How I Got Into Dealing Drugs

Preamble: Quick note before I get started. Mom, Dad or anyone in my family reading this, please exit the browser now. The events detailed in this post were a long, long time ago. Sandra McCarthy don't get excited and try to drop dime again because I can hardly afford my own drugs these days, much less sell them.

As I had mentioned in my previous post, in moving back and forth across the country, coupled with a computer crash, and nerve damage, I thought I lost the raw 180 pages of “my glory days” from the first draft of the book.

Luckily, I searched my Gmail and found an email I had sent to myself from July of 2016, so I'm fairly sure, I have the whole thing again.

Bad old days, here we come!

Chapter 4: How I Got Into Dealing Drugs

“People don't sell drugs, drugs sell themselves.” – Chris Rock

Like porn, drug dealing was never anything I had considered doing for a living. It found me. Drugs were my chief source of income from the early to late 1990's.

I've always been a stoner. I smoked pot five or six times when I was 13 before I ever got high, but I loved it. When I lived in Connecticut, we'd get our parents to drop us off roller skating; then we would sneak out to the graveyard, smoke joints and play ice hockey. I can remember the first time I felt the effects and have been a committed stoner since.

At 18, one of the things I was looking forward to in Georgia was the vast difference in weed prices. In Connecticut, a quarter was $60 and not high quality. In Atlanta, a quarter of weed was $40 and slightly better.

There was a hitch, every year during the end of summer ATL would “go dry, ” and marijuana would be impossible to find. That July I moved there was the worst drought on record. Finding a nug would be like finding a brick of gold.

It was that bad.

Once I had my truck unpacked, my next order of business was scoring a bag. Crazy Chris called a few of his pot dealers, but everyone was out. That year, I can remember the police erecting billboards on the interstate stating, “you think it's dry this year, wait till next year” with a big marijuana leaf and international no sign.


I was frustrated and sober.


One of the first days in Atlanta, I was going to see where my mailbox was in my apartments, this older black guy in a car drove up and asked me if I was looking for weed. I responded, “Hell, yeah.” I had the cash; he took off his hat with a bunch of 1/8th bags rolled up in it and I bought one. He lived in my same apartment complex, gave me his number and said call him if I need more. I strutted back to my building with my first half-price Georgia dirt-weed. Everyone was dumbfounded “the new guy” could find weed, where the locals had failed.

Within an hour I am back at his apartment scoring a bag for Crazy Chris and then a few hours later, for Chris's friends, who I didn't even know. I started making 3 or 4 runs per day to the dealers' place. For a few days, I got the sacks for people without making a profit other than they'd smoke me out or give me a joint. As the week went on, people kept calling, so I proactively bought an ounce. I figured I could sell three-quarters and get my weed free. After another week I started making a lot of “new friends” because I was the only guy who could score weed. Eventually, knowing that business was incoming. I bought 2 ounces, two became 3, and soon I'd moved up to a “QP” (quarter pound).


Without knowing it, I had become a drug dealer.


I had a few “regular” quote jobs too. I worked at UPS for a while unloading trucks. I also used to work for my friend “Johnny Cold Beer” installing carpet. I will save those debacles for another chapter, as they were adventures in themselves.

Between working, selling drugs, partying and my girlfriend Beverly that had just moved up from Connecticut, I had my hands full. I never went to many classes at school and dropped out in the first quarter. I already knew some pretty advanced music theory just from years of reading guitar magazines, so everything at school was a refresher.


dave from distemper


While I was working at UPS, I met this guy Spencer who had a similar side hustle. He had a better connection than the guy at my apartment building, so together, we graduated from “QPs” to pounds.

Some guys from Kentucky tried to stick us with a few pounds of really moldy dirt weed with maggots and it during the dry spell the second summer. We told them we didn't want this shit, and they could have it back. They refused, Spencer knew one of them had a big grow operation in the back of his house, so one October morning after work, just as it was time for harvest, we went to his greenhouse and chopped down all the flowering weed. We cruised down Peachtree Industrial Highway in rush hour traffic with marijuana plants darting out of every orifice and Spencer's compact car. Keep in mind; this was long before the tolerant medical marijuana years; this was 1991 Georgia: In the eyes of the law, we were carrying a life sentence in Reidsville State Penitentiary.


Not long after I quit UPS.


Besides from working with Johnny a bit from time to time, I never had a “real job” again.

After a while, I lost touch with Spencer and was introduced to “Hippy John.” John was involved at a higher-level than Spencer. He was arranging shipments of hundreds of pounds of weed from Mexico. He became my new connection, and I was his right-hand man. We dominated the ATL spot market by having “mids,” which was HQ weed but not as expensive as hydroponic, and far better than the cheaper Mexican dirt weed. The best thing about “mids” was they had the highest profit margin and demand.

