by Mike Edison
I had my own department, of sorts, and successfully marginalized as I was, Hager mostly stayed away from me. I didn’t have to answer to anyone besides the new publisher, whose main goal, it seemed, was to play nice and keep his job. Turns out he was a powder puff. A nice guy, but soft. He was in way over his head.
* It was unlikely but entirely possible that Robert Johnson was toking on one of Satan’s cigarettes the night, as legend would have it, that he went down to the crossroads to sell his soul. The results of my trip were inconclusive, but I did score a largely untold history of blues and reefer. Untold, because as Gatemouth Brown professed (while we were smoking a joint on his bus), “Everybody smokes pot, but you gotta be careful about what you sing out in this world . . . you can put yourself in a helluva spot.”
Johnson’s stepson, Robert Lockwood, Jr., says that although he never knew Johnson to smoke marijuana (they were both whiskey drinkers), it wouldn’t have been the least bit odd. “Young people smoked it. Everybody smokin’ it,” he told me, talking about the Mississippi Delta in the 1930s, where as a teenager he learned to sing and play the guitar from his itinerant step-dad. “Shit, it was there when I got there,” he said. Taj Mahal, who also has a strong interest in blues and cannabis, told me that Mississippi John Hurt once explained to him that “marijuana was around, but whenever we had some money, we bought some good gin. It was growing wild, but it was a cheap high.” Taj also laughed that Hurt would “smoke up your stash” if you were foolish enough to leave it out.
When bluesmen left the rural South for the city, they took their love of the weed with them. Marshall Chess said that Little Walter was “always high, drunk, coke, grass, whatever. We used to record him when he was high.” (Lockwood says that when Walter was shot on a Chicago street in the 1950s, they had to pry a handful of joints out of his clenched fist before they brought him to the hospital and chained him to the bed.) I also heard tales from the guys in Canned Heat about getting stoned with John Lee Hooker (“Reefer was definitely part of his life”), and Muddy Waters so loved his herb that he burned one before playing for Jimmy Carter at the White House.
Ski was a middle-management guy with no real connection to the High Times lifestyle. After me, they wanted a publisher who didn’t fancy himself a creative mind, just a wonk who could keep an eye on the business. He did his best not to rock the boat and to lie low, listening to crappy prog rock records in his office, which were his major touchstone to stoner culture. I think once upon a time someone tossed him a Buzzbee at an Emerson, Lake, and Palmer concert. I have no idea why he was hired. Mary McEvoy summed it up right away: “He’s not going to move the dial.”
But he was smarter than I was in at least one department: when Michael Kennedy told him he didn’t want any pot smoking on the floor, Ski nodded yes and then ignored him. The quotidian cannabis consumption skyrocketed, and where I had been vilified as High Times’s version of Papa Doc Duvalier, Ski was lauded as the Willy Wonka of Weed.
Everyone told Ski, Get along with Hager and you won’t have any problems. Of course, getting along with Hager meant letting him have his way, and it didn’t take long before sales started slipping again. I watched in awestruck disgust as all the gains we had made under my watch evaporated, but as proprietary as I felt about High Times’s success, it was no longer my problem. I had other wieners to roast.
A few weeks before the twenty-fifth-anniversary party, the people at Irving Plaza were starting to get cold feet. They knew what went on at a High Times party, and as publicity about our shindig began to pop up in the press, they had legitimate concerns about appearing on anti-pot bully Giuliani’s radar screen. There was a risk involved in throwing this party, and I had to know that if there was going to be pot smoking— and we all knew that there was going to be not just pot smoking, but ganja intake on an industrial scale—then they reserved the right to pull the plug at any time.
When I told Bloom that there had been some concerns raised, his reaction went something like “Tell them to go fuck themselves, they have reggae bands there all the time, and now they have a problem with us? Fuck them, we’re going to have our party and do whatever we like.” I opted for a more anodyne method of negotiation, and after a lot of back-and-forth and sweet talk with the club and counsel with Michael Kennedy, we decided to forge ahead and cross our fingers. Last-minute jitters came with the territory.
