Friends of Proximity

You can choose your friends, but you can't choose your family.

It's an old adage, a cliche, wisdom served up straight from the fortune cookie factory.

But how many of our friends our already chosen for us? Friendships decided not by shared values, or similar interests, but location?

Sometimes we meet people who do share our interests, forming bonds that transcend both time and distance. We pull them into our orbit and never let go, regardless of where they have moved or what they are doing, they are eternally bound to our minds and hearts. We may not talk to them for years, but the moment we reconnect, the gap of time closes in an instant.

Time and space cannot weaken a true friendship.

Then there are friends of proximity.

Friends of proximity are friendships of shared experience, momentary attachments based not on shared interests or values, but on immediacy. Proximity friendships are short lived and transient, based an our neighborhoods, our homes, our work place and our families. Quit the job, move to a new neighborhood, and most of your friendships quietly disintegrate, dying an invisible death.

With a friend of proximity, you don't share common interests, you share common experience.

One such friend was Tom. Living beneath the heel of our tyrannical property manager, we were united in our dislike of the warden, prisoners sequestered under the same roof. A waiter at Canter's Deli and older than me by a good ten years, Tom was calm and affable, he showed me how to bet on the ponies and I helped him write a script.

We saw shows together, griped about politics, and were always unified in our hour long "bitch" sessions about the craziness of our dictator roommate and his unreasonable demands. (Like shutting off the power to my room, telling me how I should park my car in the drive way, or insisting that one of us was stealing his silverware.)

After I moved, I promised to stay in touch, but somehow I never really did. Not long after I left Tom moved out as well, and that was the last I heard from him. We no longer had our common experience, both of us had moved on to different shows, to different venues.

A week ago I walked into Canter's to have an open beef brisket. Canter's has probably 300 things on their menu, but only five of them are good. (Corn beef, matzoh soup, brisket, pastrami, and of course, the brisket - as a rule, stick to traditional Jewish food when eating here.)

I look for Tom, but don't spot him.

"Does Tom still work here?" I ask at the register.

"No," the woman replies, counting my money, "Tom passed away a year ago."

I try to hide my shock and fail. "What? What happened?"

"He had a heart attack." She answers, handing me my change.

Tom's dead? Dead? I exit the deli in a daze. I still have his number on my phone. I haven't called it in years, but I call it now.

His voice mail picks up. "This is Tom, leave a message."

For a moment I don't know what to say, maybe the woman behind the counter was wrong? Maybe she was talking about a different Tom? Don't phone companies cancel voice mail after no one pays the bill?

Or is your voice mail like MySpace or Facebook, a digitized ghost casting a pixeled shadow, remaining up on the web even after you are gone. Death is no longer marked by a mere gravestone, but electronically encrypted bits of data zipping around the world, locked into place until someone makes a conscious decision to erase your electronic thumbprint.

A week later I never hear back from him. I call a second time. Nothing.

Does it even matter? Tom vanished from my life years ago. He was a friend of proximity, a connection of convenience. The moment we stopped living under the same roof was the moment our friendship vanished into the ether.

How many friends have I met in LA? How many people have I met and formed friendships with only to never speak with them again? Thinking back I can barely remember half their names. Former roommates, people I worked with, teachers I've known, writers who moved away - so few remain friends.

But when they're gone, you don't really miss them.

They're no longer in your proximity.

Crossed Out

Kids don't read.

This statement is so overused and hackneyed it's akin to a pair of frayed shoes, scuffed and scraped to the point where the soles are falling apart from overuse. "Kids don't read" is no longer an opinion, its an unquestioned fact, passing beyond the world of cliche and into the realm of truism.

My first year I was teaching a phonetics class designed for elementary school students as part of the LANGUAGE! program. Unfortunately, the class was filled with unruly high school freshman who rebelled at the thought of having to read Dr. Seuss and Dick and Jane. One of them insisted that he read "as good" as any other student at the school.

I'd taught the class for weeks, and by this point the kids are in open revolt. It's the end of the day, they don't want to be there, and as a new teacher I'm fresh meat. I'm about to to lose my temper.

"Than let's see how a general ed student reads." I declared grandly.

Outside the bungalow I spotted a teenager wearing a black Metallica T-shirt slouching across the quad. "Hey kid!" I called out. "C'mere, I need you for something."

