Friday, June 04, 2004
I guess John the Fisherman has sufficiently forgiven me for leading him on, because he came in the other day, smelling and looking like he had just rolled out of Cheech and Chong's van, to seek my help with a possible new venture. He wants to start a marijuana farming collective to sell pot to local medical cannabis clubs. He also wants to acquire a small business loan to get him started as well as have me research what federal farm subsidies are available, which is a cautionary example of the kind of impaired, magical thinking that smoking large amounts of dope on a daily basis leads you to have. The cannabis clubs have a weird, shady semi-legal status in the city, but still violate federal law while the courts battle it out. For now, citizens cannot grow pot to sell to these clubs unless they want a bunch of DEA stormtroopers raiding their farms and seizing their property. I didn't want to be too discouraging, but it seems too many obstacles lie in the way of his (pipe) dream for now, the least of which is his own voracious appetite for the substance. I don’t see how he would restrain himself from smoking his entire cash crop up anyway.
Speaking of dreams, you know that it has long been one of mine to have a manservant. My 20 year old little brother is staying with us for the month while he interns at a venture capital company, one of the first steps on his journey to becoming a capitalist pig who I'm hoping will not forget the kindess of his shockingly and tragically underpaid public servant sister when he amasses his fortune. In his spare time he is exhausting the dogs on longs runs, taking the garbage out, and performing other handy errands. He’ll do in the meantime.
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