Back in my day, weed was bought from shady characters standing on the corner, or at a weed spot where shady characters gathered. There was none of this ordering on the phone and having some aspiring male model type roll up to your front door on his bike to deliver your quarter ounce. That's that bullshit. Just another sign of dwindling grittiness, like getting our tattoos in malls. So it's no surprise that our city's weed dealers have morphed from streetwise hustlers posted up in the shadows to fancy-free longhairs who give interviews about their business to the Observer under their real names: Stefan Fitzgerald is a bike delivery guy for a large weed operation who was only too happy to bitch to the Observer about his boss:

At some point in the day—it’s a 12-hour shift—he meets up with The Man, who takes the cash and refills his supply. The cell phone works as a pager, basically: When there’s an order from a customer, dispatch calls you; you call back from a pay phone, dispatch tells you where to go. “That way it’s untraceable. Supposedly,” he said. Mr. Fitzgerald was comfortable telling me about his work because it’s been his experience that the cops don’t really care about small-time pot dealers. “Frankly, the guys I work for I think are a little paranoid,” he said of the elaborate phone system. “But I guess it goes with the territory.”

Stefan: you're fired. And under arrest. [NYO; pic via The Onion]