The marijuana harvest takes place every Autumn here in the
North Counties. Well, not just in the North Counties. It's all over
the place,
from San Ysidro on the Mexican border up to Grants Pass in Oregon,
from Eureka
on the Pacific Coast to the heart of the Ozarks.
But
I'm not about to launch into "From coast to coast with Larry
Funk." I just
want to tell about marijuana growing and harvesting in that part
of California
that's been getting all the publicity. You know, "Guerilla
growers of the
Northwest," "Humboldt Green Gold", and "Emerald
Triangle" underground economy
reaps illegal billions from grammar school kids nation-wide."
Surely
you've read the stories in "Newsweek", or seen them on
TV. Harry
Reasoner was even up here once. The Sheriffs took him on one of
their busts. Of
course, by now, it's no longer a headline item, despite the efforts
of our
Attorney General and his "CAMP" raiders. These days it
doesn't make prime
time. You've got to bust a guy with a billion dollars worth of cocaine
or a
whole shipload of marijuana to make the six o'clock Network News.
After
several years of "eradication" campaigns, all we get is
some star
reporter from the "Orange County Gazette", or the anchor
woman from a TV
station in Southpaw, Montana. They go to the Branding Iron Saloon
in
Garberville and buy a few beers for a guy who looks scruffy enough
to have been
growing dope for the past century. Then they take a fuzzy snapshot
of another
guy hauling a bag of chickenshit over a hill, and go away with an
in-depth 500
word study of the economic impact the marijuana culture has had
on the
depressed lumber industry counties of the northwestern part of the
Sovereign
State of California.
But
all of this media coverage doesn't tell you a thing about how a
nice boy
like me wound up living in a tent in the hills of Humboldt County,
growing dope
nine months of the year and planning a winter debauch after he has
flat-busted
his ass fighting off deer, grasshoppers, mice, sheriffs, tourists,
rip-offs
from Fresno, scabies and malnutrition, to bring in 50 beautiful
female plants
that once harvested, dried, cleaned, clipped, and bagged, and sold
to a friend
in San Diego, will net him 50, or maybe even 60 grand.
Neither
does "Newsweek" tell you about the new Toyota 4 by 4's
that sprout
around here in the Autumn, or the sudden appearance on the beaches
of Maui and
Jamaica of men and women looking as if they suddenly been transported
from a
movie about the "groovy sixties." And it tells you even
less about my current
plan to take the lady of my choice and a case of my favorite Cabernet
Sauvignon
(California kids are born with a bottle of the stuff in our mouths,
instead of
silver spoons) to a beach I know south of Ensenada, Mexico.
It
sounds like the all-American dream vacation. Something you might
win by
subscribing to a magazine. That's probably because I am, in a lot
of ways, your
typical all-American boy. Southern California type, Jewish sub-type.
I come
from a nice family. I mean by that my father is a doctor and my
mother
single-handedly supports half the charities in San Diego.
On
the other hand there is my lesbian sister, and my brother who cheated
on his
exams at Berkeley so he could get into Med school. He had to. Otherwise
my
father's heart would have cracked, especially since I had flunked
out of City
College. But I don't want to go into all of that now. Gotta save
something for
the sequel.
So
right now, as my third growing year draws to a close, I am sitting
in my
tent on forty acres of secluded, southwest facing, gravity water
fed Humboldt
land, planning my vacation which I hope will be with a redhead who
prefers to
be called Kiki, although I am almost certain her mother had the
bad taste to
christen her Belinda. Well, Kiki, upon herself becoming a mother
(not by me,
understand) did not suffer a similar lapse in taste. So her kid
answers to
"Rainwater Energy." "Rain" for short. Rain is
now about six years old. He calls
his mother Kiki, and all men Asshole. This says something about
Kiki's attitude
as a radical feminist nympho. I think I love her. About Rain, I
am not so
sure. Right now I am trying to figure out a way to get Kiki alone
on that beach
in Mexico this winter. I have suggested boarding Rain at the same
kennel where
I usually leave my dog Spiro, but so far Kiki is adamant. No Rain,
no Kiki. I
don't think this is because she is deeply maternal. she just likes
to torture
me with a radical feminist technique that also draws on the time
tested methods
of Jewish mothers.
I'm
digressing again. This is not the time to speak of Kiki and our
plans for a
mutual sand-filled, lewd experience. Instead, I should back up to
the other end
of California, three years past.
A
rare August rain was slicking up San Diego's streets when I skidded
into the
driveway of my parents home on Point Loma, there to find that my
grandmother,
Goldie Funk, ("Grandad Funk made his money in junk," Brenda
and I used to chant
over our jump ropes) had died of heart failure while undergoing
her third
facelift.
She
was a good old lady, and we got along as well as grandmas and grandsons
ever do. Not that she was into baking cookies, or stuff like that.
