Monday, December 3, 2007


So. A friend of a friend of mine, an insufferable, reckless woman, or so I hear, decided to conduct a social experiment and investigate Medical Marijuana. California has approved the "medical" use of marijuana, a Compassionate Use Act, but the Feds still say pot's illegal, even though the state says it's fine, and we have the Kalifornia Konundrum.

Here's the deal:
To obtain medical marijuana you have to go to a health professional, usually an MD, who "recommends" your use of marijuana for Whatever Ails You. Whatever Ails You can be just about anything, and in my FOAF's case, what ailed her was arthritis. The doctor, a thirty-something, very serious, stocky man who explained he would never, ever recommend cannabis for recreational use, only for What Ails You, spent a long time with my FOAF, so I hear, explaining the many ways to manage pain, and just when she thought he was going to turn her down for not taking enough Aleve, he wrote the recommendation, an officially sealed document on good ecru colored stock, and valid for 1 year. For this, the reckless arthritic woman paid $150 cash. She told my friend that the clinic waiting room was teeming. She said it was a diverse group, from the elderly and the rickety to another MD (attired in a suit and tie) patiently awaiting his "recommendation", as well as the usual friendly-if-skanky types you might expect in such a "joint" (so to speak). She also said that the cult classic Reefer Madness was playing on a television set in the waiting room, providing ironic ambience.

So then, recommendation in arthritic hand, the plucky, reckless and enterprising woman sought out a "pharmacy", and this is where the story gets good. This FOAF went to one of the many "pharmacies" advertised in the clinic (the clinic is only to get recommendations). Outside at the given address, the signage indicated a nail shop, the windows covered and a security gate in place. She rang the buzzer, she told my friend, and was buzzed in to a clean, well-lighted place that reeked of slaughtered skunk. She signed in and sat to wait. When her turn came, she was ushered into another, private room filled with jars and jars of fine, perfumed sinsemilla, as well as cookies, brownies, and other products. "We just moved here," the cheerful clerk reportedly told her. "We'll be getting more stock soon: edibles, hashish and lollypops by next week.


She bought a half ounce of OG Kush for $175, and my friend hasn't seen her since.

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