This has not been easy. Do you need to know that? No. Should you understand maybe a wee bit, what 35 years of hustle and struggle looks like? Fuck it. I’m just going to say it because it matters. TriChome Ranch is a fever dream come to life, not by chance – completely on purpose. From tin-foil-walled-closets in upstate NY, to East Village connects, to road-trips heavy as shit, to piles of sweat confiscated by the police on the side of the highway, to thousands of trips up six flights on Canal, with 50lb bags of dirt on each shoulder, to holding your breath while a 2 inch steel door separates you from the FDNY, flashlights banging, announcing how fucked you just might be, to kittens rescued from sewers by junkies with hearts of gold, to old school giant screen TVs on heavy duty hinges with magnetic locks hiding a jillion watts above a sweatshop in Chinatown, to multiple identities, personas, endeavors, schemes, broken promises, loyal friends, disloyal enemies, and a few goddamned heros who kept their traps shut long enough for glory to achieved occasionally, with victory stolen just as often by one little hiccup – those hiccups get old, so you meet the guy who rigged Jack Nicholson’s car to carry coke, in a bar in the Lower East Side and pay him a ton of money to convert a tractor trailer into a cross-country bale-a-thon, filled with dirty mattresses and Ahab at the wheel, steady as fuck, reaching for a dream. Blood by the pint. Sweat by the gallon. And weed by the pound. 35 years, and now I get to share this with you without hiding. TriChome has more life in it than most people will ever get to feel. I’m not asking you taste the struggle, but rather savor the success that comes from the struggle. It’s so much sweeter when you do it your way, from the bottom.