Once Grandad
had made all that money in scrap and surplus, she never went near
the
kitchen. She didn't need to. She had a black woman, Rachel, who
cooked like a
dream and kept a Kosher kitchen to boot. "Let Rachele make
you cookies,
Larry. Your Grandma is not going to ruin her manicure just so you
can stuff
your face with chocolate chippies." Meanwhile over in Logan
Heights, Grandad
was stuffing his face with a chocolate chippie of a type I was too
young to
appreciate. That was Marvene, who had become a social worker during
the Johnson
administration, after wisely investing the money Grandad gave her
for services
rendered. Granddad had great respect for Marvene and her many talents.
He
always spoke highly of her, except to Grandma. But that's not the
story I mean
to tell either, although Marvene does enter along the line in ways
I didn't
foresee.
So
Grandma was dead. I was going to miss her. But what really surprised
the
shit out of me was that she left me, the schmuck of the family,
the "Funk
failure", an inheritance. All I had managed to do with my life
up to that point
was hold down a job selling stereos at Pacific Stereo. Not a bad
job, mind you,
but nothing my mother could casually drop into a conversation at
the Globe
Guilders meeting. "My son, the hi-fi flogger, was saying just
the other day..."
Well,
schmuck or not, I got remembered in Grandma Goldie's will with a
$50,000
insurance policy, and some shares in a tax free municipal bond fund.
What a
classy lady! She did the same for my dyke sister Brenda, who, at
that time was
living in the hills of Humboldt County with someone named Eagle.
I didn't know
many details about this because she was hard to get in touch with.
She claimed
the nearest phone was thirteen miles of tortuous mountain road away,
and that
smoke signals didn't carry well in the rainy season. At first I
thought she was
lying, so as not to get hassled by my mother regarding her sexual
preferences. But I was to find out later she was telling the absolute
truth. Can you believe a place thirteen miles of tortuous mountain
road away
from a phone?
So
we were rich. My folks wrote Brenda a letter. My dad and my Brother
David
(Doctor and cheat) counted their loot. Goldie had left them a lot
because they
had, after all, made something of the Funk name, which is hard to
do. And
presumably Grandad Julie, junkman and admirer of chocolate cookie
Marvene, was
smiling from heaven as they laid the cornerstone of the very expensive
Funk
Medical-Dental office complex and condominium park for the frail
and imminently
ill. My brother thought up the ads. "Live near your doctor!
Only seconds away
from the best medical, dental, and pharmaceutical care in the sunny
southland!"
I have to give the creep credit. He knows what sells. He and Dad
made a
bundle...and as I said before, they made something of the name of
Funk.
So
who gives a fuck? I do. Which is the reason for all this digressing
and
debauching (I haven't come to that part yet) and why I am going
to all this
effort in a rodent-ridden tent to tell you about my struggle to
achieve the
American dream vacation with Kiki, and maybe Rain. It isn't enough
to grow
fifty (next year 100) Sinsemilla type marijuana plants and sell
them for a
sinful amount of money. Me, I want more. Like lots of attention.
I want the
world to know of my struggles, my victories, yea, my defeats. I
want my mother
to casually drop the phrase, "My son, the big time dope grower,
was saying just
the other day..." into her conversations at the League of Women
Voters.
I
also want to correct a popular misconception. See, not all dope
growers are
misplaced Hippies. All kinds of people grow grass these days. Like
ranchers,
for example. My own 40 acres was carved out of some of the thousands
owned by
the Fibble family, who got here four or five generations ago, and
who have gone
through lumber, apples, sheep, cattle, and more lumber; anything
that would
make a buck to pay the bills.
Their
next to last enterprise was to sell off the more worthless pieces
of the
old family spread to suckers like me. They laughed all the way to
the
Garberville branch of the Bank of America until they saw the likes
of me and
other suckers laughing too, in the same line, while we waited to
get our
traveller's checks for trips to the Bahamas. Well, a longing to
spend the month
of January in the tropics is not limited to Hippies and dope growers.
So now
the Fibbles grow dope too.
Right
after the close of escrow, Coyne Fibble, the current head of the
clan,
paid me a visit. It went like this:
"Funk,
if I find you growing any dope on my land, I'll shoot your balls
off."
"Yessir,
I mean nossir, Mr. Fibble."
"Now
my boys and me plan to put in fifty or so plants of a nice Afghan
hybrid
strain I got from my cousin Mule. We're gonna put em in close to
your south
line where there's plenty of water, and if I find you messin' with
those
plants, I'll shoot your balls off."
"Yessir,
I mean nossir, Mr. Fibble."
He
and his "Boys", not one of whom is under 6'6" and
300 lbs., brought in a
beautiful crop. I helped move some of it down south and in gratitude,
Mrs. Fibble gave me a jar of venison from a deer she'd herself shot
when she
caught one eating her prize roses.
I
digress. I still haven't said how I got here. Be patient. If this
is going to
end up a hit movie, and then a series on TV, I have to take time
to develop the
story line and cast of characters.
I
mean, could you explain "Dallas" in a few paragraphs?
