Going Legal: Buying Prescription Smoke in LA

[grace]

Going Legal: Buying Prescription Smoke in LA

By Al Bagot

December 12, 2008

http://www.blackbookmag.com/article/going-...moke-in-la/5486

 

Rather than grope another day for a passable excuse to visit Amsterdam, I took my lunch hour to interrogate one of the jailbaiters who holler at sandy locals and lumbering Midwestern tourists about the benefits of medical marijuana outside of Venice’s beachfront Medical Kush Club. With prescribed pot quasi-legal in California for 12 years under Prop 215, I needed to know how close to the golden ring of a legal ganja prescription I could get. Ditching thoughts of $50-$80 dollar baggies of unmarked produce from the back of some bearded weirdo’s van, I imagined delicately sniffing rows of Banana Kush, AK-47, Bubblegum, Pineapple Express, Snow Cap, Cotton Candy, and Purple Voodoo in a Wonka-esque daydream of psychoactive flowers peeking from glass jars. Leaving my Abbot Kinney office, I picked up a cappuccino at Groundworks and approached the darling bud barker.

 

“How does a person get verified?” I whispered above some rockhead’s radio and the crash of a decent wave.

 

“Just go upstairs and see the doctor,” she chirped.

 

Say what?! Could it be that simple? Though my dates will argue, I’m not technically sick. Could not having AIDS or cancer suddenly be a detriment to my quality of life? Encouraged by the baked betty, I squeezed up the stairs into the dingiest waiting room I’ve ever seen, my unlucky trips to Jamaican emergency rooms notwithstanding.

 

Three couched stoners, younger and clearly higher than I, stared into space until beckoned by the good doc, a laid-back, bi-racial 30-something not hiding the Hawaiian shirt under his white coat. A cutie taking calls traded me a clipboard of forms and agreements in exchange for my driver’s license, then took a snapshot of my mug.

 

A lifetime of sleep deprivation made me feel honest enough while listing insomnia and depression as my dire conditions requiring massive bong loads. Prior to the doctor’s compassionate face-to-face interview, I’d checked enough boxes on my papers that I never really had to mention my condition specifically to him, being painlessly guided towards the accord that weed is, indeed, the cure for what ails me.

 

Placing a stethoscope to my back for a few lame wheezes, the rules were then dispensed: Don’t sell, give, or share medicine; and be advised that police might trip over ounces and concentrates. Back at reception, I received a plastic card bearing a grainy image of what is most likely myself, plus a paper prescription for a $140 fee, which seemed to make up for my deficit of prior medical records.

 

My next stop was a mere five giddy paces away at a co-op sharing a wall with my new doctor’s office. Sativa strains were listed for energy and depression, while Indicas were promoted for relaxation, pain, and passing out 15 minutes into The Daily Show. I drooled over $25 grams of freshly picked batches of Jason King OG Kush and White Widow; pricier than street costs, a prevalent theme in LA’s Westside co-ops. Sweet and sticky, with deep complex notes of fruit and pine, this was perfectly manicured, genetically superior herb in neat plastic prescription bottles. Offered a lounge to “medicate,” I kicked back and watched the surf roll in, smiling through my stupor that, in roughly 20 minutes, I was legally buying and burning top-grade natural narcotics. Minutes later, Zelda’s supply of mini-donuts was dust.

 

Los Angeles’ medical marijuana co-ops pepper its most famous boulevards, spanning from pristine alternative pharmacies to what could be mistaken for back-alley baby dumps. An informed staff at Hollywood’s Apothecary420 serves free drinks and food in a spotless atmosphere that rivals the town’s best spas. I dallied over the Volcano in their vaporizer lounge before business partners hosted me for a trippy flick at Cinespace. Downtown’s Grass Roots Exchange ( 213-622-0415) has weekly Monday Night Football parties, movie nights, an X-Box lounge, pool table, and smoke room. Various co-ops offer potential porn stars as budtendresses or are curated by Rastafarian ministers. At grimier spots, the owners look like they might rob you before the MS-13 lurking outside get the chance.

 

Perhaps sweetest for newly inducted patients is the shops’ competitive nature and the bounty of bighearted gifts that brings. Venice’s Farmacy gives 25% off for registering, then there’s $35 1/8ths of newly harvested Garlic and Jr. Sour Diesel, with a cookie and free watermelon lollipop that had us buzzing harder than the martinis at the Brig’s Wednesday-night Sapphic slam “Bubble Lounge.”

 

Downtown Discount Caregivers (213-925-8962), where I perused an aromatic ounce of Grape Ape for $300 before nodding my head off at Echoplex, tossed me a giant brownie gratis to help with a smoke-free family Turkey Day, in addition to a blunt splitter, flavored cigars, and lighter. The gorgeous heina at Reseda’s Happycation (818-757-3574), one of many vendors bumping her 1/8ths of Chocolate Thai ($40) and Bubbleberry ($50) up to four grams, also pointed us to Nippon Ramen for killer Japanese noodles after throwing us a free gram of El Nino with a wink. Discount coupons pop up frequently, and free chronic grams, glass pipes, and lighters are practically hurled at co-op virgins.

 

Most co-ops carry over 30 strains of excellent cannabis and take the responsibility of providing low-cost quality medicine quite seriously. Strong OG Kush dominates the spotlight, with beloved Headbands, Purples, Diesels, Wrecks, and Skunks pouring from seemingly every strip mall. The San Fernando Valley is currently the reigning green-light district, with a variety of stores offering the finest obtainable herb capped at $55 per 1/8th. I commonly leave these co-ops with fiery 1/8ths for $40-$50.

 

But what really captures the imagination is the range of available product that is not combustible cannabis—namely the rainbow of available edibles and concentrates. I rekindled a lost love affair with Afghan Blonde hashish, neatly pressed into minute strips of milk chocolate bark. I chased a bowl of Kief with a bottle of Cannabis Cola, nailing me to the couch for hours. I gobbled weed-laced blueberry strudel, red velvet cupcakes, peanut butter cups, topical oils, cough drops, and pondered THC-laden throat sprays, breath strips, and pre-made Cannabutter for cooking. Premature plants and imported seeds offer a challenge for my crappy Encino apartment, and I’m honestly scared to try Earwax, a tiny pool of costly amber sap that a shady acquaintance compares to freebasing. Moon rocks and Romulan Cornflakes, on the other hand, merely look like crack. In other words, just when you thought Southern Californians couldn’t possibly get more stoned ...

 

The Prop 215 culture, comprised mostly of agreeable patients, doctors, and suppliers, treats medical marijuana reverently, spawning numerous monthly tabloids, award ceremonies, a Cannabis College, and a number of weed-focused attorneys who even manage to look super-duper baked in their ads. Co-ops and patients alike rally around Weedtracker.com, the Internet’s prescription pot hub.

 

Through the site, we eventually discover Nature’s Natural Care Collective (818-344-1102), with possibly the best supply at Crazy Eddie-style prices. A Candyland of dank ounces hovers around $320 and below, making a slog on the 405 to overlooked Reseda well worth it. With legal marijuana and barely legal porn flowing from the San Fernando Valley, who needs Amsterdam?

[mistyville]

I'm goin' there!...Mistyville