Alleghe buying hash

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Alleghe buying hash

A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between he does what he wants to do. My second smuggling adventure took place late in , after I started working my chosen profession more regularly. Joe Brodsky, gay and astrologically Capricorn, came with me on the first trip. Israel was a decent source of hash—fourth behind Lebanon, Pakistan, and king of all hashish producing nations, Afghanistan. Oh, and Nepal, which was famous for its powerful Nepalese Temple Balls. Going to Israel for hashish made perfect sense. Our families thought we were going to the Holy Land to discover our roots. Our friends and fellow hash-heads assumed we went to make money. Actually we needed to go because neither of us could imagine living another day without taking a hit off a pipe filled with dope. There was no hash in Philly or New York. Every dealer we knew was out of stock. We planned to pay for the trip by selling three-quarters of what we brought back and keeping the rest for ourselves. Joe B. We boarded an airport bus at Kennedy filled to the brim with Hassidic and other assorted Jews. After having sought the spotlight, we now were aching to play the invisible man, or Harvey the rabbit. To make this trip, we had each taken a semester off from our studies at Philadelphia Community College, where we spent more time focusing on getting high than achieving a higher education. Our return flight was in three weeks, when we would be cruising though the New York airport named after our most recently assassinated and much-loved president. Both of us returned to the U. They were not the whalebone rib-crushers with leather laces but the thigh-to-ribcage, super-slim kind so popular with women who wished to appear more svelte. The shopgirls either took our word for it or knew we were neophyte hash smugglers. The next morning, we helped each other slide the three gram canvas-wrapped bricks into our girdles. Fifty years ago, there was much less airport security, even in Israel. We boarded our return flight unmolested and then realized we had both forgotten to buy silver-plated mezuzahs like normal tourists would. A half-day later, we were back in U. From his crotch, I could smell the distinctly subtle aroma of red Lebanese hashish rising into the stuffy airplane air. Bringing in drugs from outside the country is serious business. It was the fear inside my bones. That fear gripped me the entire time. The Shepherds must have been having a lunch break when we came through. Instead of reaching into their pockets and pulling out money, they each reached into their belts and pulled out a handgun. One of them put a revolver to my head. The other pressed a. I remember looking at the revolver pressed at my temple, seeing bullets in all the chambers, and deciding not to give them an argument, or say anything funny. You know the expression, nervous laughter? Well, imagine frightened-to-death, about-to-shit-in-my-pants nervous laughter. Yet I acted calm and nonthreatening. I wanted them to feel happy—happy about their career choice and not trigger happy. Many thoughts went through my mind. The one I remember most vividly: If I ever get an acting role that requires me to be scared to death, this experience will come in handy. Having done plenty of neighborhood theater, this thought was not as far-fetched as you might think. They took the hash plus the two hundred dollars I had with me and then slowly walked me to my car. Deciding they were unconcerned with either issue, I kept my mouth shut. As I drove slowly off, tears started streaming down my face, realizing how my life could have come to an end during the loaded drama I had just lived through. At that seminal moment, I came to a firm and unshakable realization and formed an irreversible resolve. It never entered my mind to quit selling drugs. Drug dealing was in my blood. A calling if you will. Capitalism in its purest form, just like the cocaine I would soon buy and sell for 13 years. A year later, I made my way back to Israel, sans Joe. Rather, I was going to meet Brad Terran and see more of the ancient land I had missed on my first three-week stoned adventure. Brad was a high school friend spending time at a kibbutz. When I got to London, I found out that the last student flight of the fall was full. My only other option, considering budget restraints, was to take trains across Europe. I was disappointed but not disheartened. I had taken trains regularly during my whole short life, starting with the Broad Street subway and, later, taking Amtrak up and down the East Coast. Murders too! I took a train from London to Dover and the ferry from Dover to. I did know I was about to traverse West Germany with my personal stash of hash in my underwear. I would change trains in Cologne, Germany, and then head southeast to Athens. I rode through the most colorful explosion of fall leaves. In Albania, the leaves seemed as if they were trying to escape Communist oppression by pretending to be birds floating above the rivers. I watched Austria through the train windows—trees, mountainsides, dying autumn leaves. Trying not to think of