When
my sister Brenda finally got the news that she was an heiress, and
that
she should please come to San Diego to pick up the money and "Let
the family
see that you are well," etc. etc., she made her appearance
at the family manse
at two one morning, in a '71 VW van, carrying one small bag of clothes,
mostly
dirty; one large tan mixed breed dog that she swore was a purebred
Rhodesian
Ridgeback; and a pound of pot, the last of the previous year's efforts.
She
figured to get a pretty good price for the stuff, August being a
dry month for
good Northern California sinsemilla.
The
next night, after dinner, Dad and David sat the both of us down
to give us
a big pitch on what to do with Grandma's money. It was their usual
routine. Brenda and I were the irresponsible Funks, sort of like
the Flying
Wallendas. So obviously we needed their financial advice and services.
The only
alternative in their minds was that we would squander our inheritance
in the
space of a few months, and end up on the streets of whatever city
we happened
to be in at the time. Brenda would be a bag lady and I would be
just a
bum...not even a bag between me and the pavement. It was a really
inspiring
lecture. I have to admit that I was ready to buckle under, hand
over the dough
(which they would invest in Funk condos), and whimper my way back
to Pacific
Stereo, where I had grandly quit just a week earlier.
Brenda,
God bless her, stepped in to save us from the barren life of a limited
partnership in real estate. She was nearly stoned out of her mind
as she peered
through narrowed and bloodshot eyes at the three men in her family.
She was
actually about to pass out. The mix of no sleep, some of her own
smoke and
mother's cooking had pushed her to the far edge of consciousness.
Some people,
when in this state, manage to sound like they are uttering profundities
of the
first order when actually they are just expressing a desire for
a
hamburger. While hanging on the borderline between Satori and a
coma, it ain't
what they say, it's how they say it.
What
Brenda said, pulling all her forces together, was: "I'm gonna
see Marvene
Jackson before I put one fuckin' cent out to you or anybody."
That said, she
staggered up to bed. I was impressed. The name Marvene Jackson,
pulled out of
the past, when said by Brenda in a high whine of intoxication sounded
to me
like a message from the Priestess at Delphi.
I
wondered what business Brenda could have with Marvene. I wondered
if there
was some reason I should put off investing in Funk enterprises until
I too
consulted Marvene Jackson. So I crept into the night, leaving the
limited
partnership agreement unsigned and my Dad and David looking baffled.
The answer
to my questions, unanswered the night before, didn't turn out to
be any more
amazing than the messages I used to decode with my Green Hornet
decoding
device. Marvene had loaned Brenda the money to buy land in Humboldt
back when
all my folks were offering her was some expensive psychiatric treatment
to
"cure" her lesbianism. All Brenda meant by her remark
was that she still owed
Marvene a few thousand, which she meant to pay back, before she
started to
think about investment programs.
Growing
dope had done a lot for her. It had made her a self-supporting
landowner, a criminal, and had resulted in her great love affair
with
Eagle. And she owed it all to Marvene, who also sold her crop, and
who had
believed in her when the rest of the world was giving her a rough
time. It sure
shows that Grandad Funk had good taste in cookies
The
next day, Brenda and I drove over to Golden Hills to visit Marvene
in her
restored 1910 mansion, now turned into a quadruplex done up in Art
Nouveau
(very rare in San Diego), and commanding high rent from mostly gay
tenants. Marvene kept one apartment for herself, stuffed with her
collection of
'20's Lalique and '40's juke boxes. She had put on a little weight
with the
years, but she was still quite a dish, in her red feather-trimmed
negligee. After a few preliminaries, she opened a bottle of champagne
to
celebrate buying a pound in August and then she opened a second
bottle to
celebrate Brenda's promise to pay off her loan just as soon as the
insurance
money came through.
She
paid Brenda for the pot, giving her cash on the spot, which impressed
me. She then proceeded to give me the most valuable piece of advice
I've ever
had: "Go north with your sister, Lawrence. Use your inheritance
to buy some
land and grow dope. I'll sell all you can get to me, and you'll
get out from
under the thumb of that emasculating family of yours..."
I
listened carefully to what she said because she is the only person
in the
world to call me "Lawrence"...not "Larry." She
explained to me one time why she
did it. "When your Grandfather picked Lawrence as the name
for his first
grandchild he said it was because some very fine and dignified men
had carried
the name. He didn't expect you to be another Moses, but a Lawrence
would be
fine...like Sir Lawrence Olivier or Lawrence Tibbett, the singer.
I know he
would hate to hear you called Larry, now that you're a man. I mean,
did anyone
call that guy, "Larry of Arabia?" No way!" So when
Marvene talks, I listen.
Later
I realized that Marvene's advice wasn't all that different than
my Dad's:
"Let me tell you what to do with your money, or you'll end
up a bum." Marvene
thought I was in danger of "bumness" too. She just pointed
me toward another
way of escaping it. I liked her advice better than Dad's, and she
was one hell
of a lot prettier.
