I know one of
the more unpopular figures in this neck of the
woods must be the Attorney General of the State of California. You
see, said
Mr. A.G., along with a few others on State and Federal levels, decided
to make
political hay out of this grass growing north county. It has been
done
before. Once when Governor Deukmejian was A.G., he donned a flak
jacket and
joined the forces of marijuana eradication out in the field. Risking
no less
than a twisted ankle, "The Duke", as he's affectionately
known in this State,
got a lot out of the subsequent news photos: "Atty General
pointing at
marijuana plants," "Atty General, 'The Duke,' holds leaf
from marijuana plant."
Etc.
No matter how
crass and ridiculous that looked to the likes of us growers, it
did help him become known around the State. And he, instead of Tom
Bradley,
L.A.'s mayor, ended up as Governor. California voters are nothing
if not
willful to the point of insanity. Once we sent a tap dancer to the
Senate, then
we elected a B-movie cowboy for Governor, and convinced the rest
of the country
that he was the best thing since sliced bread. Ronald Reagan was
then followed
by Jerry Brown, the brown rice heir apparent to Pat (Brown, not
O'Brien, though
the difference was thin); and then we got Deukmejian, a sort of
sour pickle
version of Andy Griffith. So we have to forgive Mr. Van de Kamp,
I guess, if
he thinks harassing the peaceful if slightly felonious, residents
of California
will transport him into Governorship. Who knows? God help us all,
he might be
right.
Considering
the demand for grass...not to mention the other mood-altering and
illegal aids to facing reality...there will never be an oversupply.
Consider:
there is no such thing as too much dope. Too many tomatoes, maybe;
too much
corn piled up in the silos. But thanks to government efforts to
"stamp out"
marijuana, etc, there has never been more than the market could
absorb. In good
times and bad, with unemployment up or down, the buyers line up
for their
particular brand.
So with all
this smoking going on, how do these anti-pot idealogues get
elected? Two ways, at least. One is being right up front about their
particular
bias, and counting on the stoned types not to be alert enough to
know when it's
time to vote. If they're right and the smokers have missed election
day, then
we have eradication enforcement. In the good old days, their efforts
netted
them about 10% of the local grow. This the growers could live with,
or I should
say: grow with.
The second way
the anti-pot types get elected is by lying. It happened in this
very county. Two guys were running for D.A., and two for Sheriff.
In a county
with a heavy economic stake in the dope crop, remember. One of the
guys for
each office took a strong anti-dope growing position, while their
counterparts
chose a laidback, "We want to fight real crime" stance.
The latter released
all kinds of puffery about how they were only interested in hitting
the really
big guys who were about to bring organized crime into the area,
or how they
meant to capture the nasties who were violent and killed people.
Great. They
won by a landslide.
Comes the next
harvest, and the scenario is just the same as always. Two
Highway Patrol officers and six Sheriff's Deputies descend on a
grow run by two
friends of Kiki's: two small women who could hardly make up two
hundred pounds
between them, and 37 medium size plants that would have probably
weighed out at
12 pounds if allowed to mature. For this you need eight officers?
This is an
example of the Mafia, intent on taking over Humboldt County?
The two dudes
who got elected had gotten contributions from growers too.
"More fools,
they," Brenda said, when I broached the subject one warm September
afternoon. "Just because it isn't the sixties anymore is no
reason to start
believing politicians. The same kind of idiots run for office now
as did
then."
"But these
guys are our age," I protested. "They're our peers!"
"Bull shit,"
said Brenda. "There's nobody holding public office who is anything
close to our peers. That's a contradiction in terms. If they were
our peers,
they wouldn't dream of running for office." She waved a joint
under my nose.
"And just because they happen to smoke this stuff doesn't mean
they're on our
wavelength, either. I smoke and drink, you drink. But in spite of
our chosen
vices, not because of them, we think and feel alike in a lot of
ways. These
guys we're talking about don't think and feel like us and they're
lying
bastards if they hint that they do. Hell, there will always be lying
bastards
around and some of them will run for office..." she dwindled
off and shrugged.
But I wasn't ready to drop it.
"Why aren't
we doing something about it?" I demanded. "I mean, I know
it's not
likely these guys will get re-elected. But why aren't we doing something
now to
expose their hypocrisy?"
Brenda leaned
over and patted me on the head. "Relax, kid," she said.
"Dem days
is gone forever, just like it says in 'My Old Kentucky Home.' No
more marches
for me. Just a bank account in the Grand Caymans and an early retirement."
"Jeesus,
Brenda! I never thought I'd see the day when you gave up on the
world.
You, who used to be the one who pulled me out to the demonstrations.
Sheriff
Clark, Governor Wallace. For the Black Panthers, against the war...what
the
hell happened?"
She shook her
head, looking suddenly sad. "I got tired of all the lying and
the
cons and the scamming, sweetie. No matter how many rotters you got
rid of,
there were always more standing in line to replace them. I finally
realized
that no matter how many protests I marched in, some grinning son
of a bitch
would be waiting at the end of the line."
She tucked her
feet beneath her and rested her chin on her knees. My little
sister, looking sad and forlorn. I felt heavy and helpless, and
very
depressed. She began warbling, her eyes on nothing, "I'm tired
and I wanna go
home..."
"I'm drunk
and I wanna go to sleep," I sang back. I was a kid again, singing
with my baby sister. She joined me for the finish. "Where-e'er
I may roam, on
land or sea, or foam. You will always hear me singing this song:
show me the
way to go ho-o-ome..."
My eyes began
to sting. Just then Eagle stuck her head out of the
kitchen. "Even should he shave," she said, "We could
never pass him off as a
member of the band." The mood was broken, and I was glad it
was.
After I got
back to the tent that night, full of Eagle's chili and frijoles,
I
got to thinking about Brenda again. My sister was a sad lady these
days. Not
that she'd ever been all sweetness and light, but at least in the
past, she'd
been angry and ready to fight for the right to be so. Where others
might have
the right to the pursuit of happiness, Brenda had vehemently claimed
her right
to the pursuit of righteous anger. "Throw the rascals out!"
Had been her motto
and banner. But now she sat on a sofa, sing-songing an old tune
out of our
childhood. What she needed was some cause she could believe in again.
I made up
my mind then and there I would try to find one for her.
The sleeping
bag seemed colder than usual. I pulled it closer around me and
covered my head with the pillow. Shit. Growing dope in the hills
of Humboldt
had made my sister depressed, and was fast making a cynic of
me. Yeah. Changes. They suddenly arrayed themselves before me. In
the three
plus years I'd been here, I hadn't noticed the gradual erosion.
Gone now was
that eager "Make A Million" Larry Funk personality. What
was happening? Was it
terminal? I needed to talk it over with...somebody. Thinking like
this, alone
in a dark tent on a dark hill miles from anything was a quick route
to Wacko
City. That must have been what happened to 'Tarzan the Second' that
winter in
his cabin in Trinity County. He asked himself one too many questions,
and ended
up tanning over a hundred little mouse skins for a bedspread. He
also mounted
their tiny heads on dowels and lined them up like trophies around
the cabin
walls.
Me Tarzan? No
way. Maybe Brenda wasn't the only one who needed something new to
believe in.