the The Sound of Music or the Holocaust was exhilarating and painful. I got to grab a snack just a chocolate bar at the magnificent station in Sofia, Bulgaria. The city itself dates back 7, years. When the train finally rumbled into the station at Thessaloniki, its first stop across the Greek border, my compartment mate asked me if I was from England. Everywhere I went, I tried to blend in. I preferred wearing a cloak of invisibility, never really wanting people to notice me. Not easy to do in a six-seat compartment. I told him I was from the States. Reaching out the window to the roving food vendors on the platform, he bought me my first skewered stick of shashlik and my first demitasse of Greek coffee. The train ride took about three days, so I was going to miss my scheduled rendezvous with my friend at the King David Hotel. The area was full of men, hundreds and hundreds, sitting at the outdoor cafes smoking from a thousand hookahs. Just like they do now in Encino, California. The final weeks of November were cool and sunny, perfect for the wonderment of traipsing around the Acropolis, climbing up to the Parthenon. I waited until the achingly beautiful stoic sun was setting and all the tourists were gone. Alone, I took photographs until the armed guard escorted me out. Earlier in the day, I stood onstage at the Theatre of Dionysus talk about name dropping , the oldest theater in Greece—and once capable of seating 17, patrons. There I stood, arms raised high toward all the ghosts, finding my inner orator and reciting my favorite line from A Thousand Clowns, when Jason Robards Jr. I live in the alcove. That weekend in Athens, all alone with my pipe, smoke, ashes and endless tiny cups of Greek coffee, remains one of the most glorious weekends of my life, when history came alive for one young college dropout with a sock or underwear full of hash. I was in service to hashish, like a worker bee to his queen. I had a pipe made from a Bic pen. In the stem of the pen, I kept the ink cartridge. Somewhere else in my suitcase, I had a little brass lamp piece that served as a bowl. When I was alone, I would take the cartridge out of the pen and put the bowl with a little rubber hose onto the pen so it became a pipe. I was high as a kite walking around Athens. I enjoyed every moment, and this experience is inscribed forever in my memory. Greece was no longer Greek to me. Every addict has their drug of choice—or maybe some will use them all. On the East Coast, hashish was king. Until pot came along. As you can surmise, I was quite a fan of hash and its pungency. As more people were getting into pot, the pot connoisseurs would say that weed from Mexico was good; from Colombia, it was better; and from Jamaica, it was the best in the world. Wait, that was before we discovered Hawaiian pot. While watching the movie, I noticed two girls clutching cups of herbal tea, paying more attention to Connie on the screen than Troy. I later found out they were both from Boston. One was very attractive, one not so much. I tried to engage them in conversation but was gently rebuffed. They quickly let me know that they were a couple and I should take my peripatetic penis elsewhere, although those were not their exact words. After the ship docked in Haifa, I took a bus down to Tel Aviv. I was five days late for my rendezvous with my friend Brad. They were happy to see a familiar face. So was I. I went over and talked to them and asked what was going on. They said the ritzy kibbutz where they had intended on staying was full and not accepting any new kibbutzniks. They had no place to go. We took a bus to Jerusalem and got two rooms at an old hotel in the Old City, which is literally like walking into the first century—the stones are the same, the streets and the people are the same, living in alcoves behind ancient walls and dressed the way they were 2, years ago. If the walls could speak, they would be speaking in Aramaic. After checking into the funky little hotel, I show my new friends how I assemble my hash pipe and get ready to light up. Nobody has any matches. Neither of them smoked or were in the habit of lighting incense or candles. Walking all alone, in the ancient night air, in the birthplace of so many competing religions, I had my first religious experience. My next one was 24 years later at the Betty Ford Center. I was only 20, and because of my unstoppable need to get high every day, there I was following in the footsteps of Jesus the Christ. Not dragging a cross, just a drug habit. There are some noticeable differences: this guy has a beard on his face and a beautiful woman on his arm. As I step closer, I realize that it is, indeed, Brad!!! We both scream in joy, as if meeting the Messiah or counting the money you collected at your Bar Mitzvah. We yell and we run, throwing our arms around each other, crying and laughing at this extraordinary, almost biblical coincidence. What are the odds? Accidentally meeting in Old Jerusalem at at night with no plans to meet there at all was divine intervention. And there was certainly no better place for it. Brad tells me that they are living at Kibbutz Metzer about 30 miles away. He is fairly certain that my new