Inside The Emerald Triangle; Pt. II, Area 101 (Cont.)
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Sadly, I guess I was wrong thinking that the murders in LA at the two dispensaries last week were linked somehow. My heart goes out to the friends and family of the victims of this most horrendous crime.
The men and women I know who works at the dispensaries are the same people you’d see at a Phish concert or you’d share a joint with them at the beach or get help from in class or see at Thanksgiving or the holidays. They are just like you or me. They probably thought they had a cool job and were helping people at the same time.
To think that two generous human beings were extinguished because someone thought they could take what they want.
I’m afraid with the unruliness of LA, the bending of the rules as dispensaries open and close trying to get a seat in the auditorium of WEED before the political music stops, we’re going to see more of this until Legalization become a fact.
We are in our infancy. Liquor stores and banks can get robbed. Schools and daycare centers can be attacked. But when there is violence linked to the location of a dispensary, all eyes and throats are going to be upon us. Any excuse for Legalization NOT to go forward is going to be illuminated like the Bat-beam over Burbank.
Again, I feel really bad for all those involved with this tragedy.
EVERYTHING IS POLITICAL
Things are moving fast here…Berkeley, this is amazing…is considering allowing Dispensaries, certain dispensaries, to have up to 30,000 of square feet dedicated to growing WEED. So a dispensary could have its own warehouse for proprietary growing. Whereas some dispensaries are dependent on the guys with the green duffle bags for product, there would be a few that not only would be self-contained, but what does it cost to grow a Marijuana plant? I think total cost involved is something like $7-12 a plant. You can get 4 OZ’s. to a pound off a plant…You do the hazy math.
Well there is an African-American grower’s collective that is trying to get into the warehouse-growing business too. The problem; background checks. 40 Acres Medical Marijuana Growers Collective, a non-profit group wants an opportunity to be part of the action but are being denied because some members have police records and other histories with the Man.
“We get questioned left and right because somehow there’s this stigma on the African-American community’s use of medical marijuana,” said spokeswoman Toya Groves for 40 Acres Medical Marijuana Growers Collective.
Groves said the city should “regulate and support” collectives like 40 Acres by allowing them to get a business license or a permit to grow in a commercial area.
Berkeley Mayor Tom Bates, one of the authors of the proposed rules, said that isn’t part of his plan, but come November, collective growers could have more opportunities if Californians vote to legalize marijuana for recreational use.
“More than likely there would be additional growing faculties and new outlets that would be available to the recreational smoker,” said Bates.
For more info;
http://www.baycitizen.org/marijuana/story/pot-proposal-leaves-some-feeling-left/
I was asked so I’ll answer. I do not believe real Kush exists. I believe there are some strains out there that have the by-products of Kush and maybe even have some of the same lineage.
The Kush I knew came from Afghanistan. Just like the fable Thai-sticks, Panama Red and other strains from yesteryear, the Kush that we knew in the Seventies and Eighties, died. Please correct me if you know different.
It is my belief that Kush was grown predominately in East LA. It could be urban legend or just bad dope gossip, I heard the principle grower of Kush, the people who grew the real deal, the proprietary strain, the original plant as it were, died off from bugs. Sad but true.
I am saying this. The original strain that we call Kush, no longer exist. A fake, close replica took its place and no one knows the difference. Because the demand is so high for a product that has Kush in the name or title, it really doesn’t matter anymore. The OG Kush from the Day is gone.
I’m going to need some of my barrio Brothers to back me up on this. Yes, I was that white dude who drove down Eagle St. late to meet my bud, Chuy, in his studio. He would paint pictures, cars, shit, the side of anything while his papa, Don Tomas, rolled the best shit I’ve ever had (besides the Durbin Poison I got in Europe) and told us stories of the old days.
Correct me if I’m wrong. Let the debate begin…
And now my continuing series on the Emerald Triangle…
Inside The Emerald Triangle; Pt. II, Area 101 (Cont.)
Charley Patton played the blues as I pulled into the dirt road driveway of Area 101. As I listened to my home-made CD, I regretted not bringing my guitar with me on this trip. It was a hard choice but I already had too much stuff for what was going to be a short trip. Still, there is nothing better than to sit next to a country lake, stream or river, strumming the six-string, watching the world go by. Oh well, can’t have everything.
