A Little Bit of Amsterdam…For Now


By Bram Toker
“The other day, a headline in the L.A. Times caught my eye. ‘City to Limit Pot Clubs.’” said my recent acquaintance, “I didn’t even know there were any in SoCal! I thought only those lucky folks up north were civilized enough to have them. I read further into the article—no phone number, no address for any pot club.

I was about to dismiss the article as pure fabrication like the spate of young writers who made up their news stories. I reread the article, looking for clues. No, the club owners claimed they were closing a public service, made regulations; no toking on the premises or in one’s car, no loitering or merchandising any other pharmaceuticals.”
I interrupted my acquaintance, “So are the pot clubs real?” “Well, according to the article I read,”…he wiped off the latte foam from his moustache with his napkin…”Wait a minute,” I said, “What article are you talking about?” I hate to be outtrended by some absolutely inherently hip acquaintance—you know the sort of person, when you mention you were at a party to honor Bill Maher, say, he would say, ‘Oh, I missed that party. I was in Monaco at the funeral, Stephanie looked gorgeous. I wish I’d been there, Bill’s a good head.’ And you know he’s talking about Hillary’s Bill.
“The April 2, 2004 issue, L.A. Times California section…anyway, some cities are looking to ban the clubs…”
“But they’re here? They’re really here?” My eyes welled with tears of frustration. “And now they’ll be gone before I even see one…”What medical condition do you have that warrants the medical use of marijuana?”
“What medical condition DON’T I have?” I snapped. “Several medical doctors have recommended ingesting ganga for the chronic pains that flesh is heir to.” My acquaintance stared into space then refocused on me “They’re here. Proposition 215 that Californians voted for is HERE! Marijuana medication is legal in California. Compassionate care centers do exist and they exist in SoCal or will until the City zones out.” He excused himself pulled down his fedora and slid out of sight on sneakered feet.
I sat at the outdoor table, panicked because I might never see Amsterdam with its Vlamink sky or its liberal attitude towards products cannabis, but also because my acquaintance left me to pay his bill. But my eye was caught by the back page of an alternative weekly paper. Compassionate care ads. Hmm.
So a few days later after calling the number listed in the ad, I called my M.D. Well yes, she said I do think reefer helps assuage the pain. I know it assuages pain. But no I won’t write a recommendation. Crazy I’m not she said. Click.
Ah, but hope abounds. For a fee, a moderate fee, a doctor, an M.D., would be at the compassionate care center to examine. After selling my first born, I left the stultified atmosphere of Venice and headed east to a recently incorporated city. On a sunny patch of street which housed a health food super market, thrift shops and cottages looking like Nathaniel West just left was my grail Compassionate Care Organic Farmacy (I.P. Cit.).
A large imposing security guard was standing by the doorway. I walked inside. A young woman asked for my California I.D. She was, I could tell, an aspiring actor. She asked me to sit in the waiting room. Some were already patients and were greeted with collegial warmth. Black softly dressed couple on a sofa, Native American décor, subdued lighting, an ear-ringed man with intriguing tattoos thumbed through a magazine.
Every once in a while a name would be called. They were escorted to the mysterious back section. A young Asian woman came in to see the doctor and was directed to an ATM machine discreetly stashed between the puffy couches. After a short (for a doctor’s visit) wait I was escorted to the doctor’s office.
He didn’t look like an M.D. but there was his diploma. I told him my doctor said I should use marijuana for pain and anxiety. He recommended chiropractic. He noted my doctor’s name and gave me a certificate “complies with prop 215 the Compassionate Use Act of 1996——Bram Toker is under my medical care. I have evaluated the medical risks of cannabis use with him/her as a treatment pursuant to 1136.2...I recommend/approve of my patient’s use of marijuana…etc., etc.” Signed Dr. yes medical license #—.
Back to the waiting room. Copy of certificate plus the original, and my California I.D. card, and a list of other organic pharmacies and centers from Long Beach to San Francisco all handed to me including a ticket to wait to go into the “farmacy.”
I was escorted into a place that was as quiet (even with the Rolling Stones in the background) and discreet as Cartier’s, Tiffany’s, or a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon’s office.
I was handed a menu. Mountain High, Red Beard, Budda varying prices well within “street” price, I’m told, never having bought any cannabis since the late ‘50’s. After studying it, I went up to the glass enclosed counter. Never had I seen such a variety of leaf and plants. Oils, infusions, distillations and edibles were also for sale. The slender curly haired man, one of several clerks (bar tenders? dispensers?) behind the counter weighed out my purchase carefully and put it in a sturdy bag. As I left I noted that the atmosphere of the waiting room was one of optimistic anticipation. And those exiting including myself looked complacent. The tall broad guard smiled and nodded as I left.
When I got home there was my small packet of “legal” high. In the brown paper bag along with the packet were rules regarding behavior—no driving while using, no heavy machinery, no smoking in the parking lot, no loitering, etc.
How civilized, I thought. Just to go in assisted by knowledgeable clerks (assistors? dispensers? Weediesters?), courteous and friendly receptionists, and interesting, diverse and articulated clientele. I almost felt legit.
But there are many clouds on the horizon.
This June, a ruling by the U.S. Supreme Court might determine the future of such, as the L.A. Times so inelegantly called the compassionate care centers, “pot clubs,” not to mention the effect the federal Controlled Substances Act might have on the future of medical marijuana in California as well as several other states.
Where are those Confederate flag waving states rights patriots when we need ‘em?
The case is called Ashcroft vs. Raish and involves the rights of a physician to prescribe what she feels will improve her patient’s health.
Maybe Venetians in the near future will have their own dispensaries—or get busted for one seed.
Oh Wheel of Fortune

Posted: Sun - May 1, 2005 at 02:00 PM          

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