herbandlife
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The First Cannabis Cafe in America
Are We Riding the Crest of yet Another Big Wave?By Mahoney A.K.A -( LokiGen)-
It's nine in the morning. What the hell am I doing up?
I hear hacking and spitting coming from my bathroom. "Jude, hurry the hell up!" I yell through a haze of cannabis and coffee. Finally he emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a veil of steam that smells of Old Spice and off-brand dandruff shampoo.
We're an unlikely pair embarking on our mission of mercy. I grew up in a military family and I was even in the NLCC-Navy League Cadet Corp and was set for a military career like my father until the doctors found a spot on my knee that disqualified me from service. After that I spent most of my adult life making money on my feet; I've worked construction, I was a ski and snowboard instructor, I've been a chef, I used to run clubs in Seattle-I was always active and working my ass off made me happy. That was before a back injury and my body's inability to absorb calcium caught up to me; now I'm in my thirties, my bones are brittle as toffee and I have Fibromialgia, which is the medical term for "I've been in chronic pain for so long that my nerves are damaged, which puts me in even worse chronic pain." Jude is my friend and caretaker. He's a psychology student prone to migraines and just sane enough to have avoided doing the Thorazine shuffle so far.
We're headed for a sanctuary where we can relax and be at peace. It's a haven like a cabin in the mountains in a winter storm, homey and comforting, and the voices of the greeters soothe me like the sound of waves caressing white shores. My mind races as the medicine takes effect and settles on the music-yet another rendishtion of John Lennon's Imagine-and I've again attained the meditative state I call "Duh." I know it won't be long before I move on from Oregon, but brief as it's been I'll never forget my time at the Oregon NORML Cannabis Café.
I came to the café during a dark time in my life. It's been six years now since I could work; a combination of workplace injury and bad luck in the genetic lottery left me in constant pain and dependent on some nasty drugs just to function day to day. I was depressed enough as it was when life threw me another curveball: my wife of five years and heretofore love of my life, who just days earlier told me "always and forever," had left me; and a text message saying, "I can't do this..."-came a few days later, she was gone. My gut reaction was to call up the Army and ask if I could serve my country as a human target, but after some self-reflection and a broken ankle (long story) I figured they wouldn't want me and decided to let my disability consume what was left of me.
Skip ahead a few months and my room had become a jungle of trash, cannabis plants and self-loathing. My ex-mother-in-law/roommate suggested I leave my room for a bit and go check out the new cannabis café she'd heard about on the radio. After much hesitation I said okay. She grabbed her keys and waited patiently as I gulped down four milligrams of Xanax and my pain killers so I could cope with the outside world. I'd been spending an average of 22 hours a day cooped up in my room since my wife left and I wasn't sure I belonged in the outside world anymore. "Hurry up," I hear from the living room. My mother-in-law was willing to do anything to get me to leave my room (probably just to scan for dishes and general trash).
The café is nestled in Portland's Woodlawn district, I'm amazed at the gritty bohemian neighborhood, "this could be promising" I think to myself as I struggle to find the damn front door. "What the fuck, this isn't the place it's full of old clothes and shit..." I was not in the café but rather the second hand store next to it; "well, I might as well go all out and ask..." I think. "Hey, do you know where the Cannabis Café is?" I asked the woman behind the counter. "What?" she replies? "You know the café where I can smoke my weed with other people" I said. I was expecting to meet with a negative attitude, but she actually smiled and said, "You just missed it. You need to go around the corner and up the stairs." "Oh thank you," I said as I pretended to look around her store for another minute just to be polite, decided I didn't really need a Precious Moments nativity scene and lumbered my broken ass up the flight of stairs round the corner.
At the top I found myself in front of a heavy door with a sign that told me to knock. I knocked-and nothing happened. I stood there a couple minutes mentally going over reasons for them not to be there. "Great," I thought, "another group trying to do right by the American people shut down by the Man." Then I noticed the doorbell; maybe a good ring would get those damn stoners to answer the door. Sure enough that did it. After some paperwork and the usual verbal diarrhea I get whenever I'm nervous they led me to another door. The pungent aroma of Ganja wafted up the stairs to greet me, and I knew that I'd finally come home.
Smiles greeted me as I descended the steps, and a budtender named Ralph handed me a cellophane bag full of sweet vapor from what he called "the Strawberry". One good inhale was all it took to feel the effects, and in seconds all my worries and tension, not to mention the the ache in my back and joints, melted into euphoria. I smiled and handed the bag to the next person sitting at the bar so I could take what's become my usual seat. The afternoon seemed to stretch into forever as I lost myself in shared stories of pain and loss, joy and passion.