As the teenager approached, braces glinting in the afternoon sun, my class of special ed students began to freak out, terrified at the thought of being embarrassed in front of a student from general ed. In a school of 5000 students, there is anonymity, but there isn't a special ed student alive who isn't terrified of being "outed"; of being thought of as dumb.

My students covered their heads, raised up their hoods, retreating to the back of the room - one ran and hid in the closet. When Metallica gets to my room I handed him one of the phonetics books.

"Read this."

Metallica stared at the book, confused. A second later he made an attempt to read it.

"The....man....walk..ed...out...to...."

The class cracked up, backs straightening, terror evaporating, fear gone in an instant. My student in the closet leapt outward, bounding up to the front of the room.

"You see, Mister!" she laughs. "You see! We do read as good as all the other kids."

I shouldn't have been surprised.
Kids don't read.

By my second year I realized part of the problem was lack of reading material, what was available was either too easy or too difficult. Precious little was in the comprehension "sweet spot", easy enough to be decoded, but interesting enough to be challenging. I scoured book rooms and searched book stores in a never ending quest for stories that would spark interest.

There wasn't much. The district claims they have identified 4,700 books that are high interest, low readability material, but that is a gross exaggeration.

I put the number at less than ten. House on Mango Street, Holes, The Outsiders, A Child Called It - how many times can I teach the same novel? Animal Farm? Too abstract. To Kill a Mockingbird? Too different, the deep South might as well be science fiction and take place on Mars. For the majority of the students, even vampire goth drivel like Twilight is a challenge.

After a few years, it occurred to me that perhaps I should begin writing my own stories. After all, who knows their audience better?

Once upon a time, before I was a teacher, I was a writer.

I decided to write a survival story about a student who is afraid to come to school because he doesn't want to get "jumped" by a rival gang. Each chapter was kept to a few pages, written in 14 font with shorter margins and wide spaces to make it easier for struggling readers. Unlike most novels, I was writing in a setting that "mirrored" the students world, an inner city high school, a story that kids could immediately pick up, access, and understand.

They devoured the first chapter. What happens next, Mister! What happens next! I wrote a second chapter from the point of view of a girl who secretly has a crush on the kid hiding from the gang, then a third chapter from a "stoners" perspective. By the time I get to the goth girl in chapter 7, I was starting to realize I had a book.

And so Crossed Out: A City Tales Novel, was born.

I passed out some of the chapters to other special ed teachers, and almost instantly they wanted their own classroom sets. The book became viral, taking on a life of its own as it wound its way through the school. Soon regular ed teachers were asking about the book, eager to offer it to their own struggling readers.

Crossed Out isn't just a book for special ed, it's a book for ESL and anyone in developmental reading. It's a book for all the students who read below grade level, for every kid who has never read a novel, who doesn't have books at home, who has parents that are functionally illiterate.

Crossed Out is a book for over half the LAUSD school district.

Students approach me in the hallways now, some I know, others are strangers.

"I love your book, Mister!"
"Hey, Leiken! Good book."
"Hey teacher! Did you write that book? It's awesome!"

I acknowledge them with a smile a wave. For some students, Crossed Out is the first book they have ever finished.

A few even want to take the book home, refusing to let go, fingers glued to the pages.

"Can I take it home Mr. Leiken?" Sam says. "I promise to return it."

Normally I would say no. The copies I have keep on disappearing, but in Sam's case, a demote who should be a senior, I'll make an exception. I've never seen him excited about anything, at least anything to do with reading or school.

He returns the book the next day.

"It was excellent, Mister. Best book I've read."

Sam is a slow reader. At 180 pages, I'm a little surprised he could finish Crossed Out that quickly. "You finished it in one day?" I ask. "How long did it take you to read it?"

"It took me all night, but I couldn't put it down!"

A student reading for fun? A student reading for pleasure? It's not possible.

Because kids don't read.

Baby Sitting

Half of my students are failing.

Habitually late, continuously sick, incapable of turning in work, those who fail are all to eager to give up when confronted with a challenge, ready to avoid anything that requires thought or mental effort. Some don't try at all, because for them school is a layover, purgatory before they reach their final destination.

Prison.

Then there are the students who believe they have remained in first grade, perpetually stunned when I inform them they are failing all their classes.

