Some Morning Hits…

This Saturday July 10^th, here in San Francisco, comes another 420 premiere, our first official Marijuana Farmer’s Market is taking place at Jelly’s Café, near Pier 48, just south of the ball park. Paul McCartney will be playing that night, so there will be a battle of the bongs going on for sure.

There will be booths, Dennis Peron, edibles and much, much more. You will need a card in order to get into the ‘215’ lounge. Starts at 4 pm. Stop by California Grow Mugs and say high…Hope to have a stony good time…

New poll figures are out today. The favorability rating for the passage of Bill 19 for legalization is DOWN. That’s right, it went from the state of California being split down the middle fifty-fifty for Legalization or not, to now, just forty-two percent for the Legalization of Marijuana in November. This is a good thing. The people are running scared. The poll was conducted over a couple days on the phone and I don’t trust it.

Again, let me give you my scary prediction. The conservative voters of Orange County and the San Diego area will be persuaded by their own inner fears that their kids, Dylan, Kayla, and Josh will one day be busted for smoking grass, so they should vote for Legalization. On the other hand, those hundreds of voters north of Santa Rosa, all the hippies, growers and organic capitalists, will vote against Legalization because of the fear that they are being left out of the process.

Don’t worry kids, there’s no going back now.

Our biggest hurdle is the prison system. They love potheads. If you had to deal with Father-rapin-murdurin-small-skulled psychopaths or pot smoking falling-asleep-mellow hippies, who would you pick. If 43 million people smoke Marijuana, and a lot of those people are doing it in parked cars or outside of clubs, without the benefits of lookouts or protection. So, they get busted. Have you ever had to prosecute someone for murder? Oh, it’s a long trial with angry violent people. Sometimes, the bad guy gets off. Very messy. With POT, the judge doesn’t care that an otherwise non-violent person is going to jail. The public doesn’t care. We let prisoners to make room for new ones. So don’t forget to give to the Corrections Officers Fund. There may be a new prison near you soon. Happy Bustin’!

The state paid out 20 million to a young woman who was kept as a slave for twenty years by a rapist who was let out.

Everything catches up to us…

L.A. Times had an article that if Legalization happens, the price of POT could go down as much as 80%.

First of all, nobody knows what is going to happen, except that the dollar never drowns. So don’t worry about low prices. For good or bad, the dispensaries dictate the price. They are the Cartel. You can’t fight supply and demand.

But as long as greed exists, nothing goes for cheap, or for that matter, what it is actually worth.

I’m growing pot right now. It’s cost me about thirty dollars so far for my plants. There not too bushy so I think I might be able to get a few ounces off of the lot. But then again, the only overhead I have is buying rolling papers and Lefties.    

Once again more municipalities and far-flung counties in this state and others are looking at Marijuana for the answer to their taxation crisis. As in, “Yikes, we’re out of money.”

For the past ten years, America has been cutting checks that their mouths couldn’t cover. Wars, budgets out of control, deregulations, have all added up to a debt that is becoming unimaginable.

Now the straights are looking at Mary Jane for the way to dance this all off. Almost like forgetting all our troubles by finding gold in them there green hills.

What could ruin everything for us are greed and the simplistic answer that money from WEED is going to solve all our problems. This is going to produce a hurry-up economy. It will seem like almost overnight people will be placed in positions and the regular folk are going to wonder how it happened. Right now we have the local Marijuana Commission that, for no pun intended, I find highly suspect. Right now I feel the commission is pie-cutters. They are doling out licenses and permits not like in the halls of Tammany, but there new Boss Weed being made in the shadows every day.  

The Marijuana Farmer’s Market is out of that circle. I hope it is a success.

It’s like there’s a Marijuana taffy-pull going on right now in the industry. The Green Rush is on. Issues and boundaries are being tested on all flanks and internally. Both sides are looking for holes to exploit. Convenient money for taxes is part of that experiment. Nobody knows what is going to happen.

Except that maybe human nature will take over.

This is a Green Rush. What has history taught us?

When the golden hills of 1849 summoned all that were adventurous and strong, who came and who made money? When the Alaskan pipeline was in full swing, who came and who made money?

There’s your answer. Unless Freak Power takes over, and you can only know what I’m talking about if you’re part of the club. This is industry will go the way of Organic food at Lucky’s or some other grocery store.

