RESIDENTIAL POT BUSTS BECOMING CHRONIC

How green is my Valley?

Well, plenty, if you read this paper very often.

It seems lately that about every other day the Tribune has been
reporting about the discovery of another marijuana farm in an area home.

I have a colleague who has covered so many of the midweek drug busts
that he no longer refers to Wednesday as "hump day," he calls it "hemp day."

It's alarming to hear of the hauls that law enforcement is finding.
And it's happening in nice communities too: Diamond Bar, Rowland
Heights, Walnut, etc.

I sit here with my jaw agape upon hearing of every bust. I am
actually shocked to see how prevalent it is.

It's almost to the point where I think police should just go door to
door in some of our cities to see if pot farms are growing inside.

But I'd rather light a candle than curse your darkness. Perhaps
there could be some good out of this. At least now the local
association of Realtors can offer a "Pot Homes of the San Gabriel Valley" tour.

I got a lesson several years ago about how drugs can unknowingly
thrive in your neighborhood.

I came home from work one night and found fire engines had closed off
the street. I came around a back area and parked on my driveway.

A group of neighbors were standing nearby and I sauntered over to them.

"A meth lab blew up," a grandmotherly type told me.

I thought about calling the newsroom, thinking we might want to send
a reporter. Then realizing that I call myself a journalist (at least
that's what I have stitched on my underwear), I decided I would cover
this breaking news event.

I called the paper to let them know.

"Hi, is Ruby there?" I asked, trying to get ahold of the night cop reporter.

"Nope, she went out to some meth lab explosion," the voice on the
other end of the phone said.

I waddled down the street toward the police tape. I stood on one side
of the tape and Ruby was standing with the general public on the other.

"What are you doing?" she gasped when she saw me.

"Welcome to my neighborhood," I said, flailing out my arms as if I
were Mr. Roarke on "Fantasy Island."

In this latest string of busts I am now worried that I will be
targeted as a drug lord by my neighbors.

These pot growers are rarely seen by neighbors, kind of keep to
themselves and keep the curtains drawn.

Wow, that sounds a lot like me.

I can imagine the neighbors look at my huge gut as the result of
downing a lot of brownies with marijuana-induced fervor.

Also, I have enough dirt on my living room carpet, thanks to Mighty
Pica the Wonder Dog and her "bones of mystery" piled on the rug. I
could grow corn as high as an elephant's eye.

I could go on about what would make me Public Enemy No. 1 to my neighbors.

But I got to go, I'm writing this at home and police are knocking at the door.