"But, but I'm a good boy." a student declares, emphatic.

"Yeah," I retort, "but you don't do any work."

"Yes, yes I do!"

"Show me." I order.

The student opens up his notebook, and with the exception of a few journal entries, it's empty. No home work, no final projects, no notes. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

"Sorry kid, you need to work harder."

"But I'm a good boy."

I could tell you that students fail because of poverty, or cultural differences, or lack of parent involvement.

But I'm not in the business of making excuses. It's not their fault they are failing, it's mine. They are failing because I don't care.

A few of my colleagues don't hesitate to point this out. "You don't care anymore Leiken. What happened to you?"

"Acid reflux."

"Seriously, these kids need help. You need to be there for them. You shouldn't have put Sam in that government class. He can't handle it, he's falling apart."

I shrug, there wasn't much of a choice, all the other classes were full. Not that it matters, even if Sam came back for a 5th year and passed all his classes, he still wouldn't have enough credits to graduate. "Sam hasn't done anything for years," I counter, "he should be a senior and he only has sophomore credits."

"Well now he's trying, Leiken! You need to give him a chance."

"Not trying hard enough. He's still failing all his classes."

"That's because he's depressed. He has a bad home environment."

I shrug. I've heard it all before. What difference does it make why he fails, the fact is, he is still failing. The cop doesn't care when he pulls you over for speeding, the land lord doesn't care when you don't have money for rent. But I was late for work! I lost my job! My child is sick!

My girlfriend gave me herpes! Blah, blah, blah.

Sorry, but the world moves on.

Again and again I hear the same complaints, a cacophony of blaring horns that drowns out the ability to listen until finally, you become deaf to the pleas, the whining, the excuses...

In some cases, the students are so helpless they remind me of slugs drying up on hot pavement, unable to slither to safety. One such slug never brings a book to class, (or pencil and paper) claiming that his locker is jammed and he's unable to open it.

"Why don't you tell the office to fix it?" I ask, knowing that as I ask the question that this conversation is a waste of time.

"I did," he responds, "but like, they told me to retry the combination, and I had forgot it, so I had to pay them a dollar for the combo, and when I tried it the locker still didn't open, so like I wasted a dollar. What do you want me to do, go waste another dollar?"

Another minute of my life gone. At least if I had been sitting in traffic I would have been going somewhere.

No point arguing. I take him to the attendance office, whereby I pay a dollar to get the combination to try the locker for myself. I fumble with the lock, it's been years since I've actually had to spin a lock in place, twice to the right, once to the left, then back to the right again.

Nothing. The locker doesn't open. I try again. Nothing.

"See, Mister!" the kid crows. "I told you, waste of time."

I go find an assistant principal and ask for a key. She is glad to help, but first I have to fill out a form to have the locker opened. I make the student do it. Five more minutes, zapped away, POOF!

"How was I supposed to know to do all this!" the kid complains. "No one told me!"

The assistant principal tries the combo for herself. Nothing. Finally she gets out the key and opens it.

The locker's empty. There are no books, no pens, no paper. It looks like it's never been used.

"I don't understand," the student mutters, dumbfounded. "Where are my books?"

"If you can't find them you'll have to pay for new ones. They're expensive, $70-$100 dollars each."

"But that's not fair! You can't expect me to pay for books! Someone must have stole them!"

"How could they have stole them when the combination to the locker never worked?"

The student stares into space, silent. I've got him, one more witness nailed to the stand.

Bite me, Matlock.

But this time, I walk away. If a slug doesn't want to dry up on the sidewalk it actually has to want to move off the sidewalk.

I only have twelve students on my caseload, and six of them are failing. They don't study, don't complete assignments, don't bring their books, and for the most part can't be bothered to pay attention. Their parents are absentee, college is outside their imagination, they have no idea what they want to be when they grow up, and no idea how to get there.

Most of them have lost the ability to dream.

But I'm not in the business of making excuses. These kids are failing not because they are unmotivated, but because I refuse to dream for them.

But, hey, as I told you, it's my fault. It's my fault I don't do their homework, it's my fault I don't continuously check up on them, it's my fault I ask them to come after school, but never make them come.

It's my fault I don't want to be a babysitter.

Dating LA

Dating in LA is notoriously difficult. People who move here often go for years finding no one, then move away only to discover a "soul mate" and marry six months later.