Marijuana will become a name that no longer stands for or means something. It will be a product marketed by those who know how to wring the last cent, gram, and last drop of resin from our beloved weed.

Marijuana will become another thing taken from our hands because there will be too much money to be made from it to be left with individuals who couldn’t understand the potential fiscal goldmine that is growing wild and free in their fields. This is a job for politicians and the people they pick.

Hey, have a Happy Weekend!

Meeting one of the Original Ganja Mommas Pt.2

Dalena has carved along the crown of the mountain some lively vegetable and acrylic looking flower gardens that dot the land like a vivid cut-up quilt. She definitely has a green thumb. Fake brown pots and real ceramic ones hold herbs and flowers that are scattered around strategically, shimmed to the hill so they don’t topple over. Once we get to the huge white grow house, to see a bunch of Marijuana plants rising high in a chorus of green isn’t that so surprising. It isn’t that dramatic. It just feels like another crop being grown on the farm.

“This is where I have my Twenty-five.” Dalena says referring to the twenty-five plants that she is legally allowed to grow with her card.

“Can I ask how much weight you can get from twenty-five plants?”

“Roughly about twenty-five pounds. Give or take…”

“You really get the sense that you’re alone out here. Is your crop safe?” I wasn’t even sure what town I was in officially. I only saw maybe thirty homes in the last couple of hours of driving.

“I feel very safe here. There are about eighty-six families that live here. Only but two grow. It is us growers that make everything happen. Always has been.” She says somewhat disgustedly. This is when I see the political Dalena that I’ve heard so much about. If there is a political committee or action group, Dalena is either in it or leads it. She has been one of the major players in the North Country for many years now. For the past two years, the Emerald Triangle has been holding townhall meetings concerning Life after Legalization. Dalena has been the chairperson for most of them in this part of the woods.

“Let me show you this…”

Now we were going to the opposite of the mountain. We’re following irrigation lines and partially buried hoses and tubes down a steep hill. After about thirty minutes of wedging my boots into the side of the hill so I don’t slide, we come to a slice of sunshine beaming through the tall trees.

“Here, this is where much of our community derides its financial backing,” Dalena says as she moves effortlessly through the woods like a mommy-deer on the unbeaten path.

Coming into the blinding rays of light there are twenty foot square plots, raging with rows of WEED growing tall along side of the redwoods.

“This is called the ‘Pencil Patch.’ Over here is the ‘Civic Duty.’”

“H’uh?” I say slack-jawed like a city boy.

“Oh…this Pencil Patch supplies the schools with teachers and equipment. Y’know and all the rest like paper, pencils and glue. Civic Duty sponsors the town with buildings, roads and other needs of a small town,” she says as she cleans the patch removing debris and generally tending to her children.

“Do you ever think of growing a big plot for the town to have to invest with? Like a cannabis mutual fund. Only you take the money from the sold pot and invest that in a mutual fund for the town. As an investment,” I inquire. I would.

“You mean in case Legalization doesn’t go our way,” Dalena says in a manner that I hadn’t seen yet. She said it almost nervously. Like she wasn’t sure what was going to happen.

“What do you think is going to happen in November?”

“I don’t know. People think that we’re selfish up here, in the Triangle. By the way, it was the Feds that gave us that name. We don’t really use it. At least we didn’t before. After Legalization, we may need to use it for branding purposes.” Dalena sighs as she untangles some tubing.

“People in the Bay Area think that because we’re not getting what we used to monetarily for a pound that’s reason we are whining. What they don’t realize is when the price goes down; we are getting less for our schools. There’s less to give to our local municipalities and even to our police. Marijuana is what has kept this area above water while some towns are literally going out of business. They can’t pay their people. The garbage men. The Fire department. You name it. Whatever keeps a town running, they can’t afford it. We’re not going to let that happen up here.”

It does feel like the pioneer spirit when you talk to the local growers. People helping each other. Protecting each other from outsiders. From Johnny Law if needed. When I say Johnny Law, I mean Feds or DEA, not the local sheriff or police. The locals protect their own, even if they are wearing a badge.

