SPOTLIGHT SHIFTS TO SMALL POT CLUBS

It looks like a college dorm, circa 1968. Mismatched couches and lounge
chairs. Bad art on the walls. Purple painted bookcases and funky rugs. ...
A bong on the coffee table. A joint in the ashtray. The sweet smell of pot
in the air.

The talk in the room is of peace and love and changing the world. But it is
also of pain and loneliness and the fear of dying.

This is a pot club, 1998. With the shutdown this week of the Cannabis
Healing Center, the state's biggest and oldest pot club, only three pot
clubs now remain in San Francisco.

Unlike the megaclub founded by gubernatorial candidate Dennis Peron, the
existing clubs are small and discreet, ever mindful of looming federal and
state court battles that are challenging their legality despite Proposition
215, which state voters passed to approve medicinal marijuana.

"Discretion is the better part of valor," said Ken Hayes Jr., head of
C.H.A.M.P., an acronym for Cannabis Helping Alleviate Medical Problems, at
194 Church St. off Market.

"We try to keep a low profile. ... One of the reasons we're still open, I
believe, is that we haven't been in your face, smoking in front of the TV
cameras."

Now, with Peron's place at 1444 Market padlocked by deputy sheriffs, the
remaining clubs are braced for a stampede of clients they feel ill-equipped
to handle, what with their cozy rooms and small staffs.

Until now, the other clubs have let Peron, with his 9,000 members, grab the
headlines and take the political heat. They were content to quietly serve
their clientele of just a few hundred each.

But with word spreading of their existence, two of the three -- C.H.A.M.P
and ACT UP, the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power -- have extended their
hours to handle the constant stream of patients who have been arriving this
week at their unmarked doors.

At the 500-member C.H.A.M.P., open since December 1996, many newcomers have
been turned away, Hayes said. Fear of a bust triggered by the infiltration
by undercover drug agents -- one of Peron's downfalls -- forces the staff
at C.H.A.M.P. to be suspicious of any applicant, even those in wheelchairs.

C.H.A.M.P. not only insists on a doctor's note recommending the use of
marijuana for the patient's medical condition, but the club wants the note
to be dated within 30 days. Staff members then call the doctor to verify
the note, Hayes said.

Once approved, the applicant is issued a photo ID card. With the whole
process taking an hour or two, the handful of staff members can handle only
five or six applications a day, Hayes said.

Over at ACT UP, at 3991 17th St., off Market in the Castro, membership has
gone up at least 33 percent this week, up from 300. The club opened about
three months ago, around the time another place, Flower Therapy, was
pressured by authorities to close its doors.

ACT UP doesn't ask for a doctor's note. It demands only that prospective
clients sign a notarized declaration under penalty of perjury that a doctor
has recommended pot for their medical condition.

"We're not doctors here or judges," said Michael Bellefountaine, 32. "If
you make a promise that you are sick and you need pot, I give you pot."

Unlike C.H.A.M.P. and Peron's old club, which were set up as hangouts for
clients to smoke their pot and socialize, ACT UP bans any smoking inside
its tiny converted apartment. Clients come in, show their ID, check out the
pot for sale, pay for it, and leave.

"It's like going to a butcher shop," Bellefountaine said. " "What do you
have today in lamb chops?' "

At C.H.A.M.P. and ACT UP, the top price for an eighth of an ounce bag of
pot grown in California is $55, but prices can go as low as $15 for Mexican
pot.

Prices go as high as $70 across the street from ACT UP, at the Market
Street Club, a one-man operation with 150 members run by AIDS patient James
Green, 36.

Green opened his business in December 1997, just as the federal and state
campaign against pot clubs really heated up. Ever since, Green has been
watching the door of his second-floor, black-paneled office, fearful of a
bust.

Green also bans smoking at his club and doesn't even have any chairs.
Clients fill out the paperwork at a counter and must be able to submit a
doctor's recommendation.

Keeping a straight-laced business image is key to survival, Green said. He
even sells other items, from body lotion and vitamins to hand-carved Indian
kachina dolls, to give the appearance of a legitimate shop to the casual
passerby.

"When people see a party atmosphere, they get the wrong impression," said
Green, explaining his nonsmoking rule.

Although he considers selling pot a business, Green said he was barely
paying for his supplies and the rent. ACT UP, which takes in about $25,000
a month, is also just a grand or two ahead. C.H.A.M.P. has monthly revenue
of about $35,000, Hayes said.

To them, the purpose of selling pot is not making money, but helping those
in need. Most of their clients have AIDS, but they also have patients with
cancer, glaucoma, epilepsy and arthritis.

"I don't relish the idea of being raided and being busted," Green said. "I
think I'm doing the right thing, even though it might turn out to be
unfortunate for me."

To people who need the marijuana to ease pain and stimulate their
appetites, the pot clubs make their lives possible.

Sandi Patrick, 49, a paraplegic suffering from arthritis, traveled miles in
her motorized wheelchair to get to the ACT UP club Wednesday afternoon. She
had been a volunteer at Peron's club, located just around the corner from
her house.

For 13 years, she took morphine and methadone for her condition, and barely
had enough energy to get out of bed. She's been smoking pot for two years.
"Before, there wasn't much quality to my life," she said. "I feel now I can
live again."

1998 San Francisco Examiner

Checked-by: (Joel W. Johnson)