It's a paradox. How can a city known for its youth and beauty, a city crammed full of party loving singles, a city like LA, be so difficult for finding love?

The problem is the nature of LA herself.

LA is not a person, but a goddess. She is the daughter of Apollo and Lilith, forever chic, eternally young, phone glued to her ear as she veers down the freeway in an SUV for one. Like all gods, she goes by many names: Hollywood and Tinseltown, she is the American Idol.

She's attractive, even beautiful, the essence of desire; to have LA laughing on your arm is to have the shadow of every aspiration fulfilled. Her silhouette covers the city in sequined glamour. People who look in the mirror do not want to see themselves - they want to see her gazing back at them with longing.

She's elusive, this woman. Her whims are fickle. She wants everything but promises nothing. Countless millions come to LA seeking her, yearning for her approval to kiss their ears or to smolder in her radiant gaze. She is mesmerizing, Narcissus reborn; those who seek her unable to tear themselves away, hoping, praying, even begging for the briefest hint of her acknowledgement.

She is terrifying, this goddess. Those lucky few who bask in her glory often get too close to her divine flames, burning up, enraptured by all that she offers. Those who lose her interest are the wash outs; has-beens who frequently debase themselves on game shows and reality TV in acts of public self-flagellation, all in the vain hope of regaining her approval.

Within six months most who come to LA realize she doesn't exist, no more real then a mirage, no more edible than a bowl of Renoir fruit.

Reach out to touch her and your hands won't come away with an apple but a bruised canvas, coated with oil and paint.

She is untouchable, but her captivating splendor remains.

It is because of this goddess, this siren of desire, that dating is impossible in LA. No one wants to date who they are with - they want her. She is the collective consciousness of the modern world's dreams, a broadcast perversion of mass marketed fantasy. LA is lust and passion, wealth and romance, ecstasy and bliss. No mere mortal can match up to the promise of LA; no one person can fulfill all the dreams and endless possibilities with which she provides.

It is only after becoming numb in the land of collagen enhanced bodies that realization dawns - not even LA can satiate all that she promises. No matter how much you are with her, LA leaves you hungry and desperate for more. More fame, more success, more praise, more self-adoration.

LA doesn't bequeath dreams, LA bestows hallucination.

Natives born in her womb are impervious to fever induced charms. Birthed with immune systems incapable of substance, LA natives accept her artificiality with a zen like Buddhism that mystifies outsiders. For the natives do not date, they "hook-up." For them, it is enough to have a look and the appearance of a relationship.

For true initiates of Hollywood the image is the person, what you look like is who you are. They accept that when you are in a relationship, you aren't just a boyfriend or a girlfriend, you're an accessory.

In most places, it's what you bring to the table. In LA, it's not what you bring, it's who you bring to the table with you. In LA, an image isn't skin deep because there is nothing beneath the skin.

Dating in LA isn't about love or commitment. It's about creating an image, all in an attempt to be closer, to be closer to her.

It's why as a broke writer I did better dating than an employed teacher - a writer has the potential of launching a career, catapulting an individual into her hands.

A teacher? A teacher might be able to add you to their PPO.

It's why people in LA can have one night stands, but are incapable of sustaining a relationship. In a relationship, your image might not be compatible with theirs.

People often say to me, "Leiken, you are too picky. You won't bend, you won't compromise. You expect too much. You don't put yourself out there enough and you get discouraged too easily. You won't change your look."

To date in LA you have to find your niche, you need to have a look.

Because when you are dating in LA, you are dating two women. The girl you are with, and LA. One I can handle, the other can never be satisfied.

That's LA.

Reform

"We need to stop paying lip service to public education, and start holding communities, administrators, teachers, parents and students accountable. We will prepare the next generation for success in college and the workforce, ensuring that American children lead the world once again in creativity and achievement." - Barack Obama

7:45 AM

Gerado enters 11th grade English late. Smirking with surliness, he tosses down his backpack with practiced nonchalance before whipping out a nub of a pencil. An instant later he starts talking.

"Gerado," the teacher asks, "could you please stop talking?"

"Why don't you stop talking?" he snaps.

"Gerado, please don't give me attitude."

"You're the one giving me attitude." he snarls, cursing her under his breath.

"Gerado, please step outside."