After spending some time in the Emerald Triangle I’ve realized that the people up here are not only living the American Dream, but the Teabagger’s Dream, too. Here people help each other without wanting something in return. It is a community that relies on each other in order to survive. Everyone’s connected somehow. From the grower to the cops, everyone has their hand in it. In a good way, the way it was supposed to be. I don’t think these are the kind of people that if there was a hurricane or a storm, they’d stop you from crossing over to their side for help. Up here, they realize the connection. Between you and your brothers and sisters. Between you and the land. That to risk the harmony of living with the crassness of a non-organic Life would be a waste of time.

 While others sit on lawn chairs overweight protesting that they’re not getting theirs. The people up here are living out a dream that few dare to reach. They’re living a life unencumbered except for having to get their own water and electricity. Now after years, decades of living under the radar, just asking to be left alone, their lifestyle is in jeopardy. After bringing us to the dance for over fifty years, they might not even be invited in.

Except for a person like me going there to tell their story, they would never complain. They just do.

We climbed back up the hill in silence. I hoped that I hadn’t bummed out my mountain hostess with all the talk about what is going to happen in November. My concern what’s going to happen with this area and the growers, if POT becomes legal?

By the time we return, carpenters that have an on-going relationship with Dalena’s beautiful mountain retreat were hard at work.

I had asked her if she pays the guys with the local currency.

“No, I pay them cash. They both grow too.”

I guess I had the look of a tenderfoot when I studied the map for my return to…I wouldn’t say civilization, because if Dalena had the room, I swear I’d move in, but to another form of reality.

“Don’t worry. Follow the mountain roads down. When in doubt go left. At the bottom of the mountain, go right and you’ll find your way into another reality.”

“Hey, that’s what I was just thinking.”

“Well…becareful. That’s how it starts…” Dalena said petting one of her dogs while filling a dented empty bucket with water that she pumps herself. Giving me a knowing glance that says we’re going to see each other again.

Next Up;

The Dark Side of Boom Towns

Meeting one of the Original Ganja Mommas

On-line I had read of the lodging situation around these parts, and it wasn’t good. Every comment and Yelp-like remark concerning hotels, motels and resorts, all said the same thing; check the room out first.

As I drove north from Area 101 most of the closer properties were sold out due the upcoming Kate Wolf concert in a day or two. When I arrive in Garberville, it looked like there was a Biker Run already in progress with Harleys, cars and trucks with trailers filling the parking lots of the more major hotels and motels in town. I looked at my sleeping bag in the back seat like we might possibly have a date later.

A little worried that my luck had run its course with the town being sold-out or, worse, I would be paying $250 a night for the luxury to spend the night in some crack house that any other night would have gone for thirty-nine bucks at the most. Luckily, as luck would have it, I found a place that I could afford. The last room he had.

Right away Garberville reminded me of the small town in the Mid-west that I grew up in. There was the gun shop. One single story clothing store had summer sales for Men and Women. There were two or three restaurants on corners opposite from each other. One of them displayed proudly the title of ‘Fine Food.’ If this was like the town I grew up in, this is where you’d go for Proms and anniversaries or when someone won the big fishing tournament.

The Sun was starting to set. I went into the more hamburger-friendly looking diner. Most of the patrons looked local except for a loud table of obvious out-of towners with their lack of volume control and fast-talking ways. Not to mention that jeans, overalls and old Grateful Dead T-shirts were the dress code. The two tables pushed together full of the City folks were easily identifiable by their bright colors and fake safari-backwoods Eddy Bauer I’m-really-just-one-of-you apparel.

I joined the locals by voicing facial displays of discontent towards the loud noise and general mayhem being caused by the disruptive table. What’s worse is they’re ignoring the rest of us while they’re having their good time.

One of the easiest ways to ingratiate yourself to the locals I’ve learned is to not like the new people. I was trying to fit in the best I could.

Paying six dollars and forty-eight cents for a burger, fries and small green salad had me smiling a local grin as I sat outside inhaling my food, watching the world go by.

    Every summer as a kid, my family and I spent from the day after school got out until the Minnesota State Fair at the end of August, at the lake house in a small town like this. I was eyeing the three-block town thinking it was almost exchangeable from the Mayberry of my youth, except what is this place? The ‘Hemp Connection.’ Okay, that’s different.

Right there on the corner of Main Street was a store called the Hemp Connection. We didn’t have a store like that growing up. Being the burger had disappeared minutes ago, I was free to roam.

