A TASTE OF THEIR OWN MEDICINE

She set out to get footage of the leaders in the medical marijuana
movement. She left with more than she bargained for.

"Pull over! There are at least 20 cars behind you," Todd shouted at me.

I looked at the rearview mirror and saw a long snake-on-wheels winding
uphill behind us.

"I have to wait for a pull-out area," I said. Driving south on Devil's
Slide is dangerous enough when you're sober, and sober we were not.

"Speed it up!" he yelled.

"That brownie was strong. This is fast enough," I insisted.

I was becoming increasingly irritated with Todd, my cameraman, a tall,
well-built, tanned surfer-type. We were on our way home to Santa Cruz after
filming some medical marijuana patients in San Francisco for my 1195
documentary, "Let Our People Grow."

Brownie Mary had assembled a great cast of characters for us to interview
at Dennis Peron's house. Dennis Peron, founder of the Cannabis Buyers'
Club. Dennis Peron, perennial target of police raids. Dennis was tough:
"I've been busted 16 times, I've been shot at by the cops, I've been
stepped on, called every name in the book." We got his testimony on video.

But it was Brownie Mary who made the strongest impression on me that day.
If only she hadn't given me that brownie. If only I hadn't eaten it.

She was the sassiest 70-year-old I'd ever met. Matronly, her gray hair
permed, she sported large buttons all over her vest: "Please, Lord, protect
me from your followers," "I'm doing something about AIDS - I volunteer,"
"Laws were made to be broken," and a pin with a picture of a ripe marijuana
bud.

While we set up the camera gear to interview some patients in Dennis'
kitchen, Brownie Mary asked Dennis to sex her new plant. She held a bud out
to him.

"It's a female," Dennis told her.

"Wonderful!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms up in a victory gesture. Only
the female plants produce the THC-laden buds that contain the medicinal
properties of marijuana.

The house was full of marijuana patients who had come to pick up their
monthly supply of medicine, which Brownie Mary supplied gratis. The mood
was upbeat, jovial even.

One patient, Pebbles Trippet (probably not her original name) used
marijuana daily as a preventive for migraines. Fiftyish, with skin dried
out by years of marijuana smoke, wearing a black beret with a pin the shape
of a marijuana leaf stuck to the front, Pebbles' on-camera interview went
like this:

"My name is Pebbles. That means little stones. Just a little stoned, you
know. "

Then she took a giant drag on her cigarette, blowing the smoke at the
camera and straight into Todd's face. Todd choked and yelled, "Cut!"

We started again. "If I feel a migraine coming on, like when I was in jail
and didn't have access, I cry," Pebbles continued. "Crying is like an
orgasm; it helps relieve the tension."

It was while interviewing Pebbles that I felt a migraine of my own coming
on. Power of suggestion, perhaps? I had to sit down.

"Wow. I'm having that dancing-light migraine aura," I said.

Brownie Mary opened the refrigerator and pulled out a plastic baggie with a
brownie inside. "Try this."

Without thinking, I popped the entire brownie into my mouth.

We resumed Pebbles' interview. As I asked her questions, my mouth went dry.
It's all there on my source tape.

Me: "That was a great brownie. Only thing is, my mouth is really dry."

Dennis: "Rehydrate! Rehydrate!"

Brownie Mary: "That's another medical use of the plant; it makes you drink
more fluids."

Todd pulled me aside. "Listen," he said. "You're not acting professional.
We've got to keep it together and interview the others."

Dennis overheard Todd telling me how to behave and offered him his joint.

"Relax, you'll get everyone," he told Todd. Todd looked at the cigarette,
hesitated a moment, then looked up to see the eyes of the medical users
focused on him, and he caved. He took a long hit, then fell backwards onto
the couch.

"I feel like I'm going to pass out," he said.

Now I was concerned. We couldn't blow the opportunity to get all these
interviews. Betsy, a patient who had shown up for her monthly rations,
brought Todd a cold washcloth for his forehead. She sat next to him on the
couch and pinned a button on his shirt with a picture of a bud and "Inhale
to the Chief" written around its perimeter. Someone in the kitchen made him
tea. Through a group effort, Todd revived.

We began Betsy's interview.

"I tried all the AIDS medications. They all made me sick. I lost 30 pounds.
I asked for marijuana, but the doctors wouldn't let me have it." She paused
and ran a hand through her thinning light brown hair. "So I called my
mother and she said, OF- 'em, they're not God," and she got me an eighth."

My head was throbbing. The brownie was supposed to make it better. I
decided I'd have to take my own medication. I stopped the filming and
excused myself to go take a pill.

When I got back Todd was in a foul mood. "What took you so long?" he demanded.

"Let's get Brownie Mary's interview," I said, ignoring his question.

Brownie Mary was in good form. "I saw the kids nauseated; I saw them
wasting away to nothing." The AIDS patients she visited on a daily basis
were her "kids." "They should be able to have anything they want. Anything!"

Todd stopped her. "Wait," he said. "The mic wasn't turned on."

We filmed her again. "Turn on all your friends, your relatives, your
grandmas and grandpas. Tell them that this war on marijuana is b-"

This from the mouth of a 70-year-old woman. I quivered in every cell of my
body, even as my head throbbed.

Todd was tight-lipped. "That better be the last interview."

"We still have Dennis," I said.

Todd stamped his foot and made a faint hissing sound. Dennis grabbed his
toy poodle, a little white fluffy dog in a red dog sweater. He sat the
poodle on his lap and talked through the dog in a high-pitched voice.

"I use marijuana for my arthritis." He made the dog's front paws move as he
talked. I laughed. Todd scowled at me. "You can't use that," he said. "The
Humane Society will be all over us."

"Relax," I pleaded. "We're almost done."

Driving back to Santa Cruz, 30 cars behind us now, my stomach started
growling. The munchies. "Maybe that's why Todd is so crabby; he must be
hungry, " I thought.

"There's a taqueria down the road," I suggested. We pulled into the
taqueria lot, got out and stretched. As we walked up to the window to
order, Todd ripped the marijuana button off of his shirt and threw it down
in the dirt.

"I quit!" he shouted.

Suzanne Girot is a video artist based in Marin County.