It isn’t hard to miss Area 101 from the one-lane freeway that curves by the commune on Highway 101. If you were wondering, like stoners do with directions, that maybe you’d missed the place. But I think when one sees a Mind’s eyeball etched into the side of the building; the next logical conclusion is… “I’m home.”
I had called Tim two or three times to remind him that I was coming to Area 101 in the week preceding my visit. I only spoke to him once; otherwise it was whoever was answering the phone at that particular moment.
I wasn’t sure if he was expecting me or how exactly the protocol worked when approaching a visionary.
I parked away from the main building and across from the smaller structure that houses bathrooms and showers Area 101 provides to weary travelers. I left the engine still running.
As soon as I pulled in my old Hippie vibe or etiquette took over. I didn’t know where to park at first. I didn’t want to be uncool and park too close or worse, block one of the five cars already there, grabbing what shade there was from the redwoods and firs. I parked away from everything to keep a low profile.
Right away the idea of shared spaced is back. I’m so used to living in the City where if you don’t get on the bus, you don’t get on the bus, no matter how packed is, so you push and shove.
In the country, there is a respect for others right from the get go. You lose the anonymity of the City where no one knows your name. In the country, everyone knows your name and your business, but they never ask you what your business is. Later about that.
Teddy the Barista (Teddy, that’s the guy who gives you your coffee) was leaning behind the counter talking to one of the young guys inspecting the treats in the industrial refrigerator on our side of the counter.
“How are these cookies, Teddy?”
“Good.”
“What about these date bars?”
“Good.”
“How about these organic honey-grain thingamichig?”
“Good.”
“How much?”
“Three bucks.”
“Oh, I don’t have it…”
“That’s cool. You can take it and pay me later.”
That could sum up the Area 101 experience in a nutshell, but too simplistic. It gets more cosmic and real.
There were about four dudes hanging out inside of the mainhouse, in the sunken living room on couches reading, staring and dozing off. Along the chairs that frame the coffee table near the front window one of the two young guys ate his organic thingamichig while the other read a Techno magazine. I decided to go for a walk and explore the property while I waited for Tim Blake.
Two men were finishing up putting away machinery in this mammoth tin hanger of structure that was about three hundred yards across from the mainhouse. It was around three in the afternoon and the Sun was beaming hot. I had started to walk in the direction of the tin barn but then thought better of it. The last thing you want to do in Mendocino County is walk up to a strange building, especially, if you are a stranger. Not a good idea in the Triangle.
Between the building that the showers and bathrooms are in and a good distance from the machine shop/tin warehouse/unknown quantity is the stage. Yes, a stage.
A stage that was about forty feet across with a diamond shaped back that looked like it was built to bounce sound off like ping-pong ball into the hills. Persian rugs were duct-taped together in front of the stage on the ground. Above left of the stage was a meditation grounds where there was statues and carving. The grass was trim and green unlike the parched brown mat that surrounded the compound. I could imagine a two-some of Arnold Palmer and Maharishi Yogi teeing off from here.
From here the mountain and woods began in earnest. Green little lizards darted in the heat along the flagstone that borders the stage and meditation lawn. Behind the stage are electrical outlets and to my surprise, a guitar case is baking on the lawn. I open the case and lo and behold, there is a very warm guitar in it and it’s in tune. Could this be a sign? The Hippie spirit does live. Then I doubt myself. Did someone leave it or forget it out here? Should I tell Teddy that it is here? Then I just opened it and played…
I love this place!
Next: Meet the Man, Tim Blake
Reader Comments (2)
From here the mountain and woods began in earnest. Green little lizards darted in the heat along the flagstone that borders the stage and meditation lawn. Behind the stage are electrical outlets and to my surprise, a guitar case is baking on the lawn. I open the case and lo and behold, there is a very warm guitar in it and it’s in tune. Could this be a sign? The Hippie spirit does live. Then I doubt myself. Did someone leave it or forget it out here? Should I tell Teddy that it is here? Then I just opened it and played…
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