"This is bullshit!" he cries out, leaving in a huff. The teacher gives him a minute to cool off, but when she exits to check on him, he's gone.

"Five years ago, we rose above partisan differences to pass the No Child Left Behind Act--preserving local control, raising standards in public schools, & holding those schools accountable for results. And because we acted, students are performing better in reading and math, and minority students are closing the achievement gap." - George W. Bush

8:10 AM

I'm outside, looking for Gerado, when I stumble across a student wandering the courtyard. He's a round faced kid with a wisp of a goatee, wearing pants cut off at the knees. I don't know him by name, but I recognize him from my home room class.

"Why aren't you in class?" I ask perfunctorily.

"I'm feeling sick, Mister." he replies. "My stomach hurts."

"Why aren't you at the nurse?"

"I was, but sometimes I just come out here and walk around."

"Who is your first period teacher?" I ask.

"I don't know."

"It's March, how can you not know?"

The kid shrugs. "I've been sick a lot."

I escort him back to the nurse.

"We have made education a high priority, focusing on standards, accountability and choice in public schools, and on making a college education available to every American." - Bill Clinton

9:15 AM

During 2nd period I co-teach world history. The teacher asks her students to get out their books to take notes.

There are about 30 kids in the class. Only twenty take out their books.

I make the rounds, asking kids why they didn't bring their books.

"I left it at home."

"I didn't know we'd need it today."
"My locker is jammed, so I can't get it."

I stop before one of my students. He's bright, but lackadaisical. "Why didn't you bring your book?"

"I don't know, I left it at home."

"Why don't you leave the books in your locker?"

"I forgot the combination, so when I asked for a new one they wanted to charge me a dollar, and that's like a rip off."

My irritation is masked behind a facade of unflappable indifference. "Why not carry them?"

"Carry them? Those books are heavy!"

"We're on a block system. You only have two academic classes."

"C'mon, mister! Carry books? That would make me look like a nerd!"

"We will insist on high standards and accountability because we believe that every school should teach and every child can learn." - H.W. Bush

11:00 AM

Special Ed has been called out for a meeting with our administrators. They want to know why more of our students haven't been "mainstreamed" into General Ed, and why more Special Ed students aren't graduating. We promise to do a better job tracking students and keep tabs on their present levels of performance.

Speaking of performance, only one in five of the General Ed students at our school tests at advanced or proficient.

No one mentions that Special Ed fits right in with the other 80% of the school who test from somewhere below grade level to beneath the Earth's crust.

That would be impolite.

No one mentions that only 55% of our student population graduates high school, or the droves of them that drop out of community college after one semester.

That would be rude.

Clearly what we need to do is let parents decide where to send their children to school, break up the teacher's unions, allow for more state mandated testing, send more money for books and technology, put teachers through a more rigorous training process, allow charter's to take over, encourage more diversity, make students wear uniforms, reinstate school prayer, and make sure parents are fully involved in their children's education.

I could tell you that none of those are going to work, but I won't.

Because that would be rude.

Subbing AP

AP is short for Advanced Placement, for students who not only plan on attending college but want to get a head start - high school AP courses are often worth college credit.

AP is for the organized, the studious, the diligent; AP is synonymous with the staight A student, the self motivated go getter, the "teacher's pet". There aren't many AP students in the hood.

Much like the tiger and the bald eagle, AP students are considered something of an endangered species.

In my world, the special ed world, AP students are a rumor, a myth; they walk by me every day but exist in a different universe.

I once stumbled into an AP student in the hallway and thought I had stepped on a dodo bird. Kids who do their homework and want to go to college? You might as well tell me you were teaching leprechauns and unicorns.

So on Monday when I'm asked to sub for an AP class, I'm more than a little surprised. Subbing is an onerous chore, as soon as students spot a sub they see a mark and know they have a golden opportunity to misbehave.

If you hope to be an effective sub, your personality defaults to tyrant.


As the AP class files in, they are both quiet and subdued. There are no cat calls, students attempting to switch seats, whipping out cell phones, or any one of a hundred other teenage shennagians subs typically have to deal with. It's a small class, but to me they seem the kids seem more like scholastic monks than students.

