By J.J. Colagrande

01_thelonious-horowitz25An economy feeding on ganja gooballs has no need for Alan Greenspan. Besides, the unemployment rate at The Show’s a remarkable zero. There’s work. Not for the sixty thousand plus from the area. They’re the custies. The twenty thousand heads who’ve dropped down on Chicago are the ones working. We work three kinds of industries: hospitality, selling food and drink; retail, kicking clothes and accessories; and entertainment, slinging drugs. You can trade for almost anything at a music festival. Three burritos and a coke for a glass pouch. Fifty valiums for a dress. A dejembe drum for a quarter sack of dank weed. Of course cash is accepted. The music fest isn’t a commune or rainbow gathering or Oregon barter fair. Headz need money to buy gas to get to the next festival and to throw down on a hotel room. Anything sold or traded at a music festival is done so at a wholesale level compared to the product’s value outside of The Lot. Geri sells apron shirts for sixty at The Show, she could get eighty online. Melody sells chillum pipes for forty at a music fest, off The Lot she could easily nab sixty. Listen to this. One summer I left New York with nothing. I caught a ride to a music festival, hooked up a kicked-down miracle, then ground-scored a gram of black-tar opium. I flipped the black-tar and bought twenty Beavis and Butthead doses. I flipped them and had money for gas and a hodie to get to the next city. Prior to the next music fest, at the supermarket, I invested the remaining money on cheese and bread. I borrowed a hot plate, generator, and frying pan, and sold one-hundred grilled cheese sandwiches at two-dollars-a-pop. I bought a ticket to The Show, weed for my glass pipe, and a sheet of acid to which I flipped ten-strips for thirty-five all day long. After ten fests along the eastern seaboard I returned to New York decked out in a new wardrobe of headie gear with an ounce of chronic, two bubblers, and enough money to pay six months rent. My boys back home, the deejays in my band; they could never understand how I could leave with nothing, party in ten cities, and return home loaded. Check it: you may not like how all this sounds, but it’s the truth. I’m just reporting the facts here, cubbie. We’re young and we want to rage and for the party to rock the drug dealing needs to get done. Someone has to do it. Then we can relax like party people in the house till the break-a break-a dawn.

REMEMBER THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION!! all these characters are in the novel Headz over there and up a little —->