One of These Is True, the Other Is a Dream

1. Two work colleagues and I piled into a taxi to head out to lunch. The driver, a recent immigrant from India, was unfamiliar with the restaurant we directed him to and asked us to tell him how to get there. Although we were diligent in guiding him at first, we got lost in conversation and were soon enough lost on the road. Despite picking up and extra person who seemed to know the area, we ended up far from where we intended to be. I could not recall the name of the restaurant but, certain that I knew how to get there, I began telling the driver what road to take, where to turn, etc. Our party grew to a small convoy when another car responded to our appeal for assistance by saying, “Follow me.” One of the people in the cab claimed to be about to faint from low blood sugar and asked could we please stop at any store and pick up something small, like a bag of chips. Our driver pulled into a seedy looking corner store in a tough neighborhood. There was little in the store other than sugar—candy, soda, ice cream—and we declined to buy anything, preferring to soldier on to the restaurant. We got back in the cab and were immediately surrounded by young toughs who began beating on the roof and hood of the cab, taunting us for not spending money in their store. I said, don’t worry, they’re making fun of us for being white. The apparent ring leader heard this and started to laugh; he thrust a 40 through the window of the cab and I took it, drank some and passed it to the others. We spent much of the afternoon surrounded and drinking.

2. After obtaining a medical marijuana Rx and a license to grow, a woman in my building began cultivating plants on the roof and, after a few crop rotations, discovered she had an aptitude for producing incredibly strong ganja. Soon, the grow garden on the roof became a small farm that employs a handful of people at harvest time. Unfortunately, the woman’s profound attraction to abusive men is in direct, if inverse, proportion to her aptitude for producing splendid spliffs. As hindsight is universally recognized to be 20/20, we might reasonably argue that she should have seen trouble coming when her crop could be measured in bushels as opposed to plants. After the most recent harvest, one of her helpers stopped by for a brew. Though the harvest was a home grow for personal use, it was not hard to see it as a cash crop worth big money. Another beer and this chap had dollar signs gleaming in his eyes. My neighbor is spunky and when her visitor challenged her for the pot, she put up a fight. That’s when things got very bad. They fought hard and dirty. The woman was battered quite severely but this was not the first time she'd been attacked by a man she trusted. As she was being pushed against the counter, she had the presence of mind to grab a pair of scissors she’d been using to trim the plants and stabbed her assailant in the nuts. Hard. Later, the police were able to gather DNA evidence from the blood on the floor.

Oaksterdam

Oakland prides itself on having one sure-fire booming economic sector—medical marijuana. Unlike the dot bomb false economy of Bagdad by the Bay in the late 1990s, medical marijuana in Oakland has become large enough for the California State Legislature to eye it with dollar signs in its greedy eyes and propose a sales tax. These days, with the state flat broke and flailing, new tax revenue is always spoken of as the next gold rush—a mythical event as anticipated as and very much in the same mold as the second coming of you-know-who; a longed for return to a happier time in the distant past.
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Growth predictions for pot are pointed straight at the sky. Unlike the flimsy cyber shopping portals that San Francisco bet on at the end of the last century, Oakland has in ganja a little chugger that meets all the standard tests for sustainability. First, it has a value chain that increases the worth of the product at each step of manufacture—from planting, to growing, to harvesting, packaging, distributing and retailing. Next comes the paraphernalia—pipes, papers, bongs—and, get this, line extensions into edible oils, brownies, caramels, and cookies. Now, add in to that mix a tertiary sector involving medical referrals, prescriptions, renewals, licensing and record keeping, dispensaries. Suddenly, you have a lot of people going to work.
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The one business in Jack London that is expanding exponentially is the hydroponic grow shop on 3rd Street where growers pick up their supplies. It now has enough forklifts moving 100 lb. soil bags and tanks around to post a credible nuisance challenge to the Produce Market. Most importantly, the city is home to an enormous population of those in possession of a prescription for Mary Jane. Oakland, by no coincidence, is home to Cannabis University (called Cannabis U by locals), a school that teaches every aspect of the business: cultivating, propagating, growing, amending soil, light boxes, and “head” crop versus “body.” This urban university requires an entire five or six story office building downtown that was once occupied by doctors, dentists, lawyers, architects, CPAs, and the like—the kinds of soft service jobs that vanish over night when the economy weakens. But Cannabis U is thriving and adding classes every semester dealing with something or other. I couldn’t follow what my charming and chatty bench mate was saying as I waited at a local dispensary to refill my spliff Rx. I had been sampling the brownie form of the current house favorite: Purple Ruckus.
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The dispensary I’m in takes naming each harvest quite seriously; as seriously as the registering of thoroughbred horses or the appellation and year of vintage in Napa. The problem with this is that no harvest is ever given the same name twice. It’s confusing to be confronted with a constantly fluctuating inventory. If you liked Snow Cap last time you shopped, too bad. You will never find Snow Cap again. My default has always been to ask for the house favorite; a crowd sourced selection methodology. But today, for reasons that must be related to my childhood of deprivation, I want Blue Sky—a favorite from a few months ago.
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“Blue Sky?” asks my . . . my what? My pharmacist? My dealer? He thinks for a moment and then says, “We don’t have that anymore.”
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I can’t stop myself from asking for Snow Cap. “Um,” he says, “No.”
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“Why not?” I ask. “They were bona fide house favorites.”
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“True dat,” he says in total sympathy. "But it always has a new name. The po. . .” he catches himself. “The medicine, I mean.”
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“Do you always buy from the same growers?” I persist in trying to smoke my brand.
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“No, we grow it ourselves.”
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“So,” I lean toward him conspiratorially. “You could plant some Blue Sky if you wanted to.”
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“It doesn’t work like that,” he says, patient and helpful; he must be an instructor at Cannabis U because he goes into full pedagogic mode to tell me, “The medicine is really a commodity. It is cloned from the same plants so it basically stays the same.”
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“Are you telling me there is no Blue Sky or Snow Cap?”
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“Yes, ma’am.”
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“So,” I struggle to gather my thoughts, looking at the sample book he has placed in front of me. “It’s just a name? There’s no secret sauce? It’s just marketing?”
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“Well, Purple Ruckus is the house favorite,” he says firmly and glancing at the new customers lining up behind me.
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“Why?”
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“Because it’s better,” he says in the same voice adults use on children.
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I buy two bags and secretly call them Snow Cap.