The bell rings. They are all seated, attentive. I pull out a typed lesson plan. "Today ladies and gentleman, the teacher has asked that you finish your story questions for The Importance of Being Earnest. She would also like to remind you that you need to finish Pride and Prejudice by the end of the week and that your essays are do tommorrow."

I move to write the days agenda on the wall, but stop myself. The kids all have their notepads out, busy writing everything I say down.

What the hell?

"Is that all Mr. Leiken?" one of the students asks.

I blink. "Did I mention my name?"

The girl points to the board. "You have it written up there. Plus, we've heard of you."

"Good or bad?"

"Do you remember Emily? She took a class with you and Duran and said the two of you should be teaching AP history."

"Your that guy that dresses as a pirate."

"And you ran the comedy club."

"Don't you do those crazy announcements?"

I nod. "Yes, yes, I do those crazy announcements. You all know about Oscar Wilde on his death bed?"

The students shake their heads, rapt.

"Oscar Wilde was dying in a cheap hotel in Paris, and he couldn't stand the drapes. So he told his friends, Either those drapes go, or I go. Then he died."

The class laughs.

I ask the students take out their books and start working, fully expecting to repeat myself.

I don't have to repeat myself. The students pull out their binders and start quietly working, opening up their books as they write down their answers. I stand at the front of the room for a few minutes, dumbfounded, fully expecting someone to ask for help or to have a question.

No one does. For the first time ever, I don't have to do anything.

I go to the back of the room to finish up an assignment. The students talk quietly among themselves, but after about twenty minutes I can see a few of them aren't on task.

"Excuse me," I ask in a normal tone of voice, "I'd just like to remind all of you that the questions are due at the end of class."

The students put their heads down and get back to work.

God damn it. Why won't they do something? What is wrong with these kids? I see a couple of them reading Pride and Prejudice, but when they get stuck, they pull out dictionaries to look up words.

Kids thinking for themselves? Should I call someone? Why aren't they asking me for help?

I've been teaching the bottom of the barrel for so long I can't even remember what a "normal" class looks like.

Special Ed has ruined me.

Hemp Con

I'm a big fan of conventions.

Star Trek conventions, comic book conventions, anime conventions: all affirmation that I do not exist alone in a vacuum - a nerd might be lonely, but a nerd is never alone.

But on Friday, Varga informs me about Hemp Con, a convention whose express purpose is to promote, sell, and legalize hemp.

Hemp is a soft durable fiber used in textiles, paper, and traditionally rope. The cannabis, or "bud" of the plant was a happy accident, a byproduct that found widespread use in the 20th century.


Y'know....hemp....marijuana. Shhh.....


"I bet there's a good story there," Varga says slyly. "A great blog entry. Wanna go?"

Turns out he can't make it, but I'm hooked in. For a $15 daily admission at the LA convention center (and $7 for parking) I can see what it's all about.

At the convention center I'm not sure where to go, until I spot a woman in a gauzy skirt and leather bodice with feathers in her hair.

When in doubt, follow the hippies.

Outside the convention a long line moves quickly. A security guard checks back packs and bags, but he waves most people through with a cursory glance.

Hemp Con is held in the West Hall, a large double wide auditorium suitable for a car show, about two thirds of which is full of vendors hawking their wares. Almost everyone is wearing green: green T-shirts, green ball caps, green pants, green scarves.



"Attention, attention," a flat voice announces over the speakers, "Please be aware there is no smoking or vaporizing in the auditorium. Thank you."

I walk past a booth specializing in pipe cleaners, "For when you really need your pipes cleaned!" The vendor next to the pipe cleaner specializes in anti-odor sprays, "Guaranteed to get out the strongest of cannabis smells!"



There is a booth of "theoretical" marijuana plants beneath a rainbow of strobe colored lights, the perfect adornment for a Christmas tree. The booth vendor is in the middle of an explanation about how hemp grows best under a variety of colored lenses, the differentiated colors enables the hemp to absorb more ultra violet light.

Other vendors promote their dispensaries, all claim to sell the very best pot: the Valley, the Inland Empire, the City of Industry. One dispensary booth has a trio of young women dressed in low cut nurse outfits and white nylon stalkings. Another dispensary offers a promotional free pipe on the first visit.


There is a booth offering courses at "Amsterdam University", quality training for the cannabis industry. In a one weekend seminar you too can learn the ins and outs of the latest court decisions and laws as well as how to open up your own dispensary.

