WHERE THE GRASS IS GREENER

Dennis Peron has taken to growing and giving away marijuana on his farm

Dennis Peron hardly seems the typical gentleman farmer -- throughout his
long and checkered career, he has been the quintessential San Francisco
bohemian, a canny gay activist and medical marijuana advocate who loved the
clangor of the city's busy streets.

But his urbanite days are mostly behind him now. These days, Peron is
rusticating on a 20-acre farm in the rolling hills near Clear Lake, growing
and giving away what he once sold: medical marijuana.

Peron and a few disciples came up to the property -- which is owned by an
admirer -- after their Market Street Cannabis Buyers Club was closed last
year by a San Francisco Superior Court judge.

The club had served 9,000 clients under the tenets of Proposition 215, the
medical marijuana initiative that passed in 1996. Drafted by Peron, it was
designed to legalize the possession and use of marijuana for medical
purposes.

But Peron's pot club and others around the state came under assault by
former state Attorney General Dan Lungren and the U.S. Justice Department,
which charged that they were illegal under federal law.

So now Peron has regrouped and is trying a different angle: providing
living plants to patients rather than dried smokable product. And he says
his new man-of-the-soil persona suits him just fine.

``I've wanted to live out here in the country for a long time,'' Peron said
in a recent interview, as he surveyed his pastoral retreat from his front
yard.

With his snow-white hair, white sweatshirt and white Pomeranian nestled in
his arm, Peron looks like a Hermes ad for summer ensembles --except for the
thumb-size spliff he is drawing on.

``I was getting tired of the city,'' he said, exhaling a blue cloud of
resinous smoke. ``Up here it's quiet, the air is clean. We can grow our own
food and medicine. It's wonderful.''

Peron's plans for the farm are ambitious: to grow thousands of marijuana
plants in two-gallon pots, raise them to the point that they are ready to
flower, then give them away or sell them at cost to his former cannabis
club clients.

Peron says the patients -- now numbering about 200 -- force the plants to
flower with special lights, providing ample quantities of potent ``buds''
at minimal expense.

``We're running the farm as a co-operative,'' Peron said. ``Basically,
everyone kicks in about $20 a month. Our rent is minimal and our expenses
are low, so we get by.''

Although it is currently the dead of winter, Peron's farm is already
producing plants, thanks to a complicated indoor cultivation system
maintained by his lieutenant, John Entwistle.

A thin, fast-talking man whose speech only gets faster as he speaks of
passions such as marijuana, Entwistle has displayed a phenomenal aptitude
for pot farming.

``We're working on our own strains here, some that are good for relaxation,
some for pain control, some for appetite stimulation -- there's a
tremendous amount of genetic variation in cannabis,'' Entwistle said as he
bustled around a hothouse full of thriving potted pot plants, adjusting
lights and spritzing the glossy foliage with a spray bottle.

The plants grow in a medium of composted horse manure, bat guano and finely
sifted soil, all mixed to Entwistle's exacting specifications.

``When a patient gets one of our plants, he doesn't have to worry about
fertilizer,'' Entwistle said. ``All he has to do is water it and put it
under the proper lighting schedule to force the flowers.''

Right now, the farm ships about three dozen plants a week to patients
around Northern California.

But Peron envisions a far greater output. He has cleared two acres of land
near the farm's rambling house, which he says he will plant to marijuana
this spring.

``We're going to ship hundreds of plants out of here,'' he said. ``Our
patients still need their medicine, and we're going to do the best we can
to get it to them.''

Peron's unyielding style has put him at odds with law enforcement, which
alleged that his San Francisco club was doing little to verify the medical
needs of its clients before it was shut down last May.

But Peron said he has arrived at an understanding with Lake County Sheriff
Rodney K. Mitchell about his new operation.

``We were raided by federal DEA agents last year, and some sheriff's
deputies participated,'' Peron said. ``They took a few plants, but they saw
we were legal under Proposition 215, and they haven't bothered us since.
(Mitchell) is a good man -- he doesn't want to spend his time busting sick
people.''

Mitchell groaned wearily when informed he had Peron's heartfelt endorsement
and emphasized that he does not condone marijuana consumption, medical or
otherwise.

``Dennis has a tendency to stretch the truth,'' Mitchell said. ``The facts
are that we both support Proposition 215 because it is the law, and we will
also enforce other laws regarding (the illegal possession or sale of)
marijuana.''

Mitchell said his deputies have not taken any steps against the farm
because ``we have not had clear evidence presented to us of a violation.''

``If we develop evidence of a violation, we most definitely will step in.''

Such evidence, said Mitchell, could consist of verifiable accounts that
Peron was involved in the illegal distribution of marijuana or was growing
more plants than could be considered reasonable under Proposition 215.

Many of the farm's plants end up in San Francisco, where most of Peron's
former cannabis club patrons live.

Jim Mallett and Harold Torres, two San Francisco State University area
residents who are suffering from AIDS, are growing several Lake County
plants in their apartment.

As he and Torres snipped flowers from one of the plants preparatory to
drying them, Mallett extolled the medicinal virtues of marijuana.

``We smoke the buds and use the leaves for brownies,'' he said. ``It
stimulates our appetites so we can keep weight on, and it stops the nausea
that our other medications cause. We'd really be in trouble without it.''

Mallett said he and Torres would not be able to afford the marijuana they
need if they had to buy it on the street.

``Good marijuana costs $500 an ounce now,'' he said.

Torres and Mallett also like the idea that their pot is grown organically
and that it comes from a local farm run by their friends.

``We go up there a lot,'' said Torres. ``I like to cook for people and work
in the garden.''

As for Peron, he says he has turned over a new leaf.

``I'll never deal pot again,'' he vowed. ``No more buying it and selling
it. From now on, I'm strictly growing it.''