UP IN SMOKE a look inside Cannabis Clubs
April 2008 | Issue #3 | Ariana Smith
It's the kind of night where the sky is so clear it doesn't even look real. The air is sharp, tangible with cold. I step outside and the atmosphere tingles at the tip of my nose. It smells like clarity and rain. As I draw closer to The Surfer's apartment, I catch a familiar scent seeping in the air: that biting scent of resin, smoke, budding leaves, and sour breath... it doesn't smell good. But as I step into the hazy room, the circle of people inside buzzes with energy. And I crouch down to join the powwow, letting my mind sink into the chatter about Halo, Rock of Love, and trips to the medical marijuana clubs.
The Lowdown
They say that marijuana is the most commonly used illicit drug in America. And the controversy over its medicinal value has long been a sensitive political issue. The Skater tried to explain it to me. THC, baby, he says smiling. He is talking about delta-9-tetrahydrocannibol, the active chemical ingredient in marijuana; the remedial values in its side effects are generally useful in promoting hunger and sleep, as well as relieving pain in patients with cancer, AIDS, multiple sclerosis, epilepsy. It's just like Vicodin, The Skater assures me matter-of-factly. Except you smoke it.
It is impossible to overdose on weed, I have been reminded numerous occasions. Nor is it chemically addictive. The Doctor is the one who tells me this earlier; I still have trouble believing it. People get addicted mentally, habitually, she tells me. The National Institute of Drug Abuse calculates that since "marijuana cigarettes weigh approximately 0.9 grams, a smoker would have to consume nearly 1,500 pounds of marijuana within about 15 minutes to induce a lethal response... Proponents say that thousands of yearly deaths from legal prescription drugs could be prevented if medical marijuana were legal."
But half the kids in this apartment do not have medical marijuana cards. Most don't need them. It's a cash type of thing, laughs The One With Dreadlocks. What he means is: in exchange for the legal protection of a medical marijuana recommendation, it will cost about $200. If it ever comes down to a point where you need to prove you have a medical marijuana card, then your doctor has to go to court with you.
If you are caught with less than an ounce of marijuana, and no recommendation, the most the police can do is confiscate and destroy all paraphernalia, give you a nice fine, and cram some mandatory drug testing down your throat for a couple of months, the blonde one says, a little bitterly. With more than an ounce, you may spend the night in jail. Just because bud is conditionally legal in California, does not mean people support it. Most people who are against medical marijuana say: it "sends the wrong message to kids... Medical marijuana is a front for drug legalization; people who claim medical use are actually using it for recreational pleasure."
They converse and I listen.
Their Stories:
Everyone always says the cannabis club is just like a candy shop.
The Surfer grins as he says it. From the outside, the building is generally unimpressive, he continues. Not quite a hole in the wall business; more like a non-descript storefront. Sometimes the shop will have initials on the sign out front, like CCLB (Compassionate Caregivers Long Beach), or some innocuous acronym. There is a plain lobby, similar to a doctor's office, which acts as a buffer zone. No sign of any pot. To access it in the back room requires showing a valid California State I.D., along with the 8.5 by 11" medical marijuana card.
The Tall One describes the back room: it's usually small, and the walls are lined with display cases of all the different varieties of weed, with funny names like: Hippie Kush, Purple Haze, Juicy Fruit, and his personal favorite: Maui Wowie. Some clubs even have vending machines now. And they sell edibles, which are cookies or brownies, or practically any food with weed baked right into them. Some places even have pizza. The clubs will also sell seeds and plants, mentions The One With Dreadlocks, which is convenient because a medical card will allow you to legally own half a pound of weed, six plants, and twelve clones.
What are clones, I ask. A clone is a piece of plant. I still am not quite sure what that means. The One With Dreadlocks shows me his card; he has displayed proudly on a decorative poster-board, framed by pictures of plants he's grown. He points to it. That right there is legal protection, my friend, he chuckles. And I ask how he got his card.
He suffers from insomnia. Tried Ambien for six months; didn't work. And I've been smoking weed all my life so...it didn't seem to be that big a deal. But never go to your normal doctor for a card, he insists. It is a matter of finding a doctor in the area who has established himself as a supporter of medical marijuana. Generally, you should have a history of whatever illness you claim, and need to have documentation of everything.
But The Surfer just shrugs when I ask how he got his card. It was almost on a whim. He and a friend were driving around Studio City, when something caught their attention. It was a sign on some building that read: 'California Natural Pain Relief.' Out of curiosity, they decided to check it out. The attendant in the lobby referred them to a local doctor, and that same day, The Surfer got an appointment. He complained of having significant anxiety that affected his eating and sleeping habits. Just like that, without even speaking the word 'marijuana,' he had his medical card.
The One With Curly Hair nods, affirming the importance of keeping a low profile in this business. He reminds me of doctor/patient confidentiality. If you've found a doctor who has a reputation for giving out cards, you simply inform him of your problem. But if he does not prescribe you right away, try saying something suggestive, like: 'well that medication hasn't worked for me in the past, and there is a more herbal remedy that I'd like to try...'
The Skater indicates the cast on his arm, grinning: "I broke my arm and I'm allergic to Vicodin." That's all. He stares at me, amused, while I try to think of a response. I laugh. I can't tell if he is lying or not. There is confidence in his voice and mischief in his smile, and he waits through the awkward silence while I puzzle over his motives, as if that would make any difference.
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Published with support from Campus Progress/Center for American Progress (online at CampusProgress.org)