September 4, 2002

• “He handed me the pipe full of dank green, now grey and ashen. As I toked, he sang to me:
  
  ‘Sing a song of six pence
  pocket full of rye
  Four and twenty blackbirds
  baked in a pie’
  
  I asked, in that inhaley way you do when you’re holding smoke in your lungs, ‘Why are you singing that to me?’
  
  ‘Dude!’ he replied. ’420. Baked. I want pie!’”

  • 12:56 am
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