REEFER MADNESS

An enthusiast's tale suffers from proselytizing for what is still, like
drinking Scotch, an unhealthy habit

Romancing Mary Jane: A Year In The Life Of A Failed Marijuana Grower

By Michael Poole Greystone books, 258 pages, $26.95

I am the target audience for this book and it troubled me. It is a paean to
an illegal substance, a how-to for would-be illicit agriculturalists, a
well-reasoned, articulate assault on the criminal prohibitions against the
sacred smoke of the Rastafarians.

"Sure, (smoking pot) is against the law, but like two or three million other
toking Canadians we blow smoke rings at any attempt to control our private
lives," writes Michael Poole, a 62-year-old television director based in
Vancouver and henceforth known as Grandpa Ganj.

A reporter with the Vancouver Sun in the 1960s, Poole ended up directing
episodes of CRC's flagship West Coast programs, The Beachcombers and The
Nature of Things. Suffering from burnout in the early '90s, Poole retreated
to his rural spread on B.C.'s Sunshine Coast and found solace in the
consumption and cultivation of marijuana. He smoked his way through a lot of
fine bud and learned there's more to succeeding as a renegade farmer than
narcotic induced hopefulness.

This kind of story has been a staple of marijuana magazines for years. The
idea of a yuppie going off to grow pot isn't much of a yarn. Poole
recognizes this and grafts to the outlaw narrative the tale of his life-long
experience with mood-altering, hallucinogenic drugs as well as a good survey
of international social and medical perspectives on cannabis. Romancing Mary
Jane is full of saccharine, Walden-esque observations, advice about living
more simply and encouragement to smoke B.C.'s famously potent brand of ganga
if you can get it (strong enough to cripple a Klingon, they say).

While Poole was not a particularly successful grower, he touts the
herb-provided compensations - "unforgettable sun-shot days in my mountain
gardens, glimpses into the mysterious lifeways of birds and animals,
wonderfully restored health in mind and body." Aficionados of the coast's
most prolific albeit illegal cash crop will readily agree with his
observations, have their own store of similar smoke-filled anecdotes and
share his laissez-faire, sleepy-eyed sentiments.

Even I have pulled six-foot high plants out of my then-teenaged daughter's
closet, grown spindly but tasty giants on a balcony in Edmonton, and kept my
stash hidden at home in case my mum runs out of rum. But I've never
considered smoking dope to be anything more than a bad habit, like drinking
Scotch. I support decriminalization, but you won't find me on a television
commercial shilling dope's supposed cool.

Poole's proselytizing is akin to cheerleading for tobacco. "If my occasional
toking is clogging my pipes," says Poole like a Marijuana Marlboro Man, "I
can't say that I've noticed. I wheeze and hack a bit climbing hills, which I
attribute to advancing years and a phlegmy nature. Would I breathe any
easier if I quit smoking dope? I don't know, and I have no intention of
finding out."

That troubles me, as did Poole's easy comparisons between blowing a joint
and fly-fishing or some other bona fide healthy way to unwind and relax.
Tobacco and marijuana are full of carcinogens.

Still, sermonizing aside, Poole has written a lighthearted memoir, E0 Ia
Willie Nelson or Jimmy Buffett, about the bohemian-tinged lifestyle
available to those on the coast with money or moxie. And he provides a
wealth of wonderful historical and pharmacological information about
cannabis sativa, the equatorial jungle plant, and indica, the hardier
highland variety. His earnestness for pot, however, borders on reefer
madness.

Checked-by: Rolf Ernst