One booth has a collection of red, orange, and purple colored pipes. "Get your LOLLIPIPES!"


"Excuse me," I ask, "lollipops?"


"LOLLIPIPES! Smoke a bowl, then get rid of the evidence by eating it! Now in cherry, grape, and orange!"

"Doesn't resin get stuck in the pipe?" I ask

The salesman ignores me. Instead a well endowed young woman behind the counter pops a lollipipe in her mouth, sucking on it.

I pass by a mobile trailer. Nicknamed a "Tow and Grow", its advertised as a quiet odorless mobile grow room complete with 1800 watt vegetation chamber complete with a 4x8 hydro tray. "Never again will you need to build or tear down a grow room!" a salesman calls out. "Check it out and come inside!"

I peek in the trailer. Inside are rows of plants. A line of people waits patiently for the tour.

I walk by a pair of tattoo artists, both display banners for lawyers specializing in marijuana law. Both booths are busy, a man who looks like a member of ZZ Top is having his arm touched up with new ink. He's dressed in dark sunglasses and black top hat; body is covered in tattoos, he looks like he belongs at a voodoo festival.

Finally I arrive a booth full of vaporizers, the latest in marijuana technology. Small portable machines that run on batteries, electricity, or butane; vaporizers cook bud, but don't burn it. I'm told that vaporizers allow for cooler air and prevent "burning" but more importantly, use less bud.

A cute girl demonstrates a portable canister model, known as the Gravity Vortex, "As seen on Weeds!" The top half of the canister is filled with water, the bottom half is empty. The girl lights a small bowl on the top of the canister, causing the water to boil and seep into the lower half of the container as the top half fills with smoke.

After a minute she attaches a tube. "Now you can smoke it," she proclaims proudly, "Or you can do a "shot!" She opens the canister dousing her face in smoke. "Normally $100, now only $60! But we've sold out, so you'll have to put your name on a list!"

"Does the vaporizer use less marijuana?" I ask

The girl nods her head emphatically. "Oh yeah! I used to go through an eighth every three days. Now it takes me like, two weeks."

There are vendors selling pipes, vendors selling T-shirts, vendors selling marijuana cook books, and even a guy promoting his new dark comedy, "Bad Batch."

"You'll be able to download it on line!" he calls out.

"When?"

"On 4/20!"

I nod. April 2oth is official pot day.

"Hey!" a vendor cries out. "Did you know that smoking pot prevents cancer?"

I shrug. "I didn't know that. My sister has breast cancer."

"Then you need to tell her to smoke. It slows down the growth of cancerous cells! Here's a card to our natural medicines website! Check it out!"

"I'll be sure to pass that along."

"Don't hesitate, man! The more women that smoke, the more we can eradicate breast cancer forever!"

"Attention, attention. Please be aware that there is no smoking or vaporizing in the auditorium."

I pass by a whole sale nursery offering to sell clones of famous brand name strains: AK-47, Black Domina, Bubba Kush, Bubblegum, Green Crack, Hindu Skunk, the Hog, Jack Herer, LA Confidential, Master Kush, OG Kush, OG Purple, Pineapple Express, Super Lemon Haze, White Russian, White Widow.

All for a small donation of $15, plus $20 delivery fee. (Only to dispensaries and patients with verifiable recommendations.)

I ignore the resident psychic, give a sex toy booth a brief glance. Several people ask me to sign a petition to stop LA county from closing dispensaries.

"It's prohibition man! You know that in November there is going to be a "Regulate and Tax" initiative on the ballot!"

"You mean an initiative to legalize pot."

"Yeah, but we can't call it that. So we say regulate and tax."

I nod, makes sense to me. Language is everything. Republicans have been beating Democrats over the head for years with the "Death Tax" moniker.

I back away, watching the entire proceeding with a critical gaze. A full convention centered not around marijuana, but all the accoutrement's surrounding pot. Marijuana is no longer a drug, its an entire industry. If there are billions to be made selling and taxing pot, there are billions more to be made on marijuana paraphernalia.

Marijuana is a psychoactive drug used primarily for recreational use. Hemp Con is the happy byproduct; it's all about marijuana's medicinal use, merchandising and retail potential, its growers and legal issues.

From hemp to marijuana we've gone from marijuana to hemp.

The circle is complete.