WRACKED BY PAIN, BUT DEFIANT

Through a cloud of pungent marijuana smoke, 46-year-old Dixie Romagno
speaks of her hate for Attorney General Dan Lungren.

"Hate" is not too strong a word, she explains, because this is the man who
would throw her life into upheaval should he get his way and close down the
Cannabis Cultivators Club.

"I hate Dan Lungren, I really feel that way," said Romagno, in her 20th
year of chronic multiple sclerosis. "I want him to come and spend the day
with me to see what it's like."

Romagno is one of thousands of San Franciscans caught in the cross-fire of
a legal and political war pitting governor-hopeful Lungren and the U.S.
Department of Justice against the 7-year-old pot club founded by activist
Dennis Peron. The club has endured police raids, investigations into its
taxes and court proceedings at the criminal, civil and state levels, but it
continues to provide medicinal marijuana to more than 8,000 customers with
doctors' notes.

Even though voters approved a ballot initiative in 1996 that allowed the
use of marijuana for people who suffer from AIDS, cancer, arthritis and
other ailments, the cannabis club never has stood on shakier ground than it
does now. Although Lungren wants to shut down all cannabis clubs throughout
California, he has focused on San Francisco's operation, the largest and
most open in the state.

The latest setback came last week when a Superior Court judge granted a
loosely worded preliminary injunction against Peron. Another hearing for a
permanent injunction is scheduled for early next month.

Lungren heralded the injunction as a vindication of his position and
notified district attorneys around the state that the clubs within their
jurisdictions would have to close as well.

Stuck in the middle of it all are patrons such as Romagno who closely
monitor the club's setbacks while fearing the closure of a resource on
which they have come to depend.

A grandmother of two, Romagno never thought she'd end up fighting for the
right to get high on a daily basis. But she also didn't know that multiple
sclerosis would get such a grip on her life.

Routine activities such as shopping, cooking and even showering are
excruciatingly difficult for her because of extreme bone pain, spinal-cord
problems and raw nerves throughout her body.

Her disease has progressed consistently since it was diagnosed in 1978. But
Romagno manages to keep its symptoms in check with the one thing that works
where most other prescriptions have failed: marijuana.

"Sometimes you just need to be comfortably numb to function with all the
problems that I've got," said Romagno, detailing her daily habit of five
joints and various marijuana-laced baked goods delivered to her by club
volunteers. She rarely goes to the club these days because of the
difficulty she has getting there.

The modest, two-bedroom apartment she shares with her boyfriend in the West
Portal District is sparsely furnished, but it does display a fake marijuana
leaf necklace and other symbolic tokens.

Romagno shudders to think how she will obtain her "medicine" if the club is
forced to close its doors. If that happens, she says, she will do
everything she can to get her hands on it.

"I'd go homeless," Romagno said. "I'd buy pot before I pay my bills. The
disease makes me feel like I want to jump out of my skin 99 percent of the
time."

Mary Gennoy can understand those sentiments.

Born with multiple disabilities due to the radiation her pregnant mother
received for cancer treatment, the 46-year-old Gennoy has lived a lifetime
of operations, life-threatening illnesses and constant pain. Gennoy stands
4 feet 6 inches tall, weighs less than 65 pounds and is missing numerous
bones and joints from her body.

Most affected by the radiation treatments she was subjected to while in her
mother's womb were her arms and hands. Her thumbs are useless, her hands
are deformed and doctors even coined the phrase "radial club hands" to
describe Gennoy's lack of forearm bones. Gennoy suffers from constant
arthritis and bowel and colon problems and is allergic to almost every pain
medication she has taken, except marijuana.

But despite all the dire predictions and medical setbacks, a strong spirit
- - and a little bit of pot - have helped Gennoy lead as normal a life as
possible.

She lives with her three cats in an apartment near Duboce Park that is
heavily decorated with mystical paintings of wolves and black jaguars
surrounded by various stickers in support of medical marijuana. Most
symbolic, however, is the marijuana leaf necklace draped over a mask of the
Statue of Liberty, a reminder of the freedom to take care of herself how
she sees fit.

"If you were born like me, you'd have no choice," said Gennoy, explaining
her 25-year pot habit. "You'd just do it. There have been times when I've
almost died, and I really need this to help me out."

Gennoy said she would do just about anything to defend her right to smoke
the three or so joints she lights up every day, including distribute it
herself if she could find the means.

"I want to be like Robin Hood and steal from the rich and give to the poor
who need it," Gennoy said. "The existence of the clubs is absolutely
necessary because it helps so many people."

But with all the legal issues up in the air, no one really knows just how
long the club will exist.

Lungren was unavailable for comment, but he has had extensive
confrontations with the club, most notably with a raid he ordered in 1996
and the ensuing legal battles.

Lungren has made closing the few clubs scattered across the state a top
priority in his office, and critics say it is being done to bolster his
campaign for governor.

But the attorney general's office is not the only law enforcement agency to
challenge the legality of the clubs. The U.S. Department of Justice filed
suit in U.S. District Court in January to stop pot distribution by six
clubs in Northern California.

But the root of the legal troubles, in Gennoy's opinion, comes from
Lungren's efforts.

"I don't understand that man," Gennoy said. "He needs to go see the Wizard
because he needs a heart and some compassion."

©1998 San Francisco Examiner