Irving Plaza was packed, start to finish. Eight hundred people drank, smoked, ate positively ass-kicking marijuana cookies, danced to Cypress Hill, and generally mopped up whatever intoxicants we whipped at them. Mostly, though, I worked—greeting guests and running around with a walkie-talkie to make sure that everything was running on schedule and that there were no problems. Everyone who wanted a cookie or a balloon filled with gas got one, even if I had to chase it down myself. Even though I had been pushed to the fringe, it was still my party.
When you throw an event of this scale with a team of potheads, even if they aren’t doing any work, there is going to be some confusion. Some hippie artists brought with them, unsolicited, a giant neon pot leaf that they had made. It looked good, but they put it on the stage without checking with anyone, and I had to ask them to move it, because as anyone who knows anything about electrical fields will tell you, neon emits radio frequencies that can seriously fuck with wireless microphone systems. Like, for instance, the one Cypress Hill was going to be using. Of course when I explained to them why we had to find a better place for it, they told me not to worry, it was cool where it was, man, and I shouldn’t be so uptight.
A lot of people showed up who were not on our list, and my walkie-talkie squealed constantly.
“Mike, one of the Ramones is here, should we let him in?”
Oy.
“Mike, Woody Harrelson just headed up to the bar, thought you might want to get your photographer.”
That was more like it. But when we got there, he was being mobbed by some seriously uncool stoners who pretty much chased him out of the party.
When Michael Kennedy arrived, I was there to greet him and lead his flock of middle-aged High Times owners up to the VIP section, where we had reserved tables for them so they wouldn’t have to tussle with the unwashed masses. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that those tables had been taken over by indolent staffers and hangers-on, who, given the endless boundaries of their entitlement, naturally thought the tables had been reserved for them. Just once more I had to be the Evil Boss and piss off the staff so that the people who had actually ponied up the fifty grand for this fiesta could sit down and knock back a few highballs.
I was also introducing Ski as the new publisher and explaining with a tight smile to everyone that I was just moving down the hall so I could get back to editorial work. It was a terribly unpleasant position to be forced into. But I did right by Ski and my employers, and I kept my mouth shut when Hager got onstage to receive accolades for an issue and party he had precious little to do with. I swallowed so much pride that night I felt food-poisoned.
Our photographer for the party was the great Dave Allocca, one of the top celebrity shutter hounds in the world, self-proclaimed master of the grip-and-grin snapshot.
I had met Dave through Gretchen at the Post—he shot for them all the time, his stuff was all over Page Six. One night Gretchen and I were watching a TV documentary about paparazzi and celebrity photographers. As the Post photo editor, Gretchen was featured in the film, which shadowed several photographers as they tooled around New York City from event to event—galas, premieres, award shows, etc.—trying to get the crucial star pic that would make the papers the next day.
Most of these guys are just starfuckers, in the business because they want to get close to the celebrities, with whom they have a twisted love-hate relationship. They chase movie stars all day and then scream that they all suck because celebrities are a bunch of stuck-up assholes. I’m sure many of them are, but Dave just never seemed to care, which is why he’s so good at his job. He wasn�
��t trying to make friends, just get the picture and get the fuck out. He wasn’t impressed with anyone.
In one scene in the documentary, Dave wheels into a charity event wearing a tuxedo and a camera around his neck. He sees Jerry Seinfeld, says, “Hey, Jerry, can I get a picture?” Jerry says, “Sure.” Dave takes the pic, says thanks, and is out the door in fifteen seconds to get the picture to the paper. He has zero interest in hanging around. On his way out, another photographer is arguing with the security who won’t let him in. He is cussing and spitting about what an asshole Jerry is. Apparently he had been following Jerry for days and Jerry wouldn’t give him a shot. And it’s no small wonder—the guy is clearly a sociopath harboring some sort of vendetta against the rich and famous.
Dave’s idea of driving in New York City is to do a pirouette on Death’s incisors. He rips through Times Square traffic dodging cabs, bike messengers, pedestrians, the whole time screaming at everyone to get the fuck out of his way. He’s an old-school New York newspaper guy, hustling like a maniac with zero regard for anything but getting the next picture and hitting the deadline. He isn’t really a paparazzo, because he isn’t a stalker. He never takes a picture anyone doesn’t want taken, which makes him a popular guy with the superstars he is always snapping. The Rolling Stones took Dave on tour with them, and his kids were dressed in clothes Tommy Hilfiger had sent over as a thank-you for some pictures Dave had given him.