By 1995, Dick Delicious wanted to play a lot more shows out-of-town, so I wanted to solidify my income. I had a truck that I barely drove so I sold it for $3000 and picked up 3 ounces of the blow. I didn't know if I'd have any luck selling it, but within 48 hours the cocaine was gone, and I was re-upping. I don't like cocaine that much, so I made for a good coke dealer.

Say what you want about the morality of dealing drugs, but many people have asked me how I got so “good at business.”


I learned it by selling drugs.


From my stint as a drug dealer, I can do even relatively complex math calculations in my head. For example, if I bought X per ounce of blow then I could Break it up into to X, Y and Z at know what the profits were from each. Selling drugs is a service industry, and a big part of it was just available and in stock.

For a brief time, I tried to sell ecstasy because coke clients often wanted ecstasy as well. What I've noticed is cocaine cancels ecstasy out. You just stopped rolling (that's no fun). I found myself buying a hundred pills and giving 80 of them away to chicks at parties when I was rolling my face-off. I was a shitty ecstasy dealer, so I didn't mess with it long.

The funny thing was for all the drugs I've dealt the only trouble I ever got into was for personal possession. While I was in jail, Hippy John kept supplying my girlfriend with the mids, so I never missed a beat.

When I got out of prison, I briefly considered going straight and getting a real job, but the problem with being a convicted felon on probation is no one wants to hire you. So I jumped back into drugs with both feet, this time with the threat of probation looming over my head.

I went another two years or so slanging hard, during this period that my Internet porn career was starting to take flight. I eventually approached my suppliers and told them that I wanted to get out of the game because I was making more money legally. Because I had always been trustworthy, paid cash, and could move product — they didn't want me to leave. So they made me an offer I couldn't refuse.


No, it wasn't a death threat.


They offered to make my life easier! They set me up, so all I would have to was pick up an enormous amount about once per month. I had three guys, I could trust, so I immediately split it up between them. When 30 days or so would pass I would collect my money, restock, rinse and repeat.

Finally, I decided to move to California. I went to my suppliers and told them I was out of the business and this time I meant it. To placate them I made the introduction to the two guys that I had distributing for me, thereby cutting myself out as the middleman. To this day, they are still in the game, as far as I know.

Now with that out-of-the-way, I had a few more loose ends to tie up. I had this big envelope full of cash in my room. To be honest, I never counted it, but I assumed it contained something like $2000 or $3000. My girlfriend and I had mostly used it as drinking money when we went out to bars. The night before I was counting it and my estimate were way off! There was over $20,000 that envelope. I had heard of the crime of structuring deposits (anything over $10,000 must be reported to the IRS). So we took the money and deposited it $5000 at a time into separate ATMs.


I never got caught.


Ever since then, I've been a buyer, not a retailer.

And that was how I got into dealing drugs.


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The Dothan, Alabama Incident

dick delicious and super x-13

File Under DIY Tour Madness 1995: With Dick Delicious and Super X-13

If you've been a musician and booked your own tour, you already know they can be a string of catastrophes waiting to happen. We scheduled 3 shows with our longtime buddies Super X-13 in Jacksonville, Tallahassee, and Panama City Beach (where Spring Break was that weekend). Knowing our debaucherous behavior at the time, I thought we'd be lucky to make it back to Atlanta outside of State or Federal confinement.

To lower expenses, both bands piled into my Ford Econoline with a trailer in tow. Astonishingly, this didn't wind up to be another crappy indie tour, this was some real Rockstar shit. Three nights in a row we had massive crowds, great shows, were overpaid, plus got free beer and random groupies!

On the last day of our glorious mini-tour. I awoke on Sunday morning on the floor of some chick’s house in Panama City to the sound of “Oh, fuck! It’s not going to start!” from outside the window.

metal bands that should have been bigger

My van had a ghetto starter switch. You needed to flip it quickly or the starter would keep running till it burned out. Scott (Hugh G. Rection) and Shane Morton, apparently went on an early morning quest for water-slides (water-slides?!) and forgot how to operate the switch correctly. The van was toast. One of our friends gave us a ride to the auto parts store. In the brutal heat of the Florida's sun. I crawled on the 120 degrees asphalt toiling to change the part. I am far from being mechanically inclined, so the repair took forever. I wrangle the new starter on, try to crank the van up: Nothing. Maybe the new starter could be defective? We go back to the auto shop, get another and after many hours of aggravation the 2nd starter actually worked. By late afternoon, we were finally on the road back to Atlanta.

Once You Are Outside Of Atlanta You Are In Georgia

The roads from Panama City to Atlanta are a mixed bag – consisting of backcountry roads that wind through Florida, Alabama, and South Georgia. Kelly Sanford (drummer of Super X-13) is driving and most of the other guys were passed out from roofies a fan gave us (yes, we roofied ourselves). In the cabin of the van were just the 6 of us, a giant stack of porno mags, and an axe handle inscribed with some racially insensitive remarks in sharpie we kept “for protection”. We mostly used it to bust open pinball machines to get quarters for gas money after some promoter screwed us, which frequently happened at the time.

