The Kids Are Outside: Three Days of Music, Coffee and Free-Trade Drugs in the Golden Land

“In three years, you will only remember the few mind-blowing bands, who you were with and what drugs you were on—if you’re lucky. The festival is a $300 guarantee to have a strange trip if you’re down. So if everyone is going to be on molly at a festival, I am going to do what the bromans do.”

From MTV Hive:

ever buy drugs in San Jose. Don’t buy anything in San Jose. There’s nothing there that can’t be acquired with equal ease elsewhere. It’s a bedroom community masquerading as metropolis: an endless ring of Red Lobsters and Bed Bath & Beyonds, Rosses and Best Buys. Homes that have been architecturally CC’d. Its most distinguished historical artifact is a witchy mystery mansion built by a mad munitions widow to house the ghosts of men killed by Winchester rifles during the Civil War. You would think that fact alone would make it the perfect place to buy drugs. It does not.

Under no circumstances would I advocate such totally awful decisions, but the first day of the Outside Lands Festival in San Francisco warranted the acquisition of ruthless efficient mind-altering agents. Don’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise: everyone is high, drunk, coked up, shrooming, rolling…wobbling. Every generation deserves their own Woodstock, the festival rite of passage, replicated two dozen times to varying degrees of success all across summer in America. Except acid is now infinitely more to difficult to come by.

This is not an era for psychedelics. Peyote, LSD, mescaline, and ayahuasca are golden tickets rarely found and usually only in conjunction with some fringe hippie hustler who tries to seduce girls by telling them he’s a shaman. That’s a bad look, and besides, the festivals of today are not conducive to the lysergic bug-out. The music is too fast, the crowds too fist-pump intense. Sets are 45 minutes, and there are few extended guitar solos to ostensibly see infinity through. The body high is king. That’s the long explanation of why I’m searching for molly, pure MDMA, on the outskirts of San Jose.

There is an unspoken rule with drug dealers. The shadier the drug, the flakier they are. There are no statistics to back me up, but if Breaking Bad is to be believed, the traffic of methamphetamines will lead to you murdering children. Despite their preference for brostep, molly dealers are somewhat less homicidal. But they will never show up on time—even if they work in accounting for Price Waterhouse. This is the day job of our street pharmacist, so the friend of a friend who procured the connection tells me. Times are hard when even the CPAs are slanging. I am told that he is new. Tax season has only been over for four months.

At the moment, White Denim are shredding through an opening set in Golden Gate Park, but I am idled curbside in a Modern Family burb… waiting… imagining that McNulty is listening to the entire conversation in the Go-Go Rooter van across the street. But soon our chemical consort comes through, clutching two cherry-sized bags of white powder. The gas tank is full. So is a medical marijuana bottle of science-mastered OG Kush. A fifth of Jim Beam. A 24 pack of beers. And the car stereo is loudly blaring a song called “Midget Cough.”

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