask the kid. He doesn’t seem to understand my English. “Is that your joint on the ground?” I repeat. He looks at it. “No dude,” he says. “Oh. Well don’t smoke it then,” I say like a drug grandpa. “Dude?” he says, “It’s a pair of tweezers”—“Huh?” and I drop down to the ground. I nearly bump my shades against the metal tweezers, but the helmet hits the pavement first. “It is a pair of tweezers,” I stand up. Dust myself off. Adjust my skullcap and play it off, “Okay cool, guess I’ll pee,” and I leave.

Holy fuck that was a pair of tweezers?

The kid yells back, “Catch you around,” and I wonder really? Like you guys are moving anytime soon. But yeah an hour after I pee they had moved. I was impressed. For now I am going to cash in on this joint—Thanks—And I take my coupon flier she forgot to collect and go pee, somewhere. Not the outhouses. I choose the auditorium. No line. I listen to Attention Deficit Rock music on my phone as I pee. I go back to the Prop 215 Area ‘cause the auditorium is not on play yet and there is nothing else to do here, but get more stoned and repeat, ditto, ditto.


*~2nd Day Vendors~*

Goldstar — Cashed in same flier Twice = 2 Fatties


I see Black Santa.


Rodeo Smoke Shack — At a poker table of Dabbers. “Only Vendors man,” a guy says. “I’m media. You want me here,” I fact him. He laughs. LOL. I stay. I’m bored.

I dab some Kosher Kush. I talk to the Dab TV crew that walked in. Swap cards. Leave.


Fuck. I know I smoked more weed? Who smoked me up?

Ate edibles off so many trays.

Then the Mile Hi Club happened.


“So this is a portable dab vape?” I ask the vendor—“Yeah. This part is made of ceramic. That’s what’s unique. That’s what makes the cleanest vapor”—“SmokingCannabis dot Com. Tzvi Peckar the Third. I’m a writer. Fiction mostly. Some event coverage. I use this Jetty all day. They sponsor some of my stories. They just gave me this Dabber. This is rad. Just twist it and dab comes oozing right out. Take it anywhere. But I have no Dab rig”—“Can we sponsor some stories?”—and I am sponsored one new skateboard aka my new Portable Dab Vape. Thank you. Consider yourself a sponsor. Mile Hi Club.



I join the crowd outside the Auditorium doors. I wait. 2 minutes and they open the doors. I feel lucky. The show starts as we walk in. Hip Hop beats as the Host talks us all in while showering the crowd with give away joints. Everyone starts smoking. The place goes off the hook with billows of pot smoke. Human volcanoes steaming up from the mass. So much smoke. Okay the rapper goes up. My phone alarm goes off. 4:19. At 4:20 the show just continues. I’m confused. You all just crossed the 4:20 mark without even a shout out? That’s it! I throw up my hands. I’m out! Travesty!—Maybe I missed it? No! Not that stoned.

            The Prop 215 Area has not forgotten the miracle of 4:20. Cabanas all over the maze have rolled and sparked double foot long tiki-torch joints. Packs of people are all on fire. Tribal So. Cal in baggy T-shirts, backwards sports caps, sunglasses, and sneaks. The 4:20 is upon us. The clouds in the sky have even thickened. G-d’s getting high today my friends. Good Sunday to you all. I’m stoned. I could be more stoned. I dab up my Mile Hi. Hits great. Won’t stop hitting. I’ve puffed this fucker like ten times now. Okay I over Dabbed. Good thing I got a little coke to get me home. Fuck I’m high. What now?—According to my photo timeline I guess I went to watch more Rap. Oh yeah I photo-bombed Lil Debbie. Well she and the fan stepped in front of me so I assumed I was in the shot. And then she said, “Okay one without him,” and then we spoke bullshit and I hung with the manager—I guess I went in to see more rap soon after now?


I spark one of my free fatties as I exit the Prop 215 Area. No one cares about pot smoking barriers anymore. That law left the building my friend. Right out with the bath salts. Well not really. But something did happen last night. I missed it. But I remember taking a photo of a guy who I thought was passed out in the auditorium, but suddenly the paramedic is pushing me away from the guy and I see he has a neck brace and then later as I was leaving a guy knocked on my helmet and said, “You were the only one prepared for that shit that went down earlier.”—Holy fuck what went down where a helmet was a good choice of head gear?


—So now I’m puffing as I approach the Auditorium, entering as Dr. Greenthumb steps onto stage. Well timed Peckar. Instagram vid this shit.


Okay. More than everyone is smoking weed in here. Do you understand how improbable that is? And B-Real serves up a pro-formance.


Lil Debbie steps up next. I’m am beyond stoned. I twist the—Mutha Fucka the bullet got jammed. Okay un-twist it. No it won’t budge. Awe come on. I try. The Hulk couldn’t move this fucking thing. Mutha Fucka. She’s rapping about weed. I’m trying to get a bump before I pass out into a weed coma. Kush? I heard her say Kush. I think she’s going on about smoking weed.

            Okay this bullet isn’t funny. I try again. It finally releases. I did nothing different. Okay. I start tapping on the nozzle to loosen up the micro pebbles that get caught up in these fucks. Tap, Tap, Tap. Lil Debbie’s rapping about weed and stuff. People are into it. I think I’m ready. Slow twist. Very slow. OH! It worked. Bump. Twist slow. Rotate. Twist slow. OH! It worked. Bump. Okay. You can’t trust this little fuck anymore. Do one more for good measure. Twis—Jam. Mutha Fucka. I watch three more songs then say to myself, I need food.

            I step out into the dark night. It’s only like 7. Yeah get some outside food. Maybe go out and charge your phone in the car and have a coffee or something—And I get to the Jack in the Crack. I get iced coffee. I feel a few drops from the sky as I walk the two blocks more to the Shadow. I open the door. Clear my pockets of all the goodies. Hide that shit under a shirt in the back. Close the back door. Get in the drivers seat. Plug in the phone. I see a few more rain drops hit my windshield. Turn on the ignition. Close the door. Use my teeth to tear into a straw. Sculpt the torn tip enabling it to scoop without pouring the cocaine everywhere. Do two good bumps. Take a third. Okay not stoned. Maybe I’m done. Yeah I should just go. Feels done. I drive up the block. I turn onto the avenue. I approach the freeway entrance. Guess I’m done. G-d takes a huge leak for the next hour. Yup, good bye Blazer’s Cup, nice toking with ya’ll.





This story has been brought to you in part by—

Jetty Extracts and The Shelter Project. One for You, One for Cancer.


Mile Hi Club - Vaporizers and Distribution


Boss Lady