Get Rich or Die Trading: Part 1

Two dynamic entrepreneurs in their mid-thirties, veterans of the booming cannabis industry, arrive in style at the dazzling new phenomenon, Planet 13, in the heart of Las Vegas, Nevada. Imagine your favorite dispensary colliding with the whimsy of 'Pizza Planet' from Toy Story – it's expansive, unique, and absolutely unparalleled.

As we stroll through the grand entrance, flanked by an armed guard and a knowledgeable assistant, we make our way to the top-floor offices. Waiting for us are Larry and Bob, visionaries in their own right. Our agenda: to explore ways of amplifying our already-thriving monthly cannabis business. Welcome to the intersection of innovation and opportunity. It was a very exciting time in the space and we were the very first ones doing it all - legally, a block from the Vegas Strip.

Larry casually glances over his shoulder as we step into the room, his attention fixed on something seemingly embedded in the wall. "You ever seen one of these?" he asks, his tone casual yet curious.

"Yes, Sir. Looks like a P90!" I declare without missing a beat. Larry's head snaps back in clear amazement, surprised that I instantly recognize the rare European bullpup rifle. As if the sheer peculiarity of finding a custom gun safe built into the wall behind a giant painting in his shiny new office wasn't weird enough for this weed dispensary straight out of outer space.

"And how about this one?" Larry asks with a smirk as he smoothly reveals a sleek black pistol. “That would be an FN Five-Seven, another fine choice,” Chris declares casually, his attention diverted to inspecting the incredible rotating coffee table at the center of the office.

This time, Larry and Bob remain silent, both evidently amazed that these seemingly unassuming "kids," as Larry puts it, effortlessly hold their ground in this impromptu weapon show-off. The irony is not lost on them—both Chris and I, despite our appearance, hail from both the weed and gun industries. I was a competitive shooter in my 20s, and Chris and I both had stints working with firearms.

I had distanced myself from the gun business when my daughter was born, finding it too taboo and attracting an eccentric crowd. Yet, it's always intrigued me how the stereotypical image of the cannabis industry clashes with the reality. Weed enthusiasts and gun aficionados, seemingly worlds apart, share an unexpected common ground, challenging the clichés associated with both businesses.

Larry and Bob motion for us to take a seat, proudly sharing that Mike Tyson occupied the very same chair just moments ago. We exchange a chuckle, and as we settle in, Chris casually mentions his business dealings with Tony Hawk the day before.

"Who's Tony Hawk?" Bob asks.

Between November 2016 and May 2019, I journeyed to Las Vegas a total of 31 times, each visit requiring international flights. This period unfolded against a media backdrop echoing cautionary tales of "weed execs" and investors in the cannabis space being banned for life at the U.S. border. Every trip was a daring gamble, a relentless dance with uncertainty.

The anxiety leading up to each journey was palpable, rendering the anticipation almost debilitating. Every drive to the airport, every restless night preceding the flight, sometimes weeks of mounting tension—all building up to that dreaded encounter with the border guard. The walk toward the immigration checkpoint felt like a journey through a binary realm, a space of life's little black-and-white scenarios where, at that moment, you were either in the clear or on the brink of chaos. The guard's gaze penetrated deep, scrutinizing your very soul, as you approached, knowing that the outcome was binary—either good to go or facing a world of trouble.

The weight of my concern was founded. In the eyes of border authorities, I might have seemed like a Canadian Pablo Escobar, orchestrating the sale of over two million dollars' worth of a federally illegal substance in Vegas each month. With a workforce of 100 employees in Las Vegas, I found myself shuttling back and forth to a quaint town named Chilliwack, British Columbia, where my wife and three little kids awaited my return.

I lived a dual life, akin to a stoned James Bond figure, appearing unexpectedly and departing just as swiftly. Yet, despite the transient nature of my presence, I maintained a constant grip on the pulse of the operation—keeping the people content, the excitement levels high, the stocks trading, and the financial accounts well-fueled. It was a delicate dance of duality, where my actions balanced the precarious line between thrill and risk, success and the looming specter of legal consequences.

I found myself embodying more of a Kenny Powers figure on the run, all while dressed in an Italian suit. Everywhere I went, I became a living paradox, persistently attempting to fit into all the wrong places. In front of my staff, team, fellow board members, or investors, I portrayed one persona. Yet, when I returned home, it was a seamless transition into Dad-mode and husband-mode. Out with the Chilliwack homies, I assumed an entirely different mode of myself, adapting to the diverse roles that life demanded of me. It was the same for the Vancouver banker crowd; having to fit into another entirely unique and foreign culture. It was a constant juggling act, each facet requiring its own unique version of my identity.

I found myself embodying a situation familiar to many young professionals—juggling an array of moving parts in business. I was overseeing more than 12 corporations, managing a full legal and accounting team, all while holding the position of CEO in a significant $150 million public corporation with 35,000 shareholders. Amidst the demands of the corporate world, I endeavored to balance the roles of being a dedicated dad and husband. It was a constant challenge to navigate the complexities of professional responsibilities while fulfilling personal commitments.

For two relentless years, I found myself shuttling between Chilliwack and our lake house in Sorrento, transporting my wife Nichole, our three kids, and her five chihuahuas back and forth every week. It was a chaotic routine, akin to a ping pong ball bouncing between destinations. I'd parachute into Vegas, then swiftly return to Vancouver for meetings. From there, it was off to Sorrento, a brief stop in Chilliwack for packing and laundry, and a mad dash back to the Vancouver airport—90 minutes away—to catch a flight back to Vegas, where the cycle of extinguishing fires would begin anew.

Toronto inevitably made its way into the mix every quarter, while New York and LA demanded my presence at least twice a year. Adding to the whirlwind were two annual trips to Mexico with the kids, turning 12 months into a relentless 365-day road-show with no respite. At 34 years old in the summer of 2019, I finally began to pump the brakes on the hurricane that was my life.

Amidst it all, I served as a Director for five other sizeable companies, pursued my dream of becoming a helicopter pilot, and battled clinical depression. Averaging three grams of weed a day and consuming an average of 10 servings of booze each night, I very poorly navigated the storm that was my existence.

How the fuck did I get here.

…to be continued…