lesbionic friends and I would be welcomed to stay there as long as we worked our asses off. We parted that night grinning from ear to earringless ear. The next day, Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas and I hitchhiked the 30 miles, and the kibbutz took us in with open, unnumbered arms. It was a young, very progressive kibbutz, and they needed workers. Kibbutz Metzer was a real working socialist-style collective where they raised chickens for their eggs and grew avocados and bananas. Lots of avocados and bananas. The two women got their own room. I stayed with Brad and Ione in their cabin. We worked wrapping bananas in burlap to keep them frost free, and in the avocado groves, where we used shears mounted on long poles to cut off the avocados that would fall into little canvas baskets positioned directly under the blades. Then we would empty the baskets into a crate hooked behind a small tractor. We also walked behind flatbed trucks, throwing rocks and small boulders onto the truck to clear the land for plowing and planting. Removing detritus from your environment helps new things grow and yield nutritious goodies. After about five days, holding my BFF a paperback book and lying on the floor on my flattened mattress and impromptu sleeping bag, I hear Ione and Brad whispering in bed. Do you mean like three parallel bananas? Masterminds rarely do. It was all her idea, but Brad was making the presentation. After all, it was a cold December in northern Israel. We three had an amazing relationship for the next few weeks. No jealousies or competition. They were planning on traveling to Afghanistan next. And I was going home, eventually, so the third wheel me would be coming off soon enough. Brad and I worked our asses off every day and ingratiated ourselves with the Kibbutz administrators while repeatedly penetrating Ione in combinations of sexual positions that would send a Kama Sutra expert screaming for a chiropractor. Ione worked in the kitchen every day. There was no sex between Brad and me, although occasionally we did bump heads in the night. Our little Welsh rabbit was very sweet—like an incredible and edible cookie one can share with a pal. She knew what she wanted, and being gentlemen, we graciously complied. I assure you that neither Brad nor I felt exploited in any way. But since Ione was not even Jewish, Brad and I said our Berakhahs softly, or in a silent way if we were feeling jazzy. We took a few days off from working on the kibbutz to explore the Sinai Peninsula. We got as far as Dahab, really just a scuba diving and snorkeling outpost waiting to be spoiled by some capitalistic developers. While exploring the outskirts, a Bedouin woman approached us beseechingly, asking us if we would accept as a gift the baby in her arms, flies on his eyes. None of us had ever been confronted with such an example of third-world poverty. It was heartbreaking realizing that this probably went on in one form or another all over the world. A couple weeks into my stay, Yahweh provided a new miracle. The good-looking lesbian, Ellen, suddenly redefined her sexuality by inviting me to privately engage with her. A gracious invitation indeed, and I eagerly complied with her request. Big Ed had said that act gave me the right to have an opinion, and I had to read some Miller to learn about how the world really works. And what men and women are really thinking but are too polite to say out loud. He was right! She also requested that we keep our affair a secret from her girlfriend. Secrecy, sexuality, and betrayal are fraught with potential peril. Perhaps that adds intensity to the sex. By this time, Brad and I had decided to try smuggling some hashish back to the mom-and-pop basement drug dealers of Philly. We would take a break from banana bagging, clipping down avocados for grocery stores in France, and our nightly sex capades to travel to Tel Aviv to score. In addition to penetrating Ellen sexually, I had firmly implanted another kind of seed in her mind—that she should become my drug mule. Perhaps infatuated with my sense of style and confidence, she agrees. Before her planned departure from Ben-Gurion, we heard a rumor that airport security was starting to search people flying out of Israel. We had some friends who were flying to Istanbul, so we asked them to send us a telegram when they arrived to let us know if it were true, about the searching leaving the country. I had already bought five pounds of hash in a very dark empty lot in Tel Aviv, doing math by longhand, using butane lighters as our only source of illumination. I had to change plans. Ellen and I left the kibbutz and took a bus to Haifa so we could leave the country by ship. Two hours later, the police raided our kibbutz. Our friends assumed the guy we bought the hash from turned us in, thinking he could make money selling us the hash and then buy it back from the police. When the police arrived at the kibbutz, we were already long gone, and our friends at the kibbutz pleaded ignorance as to where we were. For weeks they thought we were in an Israeli jail somewhere. Ellen and I planned to board the ship separately and pretend not to know each other. We were definitely