Looking in the closed shop, it was hard to tell what it exactly was. Was it a dispensary? A Clothing store? A place to buy industrial hemp?

I was leaving early the next morning, but on the flip-flop, I knew I had to check it out.

My overall feeling of being in Northern California or the Emerald Triangle is, it’s a mash-up of the ‘Old’ colliding with the ‘New.’ I’ve spent time with folks that milk their goats or cow for milk for their coffee while they peruse the Internet from their mountain home. Most of the homes I went to used solar power or generators to power their flat screen TV’s and hot-tubs. Most of the conveniences of the city are here in one sense or another.  

It’s really hard not to want to move here when you first see the place. The beauty of the country, knowing that in some places you can get hi-speed broadband delivered to your cabin. Or how about organic WEED 24/7. Boom. Done deal.

But then you have to remember that it is serious business up here in these hills. And I might as well be a revenu’er trying to collect taxes from the money you’ve made from your still driving around in this bright red rental car. There is something scary about driving alone in the North Country when you’re never sure if you’re going to run into a campsite or a growhouse by mistake. You don’t want to get off the main roads if you don’t have to.

Of all the parts of my journey, this leg was the most secretive and challenging. Mostly because where I was going was a secret and not having directions were a challenge. In advance I had been given the address, address? More like GPS coordinates with some longitude and latitude thrown in for good measure.

Back in the Bay Area after a lengthy vetting process, I was given the confidential local of a house hidden up in the mountains of Humboldt or Mendocino that friends thought I should see. Also, I was allowed access to one of the more enlightening people I met on my journey, Dalena, short for Magdalena.  

When I left Garberville the rising sun followed me over my shoulder as I drove north. As soon as I left the main highway, so did the light. Traveling through the dark forest on zigzagging single lane road sheltered by the redwoods and equally imposing thick trees for what seemed like miles and miles. The speedometer never reached more than twelve. It wasn’t until I arrived at Dalena’s some hours later that I saw the big fireball in sky again.  

It’s easy to see why most of my friends in the Bay Area who I told about my quest to rediscover the Emerald Triangle, made sure that I met Magdalena. Apparently not only being a living legend among the people of the area, she was part historian, part mountain Goddess.

Right now in this beautiful coastal morning, Dalena and I sit on her wooden deck over-looking the hills and the Pacific, sharing her Volcano Vaporizer.

She lives in a two-story, I’d say 2,000 sq. ft. circular cabin from trees cut from the property. It is clean and spacious. Windows mostly surround the first floor. Her bath tub is submerged into the redwood deck next to us on the outside of the house.

“I guess neighbors aren’t really a problem,” handing Dalena the huge plastic bag of smoke back to her.

“You mean the tub? The windows?”  She laughs. “I have one neighbor who lives at the bottom of the hill. She comes up here for cell service, nobody has cell phone connection here, and in return, she allows my driveway to cut through her property.”

“What about water and electricity?”

“Like most people, solar handles most, then we have generators for backup. For water, I have four natural wells.”

“Lucky,” I say wishing I had some water wells.

“The first years here were pretty hard. I camped right over there,” Dalena points to a sloping area next to a small building a hundred feet or so from the mainhouse. “Two winters in a tent.”

Taking the Volcano bag back from Dalena, I whistled knowing that even though Cali really doesn’t get snow on any kind of regular basis, this is wet and cold country in the winter months. California’s not always a good party, think Donner.

“So…when was that? When did you arrive here?” I asked not only wanting to know how long she’s been doing this, but…how can I say this? I can’t. Maybe Dalena will answer it for me. That’s the way it is in the country, think a question, and wait for the cosmic answer.

“I came into all of this somewhat late,” Dalena says with a sweep of her hand over her property. I had lived in the City for many years. I came up here with my then boyfriend. He hated the climate. In those patchouli days, we ate rice and beans, washed when we could, and tried to grow dope. He didn’t care for the lifestyle,” Dalena says in mock amusement, showing a dab of her dry humor, “and I loved it. I ended up staying.”

Dalena takes a gentle hit off of the almost deflated bag. Not liking the lack of smoke in the bag, she gets up to refill it. Wrapping the bag around the Volcano’s mouth, she pushes a button to pump in more of her stash.

“That was forty years ago. So that makes me seventy, if you were wondering.”

Busted.

