Some time around the ’50s, motorcycle clubs, at least the outlaw variety, found marijuana. It was perfectly anti-establishment and pissed off the squares. It also gave birth to motorcycle clubs like the “Stoned Riders” of whom I know absolutely nothing about.
Myself, I haven’t smoked any herb in over 30 years, but I get what people like about it. Lots of my friends use it to sleep.
The Stoned Riders? They were from Santa Maria, California and they rocked my old pal, the Zig-Zag man. If you wanted to piss your teachers off in a huge way, just draw the Zig-Zag man on your folder or your book. It was like waving a red flag at an enraged bull. We had a cement-head assistant principal who would go apoplectic at the sight of our Persian friend. All they knew was the Zig-Zag man meant “pot” and he was everywhere–t-shirts, scrawled on textbooks inside and out. . .every bit of pothead graffiti was either the hemp leaf or Double Z. I got so I could draw the stoner icon without looking. In fact, I recall spray painting a stencil of Zig on the trunk of a teachers car. It was a fucking masterpiece of vandalism–the sharp Persian features. . the big, perfectly-rendered fatty. . .it made me so happy. I almost got caught standing around admiring it. This one is for those unknown pot gypsies, the Stoned Riders of Santa Maria, California.