not going to talk or otherwise associate with each other. We were traveling separately. So much for my strategy. I had thought the sea was very calm the first night of our voyage. For a brief moment, I thought the ship was still in the bay so the authorities could come aboard and take us away. I had reason to be paranoid after all. By noon the captain decided to shove off and try to get back on schedule. So much for avoiding annoying weather because we soon hit a terrible squall, a violent storm that rocked the boat like a little boy with ADHD on too much Ritalin in a bathtub with his Mermaid Ariel doll who rejected his advances. For about a day, I could not leave my bunk, at all. The ship made an unscheduled stop for one day in Genoa, Italy. I had claimed this day for myself to be alone, walk around the docks, and explore the side streets downtown. Everyone was so stylishly dressed, like extras in a mid-career Fellini film. I should have been more nervous, but I still felt the invincibility of a teenager, even though I had just turned 21 two weeks before. And it certainly helped to be high the whole time. I decided to buy a fancy designer sweater with no label off some guy on the street. I wore it for years as a memento, and to keep warm. Being in Italy also reminded me of one of the few mementos my father left us when he croaked at It was a gray marble ashtray shaped like the island of Sicily. When we finally get to Marseille, Ellen and a guy from San Francisco we had befriended were walking off the ship when one of the bricks of hash drops out of her pant leg and hits the wooden gangplank with an audible plunk! Walking behind her, I smoothly picked it up and slipped it in my new sheepskin coat pocket. The guy from San Francisco is drop-jawed. Yes, but undiagnosed. The accusation of crazy was one with which I was becoming more and more familiar. Please help us find a room. Merci, merci, merci. He takes us to a snazzy little hotel with one vacant room directly above a lesbian bar. We check in, and I give Ellen some francs I bought at the Gare du Nord after our uneventful train ride from Marseilles. Go have your fun. Do not bring anyone back to the room. You go to theirs. Paris possessed everything a new year-old could ask for. There were street performers, musicians and mimes just like Marcel Marceau, actual French crepes from a kiosk on the corner, cappuccinos and even student protests I swear. I get back to the hotel and try not to wake my sweet little crashed out lesbian drug mule. Eventually, I fall asleep, multiple cappuccinos notwithstanding. I choked her. Be quiet, be quiet, shut the fuck up! I promise. I held her and stroked her gently until we both were asleep. The next morning, we talked it through. I reminded her that she was getting a thousand dollars and she had a promise to fulfill. The God of Abraham was not going to let us down. I took her to Orly Airport on the Metro. She had calmed down enough to carry on. She flew nonstop back to New York, where my brother and my best friend Jerome anxiously waited for her to get through customs safe and sound. Jerome handed her the grand and said a fond adieu. I never saw or spoke to Ellen again. We were just two brave idiots passing through young adulthood. Risking incarceration while exploring our boundarylessness. On the short flight, heavy clouds covered the sky the whole time. It gave me great confidence in radar. Plus, as a gambler, whenever I think of my plane crashing, I think, What are the odds? I was in a pretty good mood. Not only could I afford the student flight home but Ellen had made it back undetected. She was safe. Films establish a certain mind-set and mood, and Peckinpah was a master craftsman. When I got out of the theater that night, it was a dark and foggy, and the streets felt more suited for Jack the Ripper than a young tourist. The film is about a group of British ruffians attempting to brutalize American teacher and mathematician David Sumner Dustin , just because his flirty, hot-as-hell wife, Amy Susan George , chose Dustin over them. The film ends in a showdown between the teacher and his jealous adversaries in a ballet of ingenious brutal violence. Filmed in England, it was hitting close to the bone. I turned it on and reached into my pocket for matches. No matches. Ah, the suitcase , I say, breaking the fourth wall between me, myself, and I. The gas, hissing away pleasantly, awaits my return as I dig the matches out of my suitcase. Were this a cartoon or a Jerry Lewis movie, you would already anticipate the soot-covered climax. I made it back to Philly, regrew my eyelashes, and got a real job. Leonard Buschel is a Philadelphia native, and a very happy Studio City resident. He is a California Certified Substance Abuse Counselor with years of experience working with people struggling with addiction. Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment. Calls to the general helpline will be answered by a paid advertiser of one of our treatment partners. Who Answers? Where should I sleep? To read more, go to Amazon. Are You an Emotional Sponge? September 2, Write A Comment Cancel Reply. Submit Type above and press Enter to search. Press Esc to cancel.

