Cool Hi Times Smoke Shop photos

A few nice hi times smoke shop images I found:

hi times smoke shop
Image by wakingphotolife:
(Sunday cont.)

When the sheriffs let me out of county, it was my brother who came to pick me up. Doug. 18 years, fresh out of high school, skinny, short, spoke with a speech impediment and under-bit jaw. Soft spoken, sensitive, shy and loyal. Douglas. My brother. Braces and retainers throughout the most exciting years of his life. Instead of smoking pot and shop lifting, he spent his time by himself in record shops finding heavy metal records. Doug Funny everyone called him. When I was a senior then, he was only a freshmen.

"Did you tell mom and dad?" I said.
"Thanks. I’ll tell them myself."
"What happened?" he said.
"They said I was drunk driving."
"Were you?"
"I don’t know."
"Where’s the car?"
"At the tow yard. It’s totaled."
"You should be glad you’re fucking alive and that you didn’t kill anyone."
"I know."
"Fuck you John."
"I know. Sorry."

He wasn’t about his car. He was mad about me. As his brother, I was always causing shit for everyone. So rarely mad. Never cursed at me like that before. Ever. My baby brother. My only brother. I knew he wanted to say: Why do you keep doing this to yourself John?

Me: a young twenty one at the time, coming from a party at four in the morning. Hit a guard rail and did a 360 in the middle of the freeway a few miles past the Golden Gate Bridge. Car was smashed in from the front. Axle twisted enough so that wheel was parallel to the ground. I guessed this is what kept the car from flipping over too. A few miles earlier and I would not be here. I would be in San Francisco Bay with the car. Or could have been worse. Could have hit a tree. Funny. There are a lot of trees on that part of the highway 101. But none for me.

Doug. My brother. My sweet brother. Was pissed but didn’t say anything else. I was grateful that he came to get me. They put me in the cell for 18 hours. Took my tie and shoe laces. The floor of the detox is not concrete but a funny plastic texture. Cold, and like a rubber mallet. "Where’s my phone call?" I said to the deputy.
"If you have coins."
Fuck, I thought. They were laughing at me. The sheriffs. People only get phone calls on TV cop shows.
I called Doug collect and left a message. It was 5:30 in the morning.

He drove two hours, all the way to Marin County Jail in San Rafael to pick me up. Didn’t say anything when we drove up to the tow-yard. We actually bought McDonald’s on the way there. Didn’t say anything when he saw the car he had spent the last year and a half trying to pay off. A red Nissan Fairlady Z with twin turbos, aftermarket intake, exhaust and racing rims. Now sat like a broken red nail. Doug, my brother who did not know how to be angry at family could not say anything else while looking at his car.

Parents didn’t cry. Mom asked me to go to the hospital ER to get my head checked out. I thought she meant it so I went. Doug drove me to Kaiser. When I came back, she asked me, “Where did you guys go?” My dad locked himself in his room. Something I would do.

DUI Laywers. Court cases. Community service. Fines. Accident fees. Hiked up car insurance. Unable to get to work. Lost work. No license to work. No legs. No mobility. Lost year. "Fuck it!"

During this year, two months after the accident, Doug joined the marines. Hoo-rah. Went to Camp Pendleton for a bit. Got buff. Got tanned. Came home with a crew cut. Sweet brother Doug no more. But still shy, still soft spoken, still loyal. Still spoke with a speech impediment and underbit jaw. Would have surgery on it later, one of the many surgeries he would have. "I just shut up and shoot," he said.
“What the hell?” I said.

My mom caressed his shaved head. Jar-head now. My dad came outside and we had a barbecue. Drank Heineken’s in the backyard and had bulgogi style beef and Chinese short ribs. No hamburgers and hot dogs here. What are we, white?

We never talked about the car. I never paid him back for it either. But he was joining the marines during wartime. Who would had ever thought? How could you talk about anything else?

Doug invited his girlfriend with him. Dougy, she called him. She had a kid too but we did not this until after he left.

Very cliche. Soldier warrior leaves for battle. Proposes before he gets sent off. Child birthed while he was overseas. My brother couldn’t have reenacted it better. My brother. The one who kept Captain America and Batman comics under his bed.

He got on one knee and proposed to Connie. Right there on the backyard lawn. There was only for of us. Mom gasped and cried. Dad didn’t know what the hell was going on and was flipping meat over the Weber grill. Me: I yelled at him, "Fuck you Doug!" but in a happy way. "Hoo-fuckin’-rah! You’re bitch made now." I kept laughing. Boyz II Men start playing in my head.
"Watch your mouth boy. Don’t talk to him like that," my dad said.
Dougy and I looked at him. It’s alright, Dougy was saying. We’re family. He’s happy for me too.

