whatcha smoking in that pipe, boy?

“They’re killing our crop,” the guy with the tattoos on his hands leaned forward.

The man in the suit and wire-rim glasses shook his head. “Did you spray them with the Neem oil like I told you?”

I was two tables down; my eyes were buried in a book. The café was bustling, but above the hum I could make out every word that the two men were exchanging. Suit and glasses was someone I was familiar with. He’d winked at me conspiratorially when he and his partner first sat down. I’d purchased marijuana from him years ago when he used to manage a crew of bicycle couriers who peddled marijuana door to door. From the sounds of things it looked like he was moving up the marijuana food chain; expanding into cultivation.

“The Neem oil didn’t work, now it’s an infestation. The mites are everywhere. They’re devouring the crop.”

Suit and glasses shook his head. “We’re going to have to buy some pesticide.”

I could feel the bile in me beginning to cook and I remembered what prompted me to stop purchasing weed from the crew that suit and glasses was running. The fact that he doesn’t smoke the stuff himself wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t hold his clientele in such contempt. On a few occasions, late at night, at a local watering hole, I’d seen suit and glasses in action. When he wasn’t doing lines of coke in bathroom he would disrespect the people he sold to, describing them as sheep... losers waiting to be fleeced.

“Dude, the plants are already flowering,” tattooed hands shook his head.

“I don’t give a shit. We’ll just have to give the bud a good wash after the harvest.”

“Maybe we should just start over?” Tattooed hands pleaded.

“And throw away a four grand harvest.” Suit and glasses shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

Tattooed hands continued: “I told you before: I’m not comfortable with pesticides. And soaking the bud doesn’t ensure that all the poison will be washed...”

Suit and glasses cut him off, “I didn’t hire you for your squeamishness. If you want to pay me the four grand, cool, we can start over. Otherwise spray the goddam plants.”

I didn’t want to hear anymore. Suit and glasses disregard for his clientele had reached a new low. I stood up, walked to the cash, paid my bill and left. As angry as the conversation between the marijuana growers made me, what irked me even more is how ineffectual government has been in creating just and reasonable marijuana legislation.

In 2004 Macleans Magazine pegged Canada’s cannabis trade at more than $7 billion in annual sales—Writer Steve Maich said that is twice as much as pig farming brings in, and almost three times more than wheat does. “Even the mighty cattle industry, at $5.2 billion a year in revenue, lags behind the marijuana business for sheer size. There is no formal market and cultivation has to be done surreptitiously, and still, nothing brings in the green like grass does.”

It amazes me that an industry that is so large and so profitable can operate tax-free without adhering to any kind of quality control. Not only is government losing out on valuable  revenues, when you consider how unregulated growers, whose sole purpose is profit, are free to contaminate their crops with excessive quantities of fertilizer and pesticide, it baffles the senses. Unlike the tax from cigarette revenues that helps to pay for the inevitable health related illnesses smokers are likely to face, government have been doing nothing to generate health care money from marijuana generated income.

No matter where a person stands regarding marijuana debate, all can agree that the prohibition campaign is a failure. Growers are making billions of dollars while both government and consumers are drawing the short end of the stick. Billions of dollars in tax revenues are never collected and Canadian marijuana smokers are inhaling an unregulated substance that, when grown by the likes of tattooed hands and suit and glasses, isn’t produced with the health interests of the consumer in mind.

 

The Unspeakable Unseen

On three of the espresso bar’s four walls a cluster of televisions silently delivered the morning news while contemporary R&B music played over the hum of conversations echoing around the crowded café.

I was enjoying a morning latte, exuberant about the sunny skies and looking forward to spending the afternoon on the links. But that’s when the photo of the lunatic who bombed and shot so many innocent Norwegians flashed, simultaneously, on all of the screens inside the establishment. Immediately my blood began to turn corrosive. He was playing it up for the camera in a wet suit while holding a machine gun. I tried to turn away, but in every direction, he strobed on the televisions like some kind of Marvel comic-book villian.

I turned to an acquaintance who was shaking his head at a television set. “When is the media going to learn?”

Jorge, glanced away from the psychopath. “Whadda ya mean?”

“They’re turning this man into a rock-star.” I shook my head, “This is what he wants. His photo flashed all over the world. His ridiculous manifesto read aloud. It’s beyond comprehension why his ego is being rewarded.”

“What can you do? The photo is the money shot. It’s what sells the papers and draws in viewers." But then my acquaintance frowned before adding. “But it sure does remind me of that Kimveer Gill guy who shot those kids at Dawson. Didn’t he also dress himself up in commando gear and pose in front of a camera with an assault rifle?”

I shook my head at the mention of the Dawson College murderer’s name. “I hardly doubt it’s a coincidence.”

Jorge shrugged.

To drive home my point I offered my acquaintance a reward. “I’ll give you fifty dollars if you can tell me the name of the girl he murdered.”

“Oh, what is it?” He snapped his fingers, pulled his iphone from his pocket and began surfing the net.

“Too late: Anastasia Rebecca De Sousa.”

“I’m from Montreal. I should have remembered that.”

“It’s not your fault. The media focuses way too much on the mass murderer at the expensive of the victims. I bet you most Canadians couldn’t tell you who Leslie Mahaffy and Kristen French are.”

“Oh, I know that one. They were raped and murdered by…”

“No,” I cut Jorge off. “Don’t mention their names. They don’t deserve to be a part of our vernacular." I shook my head. "And unfortunately the victims who need to be a part of our lexicon aren’t remembered nearly enough.”

Jorge laughed. “Come on, people remember.”

I shot back: “Sharon Tate?”

“Where do I know that name?” Jorge racked his brain.

“The actress: Roman Polanski’s wife.”

“Oh yeah,” Jorge put together the association and then uttered the name of her killer out loud.

I frowned: “It’s what pisses me off about the media. They turn the victims into the supporting cast while the sadist, on a killing rampage, steals the show. It makes no sense to me. The lives lost are the real story; it shouldn't be about the person who stole them away. Where is the justice in that? ”

“MJ, it’s not about justice it’s about selling copy.”

“But you see what’s happening here. By publishing a photograph of a man posing in front of a camera, sick smile on face, machine gun in hand, it’s a sickness that inspires more of the same. I’m all for the freedom of the press. But I also believe in responsibility.” I pointed at the TV screen. “This man is using the media for his own purposes. He doesn’t deserve to have his photo in the newspaper or his name in print. Instead, he should be simply referred to as some faceless number: a random thirteen digit code.”

Jorge laughed. “Now you’re sounding all Guantanamo Bay.”

“Hey, he’d still get a trial. He just wouldn’t get all the free publicity. Why should there be a spotlight illuminating his stage. All he deserves is anonimity and darkness.”

“Dude.”Jorge pointed at his smart-phone. “We both know that his name and photo would still make it onto the net.”

With a nod of my head I agreed. “But then it’s an individuals choice to look that information up. As for the mainstream media; I shouldn’t have to walk by a news stand or a café and be comfronted by that asshole’s constipated smile. It’s time for print and televised media to set an example. And maybe once potential mass murderers recognize that there will be no pulpit, no glorification of their egos, perhaps then these types of horrific tragedies will begin to stop.”