Don't recall.
I recall my first bag, though.
A "friend" and I, who was one of those fringe-of-the-crew dudes, accidentally bumped into a deal. Not a dealer, just some clown who had a couple "eights", and oddly they weren't rip-offs.
So, I had most of the cash, and the friend ponied up five bucks.
We were about fifteen, and after buying said bag, didn't know where to go. So we wandered around on foot a while, and he's all "lemme see, lemme see!", and I wasn't having none of that. The guy was sort of a dipshit. Like, we were gonna stand there and inspect a bag right in the middle of the road.
It started to rain, and I had an unaccustomed flash of intelligence: The Garage!
There was an old abandoned garage in the cemetery near my house, all overgrown with weeds. Hard to get to because of picker-bushes, no way a car could plow through that shit.
The cemetery custodian used to store junk in there about a hundred years back, and it had since fallen into disrepair. It had a concrete floor and a high vaulted roof with broken out windows, and we used to go there in the winter to make fires in shelter from the wind.
So we trudged through the brambles in the rain and the dark, and eventually made it to The Garage. It was dark and foreboding, and we always stood there a while listening for the bigger kids who would take beer there and fuck.
After we deemed it safe to proceed, we pushed through the squalky side-door, and scrounged up some garbage to make a fire to see by, in a rusty old oil drum that served the purpose countless times.
We sat on a wooden work bench that was oil soaked and covered in mouse shit, and inspected our loot. Some surprisingly good nuggets, to be honest. To this day, I think I'd still pay thirty bucks for it.
So, we then went to work procuring a beer can, which were plentiful, and worked a nail loose from somewhere where a thing once hung in an orderly row of other non-existent things. A flourish of ingenuity, and voila, the can-pipe.
We smoked a lot of fucking pot that night, and when Ding-Dong wanted to take a cellophane home I told him to get bent.
We agreed to disagree, on the promise I'd get him baked again before the bag ran out. He was satisfied with that, on the presumption his mom would somehow find his stash.
So we left and parted ways, and the next morning I woke up, pleased as shit I had my very own bag. I decided to look at it, and couldn't find it. Panic set in, I was quite heartbroken my first bag was stolen or lost.
I went back to the only place I could think of, The Garage. And sure enough, there it was, laid out like a magazine ad for pot, right next to the bent can.
So I smoked up again, careful to put the bag in my pocket this time, and went looking for people to impress with my awesome new bag.