Weeks later, they sent him to Iraq. His humvee column hit an IED on the way back to base. He lost a leg. Another cliche. Mom cried. Dad locked himself in his room for the second time. Connie, I could never forget her face that day. We couldn’t have written it any better.

They sent him to San Antonio first, Brooks Army Medical Center, before he came home. When he came back, he only stayed a few days. He was going to move in with Connie, who was in Santa Barbara with her family. He leave the day after. When I brought him from the airport, my dad came out to look at his sons.

Me, standing there. The one always causing shit. The one who went to college but was wasting away. Doug, the good one. The soft spoken shy sweet son. The sensitive and loyal one. The one who barely made it through school and made mom cry in all kinds of way, but never through his own fault.

Me: standing on two legs next to Doug. Doug: next to me with only one. The other half was his Navy colored uniform pants tucked underneath him. No wonder the first thing my dad did was punch me in the face. I didn’t say anything.
“Fuck you shit John!” he said. "Get out of my house! Get out! Get out!"
"See you later man," I said to Doug and left.

But I knew it wasn’t me he was really mad at. He didn’t mean to say that to me.

At night, we went out to the bar and he got smashed. He cried in the car while I drove him home. After that, I didn’t see Doug for a while. When I did, we were "grown ass men" by then who didn’t talk about feelings and memories.

A hot dog, a soda, a churro. A drive down to Pismo Beach. I realized that Santa Barbara was not that far from Pismo. It had been three years already. Junior should be almost ten now.

After calling Louis, I called Doug and told him I was coming down to Santa Barbara.
"What?" he said. He didn’t believe me.
"I said I’ll be there in six hours."
"Why all of a sudden?"
"A friend told me that when a person is busy being sad about them self, they forget about the rest of the world. I missed my brother. Is that not a reason."
I could hear something crash in the background.
"Alright alright. I’ll see you then."
"Call me when you get here."

hi times smoke shop
Image by wakingphotolife:
I waited for her everyday at Exit A. It’s the exit that is closest to the APM shopping mall and the stairs on the other side will lead you onto the street that leads into the center of Kwun Tong. If you go to the end, where the railing and concrete barrier is, every few minutes, you can see and hear the MTR travel by in its muted roar.

Many people wait here. It is its most busiest during the late afternoon and early evening rush hour. People wait for their lovers. People wait for their friends and classmate. They stand by the railing smoking cigarettes, playing their hand-held games, seclude themselves into their headphones, or check the texts on their cell phones. I waited here everyday for her. She worked at a bank office during the day and went to school every night. I met her during her transition period when she transferred from one side of Hong Kong to the other. There was only enough time for a quick meal and we went through our daily ritual — "How was work?", "What did you do today?", "Have you ate yet?" — quickly. Then we would have a period of silence as we walked through the crowded streets.

It was a suffering existence. I use the word suffering because that is how we treated it and how we had felt. It suffered to be apart from each other. Enough that over time, even though we had lived under the same roof and shared the same bedroom, we had become ghosts to each other: the empty coffee cups left on the kitchen counter, dishes unwashed in the sink, the air conditioner suddenly turned on when it had been off, the ironing board that was hot to touch. And then there were the transitions: I would there early and look at the MTR travel by in it’s muted roar, the people around me, the people on the blurring by above me, and at 5:30 she would be coming from the end of the walkway. And I would wave and she would wave back. And I’d hug her and she’d hug me back. There is only so much that you can do in such short time.

During dinner one night, where they placed your cup of milk tea onto a bowl of ice to prevent the dilution that’s cause from melting ice, I told her, "I don’t feel like I know you anymore. And I want to know you again." She looked out the window at the MTR that you could feel and see whenever it came by, "But you do know me. What’s wrong? You’ve become so needy," she said.
"I’m not needy, I just feel like we’ve become indifferent; like routines that we go through everyday."
"I think you are trying hard to think about it; just let things go. The harder you try to analyze and think about things, the less you’ll know. And I’ll become unknowable."
I didn’t really understand her, but she had the feeling of being right.

We walked to the bus station down the street. I’d ride the bus with her to school. She would change out of her heels into her Converses. And I’d put them into my bag for her to bring back home. It was close to a two hour trip on some days including the walk to the front of the school. But what difference does two hours make in the end.

hi times smoke shop
Image by wakingphotolife:
"So what did she say?"
"She said, she said she cant’ make it and has other things to do."
"What things?"
"I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her for yourself?"
"I don’t want to. She’s probably screwing around with that guy."
"Which one?"
"The one who works at the hotel, the one from Shenzhen."
"Oh him."
"Let’s go."
"I don’t see why you’re getting worked up about it."
"I’m not."

They walked back across the bridge and into the rundown shopping plaza. Some of the men who loitered around town crowded around a window to watch Miss Hong Kong on the television screen. On other days, they would be rooted to turned up buckets crouched over wooden boards and chess pieces. But not today.

