I got stoned one afternoon with Panama Red. THE Panama Red, of the famous song. He was no longer in his namesake business, he said, but instead sold used computer hardware to Deadheads. He wouldn’t say where he lived, but it was somewhere in the mountains above Santa Cruz, tucked away, ever wary. The Man, he said. The Man. He gave me a suspicious look, then drew deep from an enormous reefer, and the room was filled with sweet blue smoke.