I can’t say I was eyeing Dalena, but she is a very striking woman. In her layered cotton threads she is very fit and energetic like most of the people I’ve met out here. I bet one of the reasons is she’s forever doing little chores as we speak. I think this unofficial interviewing makes her a little uneasy. Not only speaking to a stranger, but also so candidly.

I think that it is also a part of country living, having chores, keeping the homestead moving and safe. A couple of deer approach the deck as Dalena brings back a bulging bag of smoke the size of the balloon the Wizard used to get back to Kansas.

“Would you like to see what I do?” Dalena asks in a very polite way. One never asks a grower to see their crop. It just isn’t done. To be asked to be shown someone’s crop is a great honor.

“Yes, please,” I say grabbing my notebook.

Pt. 2 Tomorrow

Tim Blake of Area 101

Tim Blake munches on an organic date bar, breaking up pieces for the rest of us on a napkin. He’s hunkered down on one of the couches in his baby, Area 101.

I had made a date/appointment/verbal nod with Tim that I would be driving up today from San Francisco. I wasn’t sure if he’d remembered who I was.

“So, you found everything okay…” Tim said through small bites of the bar. “You sure you don’t want any? It’s organic.”

That goes without saying. Everything about the Emerald Triangle is about being organic, and it shows. Tim resembles a younger, better looking Bruce Dern. From the research I did on Tim (his facebook page) I know we’re both the same age. But where I have a small, attractive, slight paunch, Tim’s thin and wiry. His agile frame adds to his hyper-kinetic thinking and non-stop ideas that seem to trickle out like a Hippie ticket-taper. I liked this guy immediately and can see why he’s one of the unofficial leaders of not only this place, but the area.

I see two kinds of people in the world; those that bring something to the party and those who don’t. Not only does Tim Blake bring sustenance and bright ideas to the table, but party favors too. What’s not to like about this guy. But I’m telling, not showing…

I had been waiting for Tim…well, let’s just say in the time I spent waiting, I was able to explore the tranquil grounds of Area 101, and meet the staff, the patrons, the animal wildlife, why Teddy moved from the fast pace of Santa Cruz to the laidback country-living of Laytonville, why the Kate Wolf Festival coming up this weekend is a kick-ass show for old people like me, and many other topics and insights into the man and the place.

It seems that most of the people I encountered were very protective of Tim. I’d ask where he was and when would he’d be returning? Collectively I would get a, “Soon, very soon,” or I heard a lot, “He’s five minutes away…”

Since the Rolling Stone article, since everyone’s talking about Legalization and the ramifications for the Triangle. Area 101 and Tim, has been a hot bed of activity and discussions. Not like Tim hasn’t been holding dialogs and meetings at his place since starting back in the Nineties.

“None of this is new for me,” Tim says looking over some business that came in the mail or the pony express, I’m really not sure how they get their mail up here. “I had the sheriff, the DEA, and the growers discussing what’s next back in ’98. We’ve seen this coming for a long time.”

“When you say ‘this,’ do you mean Legalization?”

“Yeah, and everything else.”

“Like?” I say reaching for my notebook much to the raise eyebrows of the locals, two women in their late-fifties, early sixties, who’ve joined Tim and me around the big coffee table in the lower room across from where they sell the ceramic and glass pipes and bongs.

Tim leans in, raises and spreads his hands like a preacher at peace with his flock and his station in Life and says gently, “Everything…”

Okay. The thang of country living is not to push it. If you don’t understand something wait. You just might have your questions explained to you…if you don’t rush.

Moments later…

“Like everything. Legalization. Organic Growing. Collectives. Mendocino Clean Green. The future of CBD’s and the research that is happening with that. Everything, man. Soon, it’s all going to be coming together,” Tim almost seems to glow as he speaks.

Looking around I notice the room is slowly filling up with patrons and I’m guessing the usual gang that shows up around a little past quarter after four in the afternoon.

I was little concern bringing up the next question but it was the talk of the average growers that I met in the Triangle so far.

“So Tim, what do you think about San Francisco holding a Cannabis Cup this weekend?” I put my notebook down afraid I went too far for a first conversation.

“They had a Cannabis Cup? In June?” Tim stretches back into the couch. “I didn’t know that.”

“You’re the first person I’ve talk to that didn’t know that,” I say a little sheepishly.