They forced a path through the gawkers. "Hey, watch were you going?"
"Why don’t you fuck off."

He unchained the motorbike and put the chain into the storage compartment on the back and then got on. She stepped lightly and quickly on a peg on the kickstand and straddled the seat behind him.

The engine reverberated along the alleyway as they joined the rest of the traffic along the ride. She reached over his shoulder and removed the carton of cigarettes from his breast pocket, removing one and gripping it between her lips with her chin on his shoulder. She then reached into his pocket and removed the lighter. With her arm reaching across his chest and underneath his chin, she lit it.

"What the hell are you doing?"
"How many times have I told you to not put that thing near my face."
"Lighten up."

He unlocked and opened the door to the apartment. It was small and spare. The ceiling leaked during half the year and for that, they lined buckets underneath its drip along the corner. Occasionally, the floor drain in the kitchen would flood over. It splashed as he stopped over a small line of tiles on the other side of the door.

"Fuck. It’s flooded again."
"Do you want me to get the mop and the towels?"
"No. Just leave it. I’ll take care of it later. Let’s check the bedroom first."

She sat on the edge of the bed, facing the television as he propped himself up on one elbow and drank. As she watched, he observed the curve within the bottom of her neck line.

"Who do you think’s going to win this year?"
"None of them, if I had my choice."
"Well, choose one."
"The one on the left then."
"That one?"
"No. Number 14, the one over there."
"Are you serious?"
"Yeah, why?"
"She’s ugly."

He placed the cup on the window sill. It began to rice outside. Soon, they would hear the droplets as they hit the bottom of the empty plastic bucket.
"Do you still want to go?"
"No, it’s raining. I don’t think it’s going to stop for the night."
"That’s too bad, I really wanted to go."
"Maybe tomorrow. My sister can go with you then."

"I’m going downstairs to cover the motorbike."

He took the blue tarp from the corner of the room and walked down the flight of stairs and to the sidewalk. He threw it over the length of the motorbike and tied it down, looping the rope through the spokes of the wheels. It rained harder as he worked while around him, interior lights along the sidewalks shops and buildings gradually turned on.

He looked up at the window of their apartment on the fifteenth floor. She opened the window and shouted down, "Hey! The one you picked! She won! Hurry and come watch with me."

He looked at her and then past her. The drops fell directly on this face and with his eyes open, he could almost see them form from nothing, tiny shards of light that shone briefly before they landed.

Mesa police: Driver's blood alcohol three times legal limit
9, 2012 02:56 PM A Mesa man who was pulled over after making a wide right turn early Sunday morning was found with an open can of Bud Light in the car and a blood alcohol level nearly three times the legal limit. After observing the white sedan make a …
Read more on AZ

Grab Some Buds and Pop a Red Top (or Tab)?
… MN 55402 Main: (612) 604-6400 | Fax: (612) 604-6800 | | A Professional Association A Winthrop & Weinstine blog dedicated to bridging the gap between legal & marketing types. Grab Some Buds and Pop a Red Top (or Tab)? …
Read more on JD Supra (press release)

MSD pulls investment
Outside legal counsel. The board is scheduled to review and make recommendations on how it plans handle its legal work now that Zielke's contract has expired. &#; Ethics. The board's policy committee meets to discuss a new ethics policy. …
Read more on Louisville Courier-Journal

Cool Legal Bud High Times images

A few nice legal bud high times images I found:

High Times Cannabis Cup Denver 2011

Most awesome day ever at the Cannabis Cup in Denver , some of the video is shot at down angel for peoples privacy. Only Legal Red card holders could go back here , and it was like being a kid and walking into that magical candy forest in Willy Wonka …. lol hard to descried you really just have to be there.
Video Rating: 4 / 5

High Times! Marijuana Legalization Receives 50 Percent Support
(Luke 20 25) As we have already seen, it was God, not government, who gave man the seed bearing herbs to use. NOBODY ON THIS PLANET HAS DIED FROM SMOKING HERB, BUT MILLIONS DIE PER YEAR FROM DRINKING ALCOHOL, THE LEGAL DRINKING “DRUG” IN AMERIKKKA AND …
Read more on News One

Order In with Our Caterers
“I discovered fresh Kaffir lime leaves, cardamom, star anise, fenugreek, gar am masala, lavender, fleur de sel, tillicherry black pepper, and herbs de Provence,” he said, adding that Norma Shirley served as an instrumental presence in his career. …
Read more on Jamaica Observer

Trimmer vs Machine
Burger's store can't legally sell any trimming equipment to known growers, and its trim machines, which range in price from $ 500 to $ 16000, are ostensibly intended for hops or legal herbs. Marijuana is not talked about in the store. …
Read more on North Coast Journal


from HIGH TIMES Potcast
Price: USD 0
View Details about HIGH TIMES MAGAZINE