What to know about Pennsylvania’s marijuana laws

Alleghe buying hash

Medical marijuana was made legal in Pa. From Philly and the Pa. Let us know! Tom Wolf, a Democrat. WHYY thanks our sponsors — become a WHYY sponsor The Medical Marijuana Act has been amended over the past eight years, including expanding the types of medical conditions that qualify, with the many changes passed in Who can buy marijuana in Pa.? As of March, there were more than , certified patients statewide and more than 1, approved medical professionals who can recommend medical marijuana for patients. Two dozen medical conditions can qualify a medical marijuana patient — up from 17 conditions in There were , patients with anxiety who hold medical marijuana cards , , patients with severe chronic pain, 49, with post-traumatic stress disorder, 14, with cancer and 11, with opioid use disorder. Can I buy marijuana without a medical ID card in Pa. The Medical Marijuana Act did not decriminalize marijuana. Marijuana is still illegal statewide and on the federal level. Philadelphia and Pittsburgh did pass local marijuana decriminalization laws for small amounts of marijuana. Some advocates say that was the wrong decision. This can be an issue for medical marijuana patients who may never drive while impaired or high but are at risk for getting a DUI charge because THC stays in the bloodstream for up to 30 days. Recreational marijuana in Pennsylvania for adult use is still illegal, and marijuana cannot be transported across state lines where it is legal, such as New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, Ohio, New York and Virginia. But the topic is being discussed in the Pennsylvania legislature. There is some bipartisan support for marijuana legalization, but also some Republicans who staunchly oppose it. Democrats control the Pennsylvania House, while the state Senate is controlled by Republicans, and there is a Democratic governor. Kathy Rapp, the Health Committee Republican chair, is concerned about recreational marijuana. In the past six months, state lawmakers held four informational hearings on different aspects of adult-use recreational marijuana laws, including public health , criminal justice and social equity. During the hearings, the marijuana industry , researchers, advocates and opponents shared their experiences. Very few bills regarding cannabis are even brought to committee. As Harrisburg looks increasingly likely to legalize recreational adult use, City Council is moving to limit where it could be sold. Last year, a comprehensive bipartisan bill co-sponsored by state Sen. Dan Laughlin, a Republican who represents Erie, and state Sen. Sharif Street , a Democrat who represents Philadelphia, was introduced. The Pennsylvania Legislature operates on a two-year cycle, so bills can stay alive for that long. Regan has publicly supported marijuana reform bills and recreational legislation but has not scheduled the bipartisan bill for a hearing. Meanwhile, a companion bill to legalize adult-use marijuana was introduced in the House by state Rep. Amen Brown, a Philadelphia Democrat. It was referred to the Health Committee. State Rep. While Rep. Another issue at stake concerns smoke shops that take advantage of a legal loophole and sell hemp-derived Delta-8 THC products , which are unregulated in Pennsylvania. Frankel was similarly concerned about the quality of a social equity program that forced independent dispensaries to compete with established multi-state operators when the start-up cost was high and existing medical dispensaries could easily sell adult-use products immediately. If any recreational marijuana bill passes through the state legislature, Gov. Josh Shapiro said he would sign it into law. How much does medical marijuana cost in Pa.? Buettner, of the Pennsylvania Cannabis Coalition, attributed the price reduction as multifaceted: increased supply, larger and more experienced growing operations and more customers in the market. Is there a Pa. There are medical marijuana dispensaries statewide and 32 medical marijuana growers and processors. Zoning restrictions limit where dispensaries can operate, even inside the city of Philadelphia. How much is marijuana taxed in Pa.? Can you be hired or fired for using medical marijuana in Pa.? The law passed in gas some labor protections for patients, barring employers from refusing to hire or firing individuals based on their status as a medical marijuana patient. But employers are allowed to enforce rules around use at work. Can you grow medical marijuana plants at home in Pa.? WHYY is your source for fact-based, in-depth journalism and information. As a nonprofit organization, we rely on financial support from readers like you. Please give today. Advocates for legal cannabis say they're closer than ever to success, citing allies in both parties. What marijuana reclassification means for the United States. Unlike his predecessor, Gov. Josh Shapiro has the benefit of a Democratic-led state House and a state Senate where attitudes appear to be shifting. Sign up for our weekly newsletter. Related Content. Enter your email here. Share this Facebook Twitter Email. You may also like. Read more. Ways to Donate.

Alleghe buying hash