Florida I think

We were driving through Dotham, Alabama when we run out of rolling papers, so we stopped at a convenience store. The redneck clerk sold us Zig Zags and then dropped dime to the police. As soon as we leave the parking lot a cop gets behind us with blue lights flashing. Our drummer, Dave (Phil A. Cunt), takes the weed and stuffs it down his pants. Shane and I try to wake up Scott and Timmy, who are thoroughly unconscious from the Rohiphinal.

Two precariously inbred redneck cops come up to the doors on either side of the van with guns drawn and transport Kelly into the back of the cop car. Scott finally comes to, but Timmy (guitarist for Super X-13) stays down for the count and we can't wake him up.

Next, we are asked to step out of the van, one by one.


shae morton super x-3 atlanta

Shane Morton got out first, with green hair and wearing a “Bitch Goddess” t-shirt. The chief redneck cop informs him, “Boy, you’ve already broken the obscenity laws here in Alabama by wearing that shirt. Why don’t you tell me where the acid is at!”

Next out is Scott, despite the beer gut, is told he fits the profile of an IV drug user.

Next in line is me, “Hey are you the guy who owns this van?’, the cop asks.

“Yes”, I say.

“When we find that dope you are hiding, we are going to confiscate your vehicle.”

Next was our drummer Dave, who was the most clean-cut looking, had the least number of tattoos, but was also the guy holding the drugs! They pull him aside and say, “Boy, you look like the straight shooter of this bunch. Why don’t you just tell us where the dope is?”

Timmy was so roofied out of his skull, we had to drag him out.

Guess what the cops say to the guy who is so passed out on narcotics that he can’t even walk or talk?


Once they have us all in a group, they tell us that the driver (Kelly Sandford) was already under arrest for DUI. We all knew Kelly hadn’t been drinking, that’s why he'd been chosen to drive.

Soon after, more police cars pull up. We are standing in a circle – this other dweeby looking cop is fidgeting nervously with a flashlight and a semi-automatic pistol drawn. The doughnut-bloated redneck Sergeant sends one of the cops to search the van.

Mind you that there was nothing in the van except a giant stack of porno and an axe handle. All of our gear, luggage, and any drugs that had survived that trip we're surely in the trailer, but they never even asked to search it!

The trailer could have been loaded with dead bodies stuffed with cocaine for all they knew.

The redneck sergeant starts his tirade, “Hey why are you boys so shifty? I bet you wanna beat me? Don’t you?”


We stand silently.


He continues, “I don’t like musicians. My best friend was killed by musicians.”

More silence follows from our group.

“Why don’t you boys just tell us where the fuckin’ dope is? We’ve already called for dogs to come out here. Tell us where the dope is?”

Florida again

The cop repeats this mantra for the next forty-five minutes, acting like he was talking to the Manson family. Meanwhile, we haven’t heard a peep out of the other cop who is still in the van with the flashlight rummaging through all of the nothing.

Finally after the umpteenth “You boys wanna’ hurt me” comment, I finally break down, “Hey man, you are the only one talking about hurting anyone, we are just trying to make it home.”

My comment created some levity, the cop started to settle down a bit and asks “Which one of you is the lead singer? The lead singer gets all the girls.”

The respective singers raise their hands.

“You boys know any Molly Hatchet? If you are going to be playing down in Panama City, you had better know some Hatchet!”

“Sure, we know a little Molly Hatchet.”

“Well hell, yeah…ten four good buddies!”

An hour later, the other cop finally emerges from searching the van – his shirt is completely soaked in sweat, with a giant ring of wetness around his collar and dripping off his head.

“Hey Sarge, I checked the whole van – they’re clean…”

He could have finished the search in five minutes, but judging by the hour that had elapsed and the ring of sweat on his uniform. I’m about 99% certain he was in there doing the five knuckle shuffle to our collection of Hustler magazines.

“How do you boys ride in there? It must be damn hot.”, The Sargent says as he shines his flashlight into the empty van for the first time. He picks up the “racially insensitive ax handle” and looks at it with curiosity, smiles, and puts it back.

“Well hell yeah! You just some good old boys!”

After two hours on the side of the road, they finally let us go, and escort is out of town like the Beatles had just rolled through Dothan, Alabama.

By this time it is 3 AM and we still have four hours of travel ahead of us and day jobs in a few hours. We make it seventy miles outside of the ATL when the van’s engine cuts out and we are stranded on the side of the road: AGAIN!

We walked to the Waffle House off the next exit, get the van towed, and call our girlfriends to pick us up as the sun is coming up: How had such a glorious “tour” gone straight to hell?

That was just one of 1 million crazy and fun times we've had with those guys, but that story always sticks out for some reason.

That was the Dothan, Alabama incident with Super X-13.

Peace out,
Jason Quinlan