At one point he gets a flat tire and lets loose with a string of expletives that would have made Dolemite blush like Raggedy Ann. After letting his aneurysm run its course, he gets out of his car, right in the middle of Broadway, to fix the flat. He doesn’t want to get his tux dirty, so he takes it off and throws it in the backseat.
Up to this point, Dave, despite his hard-boiled edge and press credentials, looks like a nice Italian boy from New Jersey. Which he was, once upon a time. When he pulls his tuxedo shirt off, it turns out that he’s covered with tattoos and he looks more like a refugee from the Hells Angels, especially with a tire iron in his hand. He changes the flat in five minutes, puts his tux back on, and is off to snap Bill Clinton.
“Who the fuck is this guy?” I asked Gretchen.
“Oh, shit.” She laughed. “You have to meet him. You guys will totally hit it off.”
It turned out that Dave loved nothing better than pot, punk rock, and professional wrestling, and we got on like a house on fire. Right after we met, he flew straight back from covering the Vanity Fair Oscar party, to come to Queens with Holmstrom and me to get stoned with Rob Van Dam in the parking lot behind the Elks Lodge. On the way, we stopped at the White Castle on Queens Boulevard. Chomping on double-cheesers en route to the Arena of Pain, Dave flipped on the stereo and the Cramps came oozing out. “Edison,” he said, “we just hit the Holy Trifecta of Sleaze.” Turns out he was a Zen master, too.
Now he was working the High Times party. He got a photo of Joan Jett posing with the blowup of our magazine. I would have preferred if we had been able to pull some A-list movie stars, but who doesn’t love Joan Jett? The next day that picture was everywhere, and that’s all you really want from a party like this—some pop in the papers. Dave would continue to be my secret weapon, keeping us in the press whenever we had something we needed to make noise about.
The party was an unqualified smash. Even my biggest detractors congratulated me. I am sure I was the only person there who did not enjoy it.
Toward the end of the night I went up to the office in Irving Plaza to pay the bill. I had been carrying a check for seventeen thousand dollars around with me all night, which would cover the lion’s share of our tab. I would pay the balance the next day. I also had a large cash tip for the bar staff, and I gave the owner a rare Zippo lighter with the old High Times logo on it as thanks for being part of the magazine’s history. He told me that it had been a perfect experience and we were welcome anytime.
When I went back out into the club, it was empty. I was completely alone. So I went home. There was nobody there, either.
The High Times movie was written by Victor Colicchio and Nick Iacovino. Vic was the cowriter of Spike Lee’s Summer of Sam, and this was going to be his next big project.
I met him at the Stonys—the High Times film awards.
The Stonys were Bloom’s idea, and I applauded it. I thought it was a perfect publicity ploy and a good opportunity to make friends with some Hollywood types who might come around to realizing that High Times was a great vehicle in which to promote their films. One of our biggest problems was getting celebrities to be in the magazine—usually some worrywart of a publicist would freak out at the mere mention of our name. But the truth was that we hit a very good, very targeted audience, and for the right film or star, we were a great place to be seen.
In typical High Times style, having a good idea was not enough. Egos would have to flare before anything could happen. In the months leading up to the Stonys, the magazine was sorely neglected while Hager made elaborate plans to film the show and then make millions from broadcasting it. Of course that never happened.
Meanwhile, Bloom spent his time guzzling popcorn and salty snacks in dark screening rooms. At the outset, Bloom, never one to trouble himself with the trappings of humility, not so subtly anointed himself the High Times Film Czar, a pothead potentate appointed to decide what were the best “stoner movies.” No debate was encouraged, and the criteria remained vague as to what would qualify a film to be nominated for a Stony. Even the definition of what constituted a “stoner movie” was problematic. Did there have to be actual pot smoking in the film to qualify? What about Fantasia, or the Marx Brothers’ collective oeuvre—longtime favorites of the Alice B. Toklas crowd looking for a dose of divertimento subversivo? Unfortunately, Bloom had little knowledge of the history of film or the aesthetics of cinema, tools that the clever critic puts in his belt before proclaiming himself a pundit, stoned or not.