Now there’s a chorus of a few stern “I didn’t know that,” echoing from around the room buttressing Tim’s comment. And I really wanted these people to like me.

Side Bar: A good number of all the people I met in the Triangle, for the most part, kind of ended up there for various reasons. The story I heard over and over was, I came up here one day/week/month/year many days/weeks/years ago with my boyfriend/girlfriend, he/she left and I stayed.

For the first couple of hours here hanging out, I wanted to move here. I was hoping my citified ways wasn’t going to count me out before I was in.

“Well, if they’re having it in June that means it’s for the indoor growers, right?”

“How do you feel about that?”I asked, figuring in for ounce, in for pound.

“Well it’s not fair, is it? But the dispensaries have taken over our market. The dispensaries are in it for the money. They’re growing with chemicals and without the Sun. They’re carbon footprint is huge, and not only is the Pot not as good for you as ours, but they…don’t…”

“…put the love in like you guys?” There, I was back. Hello Century 21. But I meant it too. The Triangle was all about the Love.

“Exactly! The difference between growing in a small room or warehouse can’t compete with organic growing under the Sun. See, there is a place for indoor. If you live in Michigan, say someplace where there’s snow or winter. You’ll have to grow indoors for part of the year. But even so, that can be done as organic as possible. Use solar energy! Let’s not do business the way it’s always been done. We need to change.”

“But how can you compete with indoor when they have more growing seasons than you, they can grow stronger Pot, and they kind of control the price.”

“You’re right about the price. We used to get a thousand more per pound than what we’re getting now. Is the price going down to the consumer? No. So what we have to do… is lower our price.”

“Really Tim?” The words might have come out of my mouth but some of the growers in the room were nodding with me.

“Really. We just need to do that marketing thing.”

This is where Tim Blake becomes like a founding father. Sometimes when he speaks, you kind of can hear a soundtrack with marching drums and ‘It’s A Beautiful Day’ flutes playing behind him. He oozes passive rebellion like some of us go to the grocery store.

“Sometimes it is just marketing. Remember California wines back in the day. We were a joke. Now how often do you hear of French wines here anymore? California became the premier wine to have and to order.” Bump-barumpt-bump-barumpt-barumpt-ba-bump. “We just have to market correctly. Like in gift baskets. We need to have a presence in the Bay Area. We need delivery services from the Triangle to San Francisco where it is all happening. We need to build up this area like Napa. We have to have a great product that is organic, tasty and comes in at $200-250 an ounce. That’s how we compete. With the price and putting out a better product. We need to collectives like fiefdoms up here. We need to put together the growers, maybe with a Good-Housekeeping kind of stamp of approval. Like the ‘Mendo Farms Collective’ stamp of approval. Only WEED that has been grown organic, there’s so many bugs you get growing indoors, that they pile on the chemicals and additives. People want to know that their Pot is green. We will assure that. Let the indoor growers have the high end, boutique stuff that we don’t want to grow. There’s a place for both, but outdoor is better, and better for you and the planet.”

I look around the room at the nodding, smiling people. It’s almost five on a lazy Tuesday afternoon, and I’m in a spontaneous townhall meeting about Dope and the future of. This is better than TV.

“Tim, I know that in the dispensaries, the CBD (cannabinoids) content is gaining exposure. I now hear patients asking about the CBD level. Is that a big thing up here?”

“Oh man, that where the growrooms are going to come in handy. The research coming in about CBD’s is they might be the next big cure. They are finding out that fresh, FRESH, Marijuana juiced contains an amazing amount of natural chemicals that boost your immune system like nothing else. They have found that there are about 134 different types of CBD’s. Some strains have incredible healing powers. The future of Dope is going to be…amazing.”

Tim and I spoke for another hour or so then I had to be moving on to Garberville for my next adventure.

Driving away I was thinking about how much I like writing about the Politics of Dope. Maybe just because I like the WEED but also, because of the people I meet.

Tim Blake and the other people in his tribe have been under the radar and above the dotted line for so long while some of us are just waking up to our herbal duties. Maybe in the future he’ll have his animated face on carton of WEED just like those angelic kids I see on the old time produce crates. He is one of pioneers of the movement.

If you have the chance, stop at Area 101, ten miles north of Laytonville. It might just change your life.

Inside The Emerald Triangle; Pt. II, Area 101 (Cont.)

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