While the would-be movie machers put all their energy into the Stony Awards, magazine sales were drifting. Ski should have fired a cannon across the bow and reminded everyone that the point of having a High Times–branded awards show was to sell more magazines, and if the book suffered because of the event, they were killing their own cause before they even got started. Except that Ski was on the Nice-Nice Train to Happy Hagersville, and there would be no firing of cannons, only the gentle cupping of hippie balls while the magazine gasped for air.
But the event itself went well and was generally well received despite the ponderous nature of a four-hour awards show served up in a cloud of smoke. I had encouraged Bloom and Hager to keep the show down to two hours, which seemed like plenty of time to get the point across without turning this into a slacker ordeal ripe for ripping by whatever press we could gather (my job was to promote the event), but potheads are not known for brevity or efficiency, and the show lumbered on. Still, we won some good publicity—Dave Allocca came through again, and his photo of Tommy Chong and the Toxic Avenger made the entertainment pages. Even if we made zero contribution to the canon of film criticism (why did I still cling to the hope that High Times might be taken seriously by anyone?), Bloom had done a good job. Everyone especially liked the awards themselves: chrome-plated bongs with trophy-shop plaquettes that said STONY on them.
It was during the intermission (at the two-hour mark) that Alison Thompson and Victor approached me to talk about making the High Times movie. Because I had eschewed the diurnal pothead activewear of T-shirt and jeans, opting for raiment more apropos to an awards show— vintage art deco tie, black suit, black shirt, blue wing tips, gray-blue fedora—they naturally assumed that I was the serious-minded side of High Times and that they would have a better chance of having a lucid conversation with me than with someone who was wearing couture copped from the High Times merchandise table.
It always paid to dress up a little. When I had meetings with people out of the office, by phone or e-mail, they generally assumed that the guy from High Times would be lax with facial
hair management issues and wearing leftovers from the Summer of Love, so they would try to appear cool by showing up in a LEGALIZE IT! T-shirt or some other badge of reefer-headed hip. When I made the scene clean-shaven and sporting a suave-as-fuck tie, I immediately had the upper hand. It never failed.
Victor Colicchio is a magnetic guy. He has an easy way about him for a guy who grew up in the deep Bronx, where he got the inspiration for Summer of Sam. He is also an actor and had a couple of small goombah roles on the big screen. He does a nice job in Woody Allen’s Bullets Over Broadway and is part of Henry’s crew in Goodfellas, besides acting in Summer of Sam and a plethora of TV cop shows. He also does a ripping Tony Curtis impersonation, which he picked up when he was working as a stand-in for the genuine article on Naked in New York. I liked him immediately. I think everyone who meets him does.
Victor’s script was excellent. This was exactly the project we needed to take High Times to the movies, much like National Lampoon had done with Animal House. There were a lot more people out there for whom the brand resonated than who actually read the magazine, and this was a great opportunity to reach them.
High Times Potluck, as it would be titled, was not your typical stoner comedy. Something like “Cheech and Chong meet the Sopranos,” Potluck would be an upbeat caper flick that centered around a middle-aged Italian mobster who discovers the magic of marijuana. The film follows a suitcase filled with pot as it changes hands—from an honest artist dealing to make ends meet, to the creeps who rob him, to the mobster, to a band of punk rock chicks who give it back to the mobster, who tries to sell it to another dealer so he can get some dough to give to the punk rock girls because he has taken a shine to their singer.
It was very shrewd, and the conceit of the suitcase passing from hand to hand anchored a large ensemble cast that would finally come together at the end of the film at a giant New York City marijuana rally, making it the It’s a Mad Mad Mad Mad World of pot. The entire film was to be shot on location with a gritty urban look. In fact, this would be Alison’s first time directing anything like this—she was a documentary filmmaker who had shot for National Geographic, and she wanted to exploit her talents to show off New York City as a stark landscape inhabited by its own indigenous wildlife.