Now I'm a regular and know all the other regulars by name. Jude jokes that the hollering of "Mahoney!" when we come down the stairs reminds him of Norm from Cheers. My mind wanders to the faces of people encountered and stories shared here in the café as I prepare to move closer to my father. Life is so strange. You can lose everything you hold dear in your life only to find when you come here you can't help but share a smile or surprise yourself with an outburst of laughter. The stories are all similar in size and shape, but it's the content that captivates and fuels the imaginations of those who frequent this establishment. Good, God fearing Americans, who face pain and nausea, people undergoing dialysis or confined to wheelchairs.
These are not your stereotypical stoners. The café's patrons are doctors and lawyers, teachers and scientists, accountants and engineers. There are veterans of wars from Korea to Iraq among us struggling with psychological trauma I can only imagine. I'd like to think they're able to set aside those memories and find peace here the same way I have.
There are no deadlines at the cafe, no blood tests, dialysis appointments or expensive pills that treat one problem while causing three others, no debt or credit reports for low-income housing that you qualify for because of that medical debt. This is a place where we can be who we are, independent of the conditions that have brought us here. This is a place of freedom fought for and created by the people. Nowhere else do we have the luxury of acceptance and the gift of tolerance to partake of the one thing that frees us, from our mental and physical maladies. Everyone who works at the café is a volunteer, and all that's asked of anyone is that they do what they can to help. I love this freedom fought for by the people. The Civil Rights Movement lives on in Portland's NE district. I have heard the points from the opposition and I think that Professor Raphael Mechoulam at Hebrew University had the right answer to all those questions and false points; he says "People use it because it works, that's all."
I really don't know what others think, but I can honestly say I feel incredibly fortunate to have lived in Portland just as the café established itself. Where people have become such an integral part of the growth and changing shape of the medical marijuana movement. Those people who have fought and continue to fight, for people like me are so selfless and unstinting in their generosity. It is their hard work and courage to buck the odds that have allowed this place to spin into creation ensuring the existence of a haven where the outcasts of society are the majority. Am I biased? You bet your life I am. It's part of the human condition we all share. If you can trust one thing about humanity, it's that we all display a selfish streak from time to time and our biases sometimes rule the day. But here at the café we can focus on the more selfless aspects of our existence and experience a kind of brotherhood that is sometimes lacking in our lives outside of this place. I truly hope the momentum continues to build and the rest of the world can find their path. What we have in the Rose City is a hidden paradise, a community unafraid to fight for the civil rights of the ill and injured, and a brotherhood of likeminded individuals who encourage each other when the going is rough. My life is taking me away from here for now, but I know the café will be there when I come back, as will the friends I've made and the cause they continue to fight for.
~LokiGen
Are We Riding the Crest of yet Another Big Wave?By Mahoney A.K.A -( LokiGen)-
It's nine in the morning. What the hell am I doing up?
I hear hacking and spitting coming from my bathroom. "Jude, hurry the hell up!" I yell through a haze of cannabis and coffee. Finally he emerges from the bathroom wrapped in a veil of steam that smells of Old Spice and off-brand dandruff shampoo.
We're an unlikely pair embarking on our mission of mercy. I grew up in a military family and I was even in the NLCC-Navy League Cadet Corp and was set for a military career like my father until the doctors found a spot on my knee that disqualified me from service. After that I spent most of my adult life making money on my feet; I've worked construction, I was a ski and snowboard instructor, I've been a chef, I used to run clubs in Seattle-I was always active and working my ass off made me happy. That was before a back injury and my body's inability to absorb calcium caught up to me; now I'm in my thirties, my bones are brittle as toffee and I have Fibromialgia, which is the medical term for "I've been in chronic pain for so long that my nerves are damaged, which puts me in even worse chronic pain." Jude is my friend and caretaker. He's a psychology student prone to migraines and just sane enough to have avoided doing the Thorazine shuffle so far.
We're headed for a sanctuary where we can relax and be at peace. It's a haven like a cabin in the mountains in a winter storm, homey and comforting, and the voices of the greeters soothe me like the sound of waves caressing white shores. My mind races as the medicine takes effect and settles on the music-yet another rendishtion of John Lennon's Imagine-and I've again attained the meditative state I call "Duh." I know it won't be long before I move on from Oregon, but brief as it's been I'll never forget my time at the Oregon NORML Cannabis Café.
I came to the café during a dark time in my life. It's been six years now since I could work; a combination of workplace injury and bad luck in the genetic lottery left me in constant pain and dependent on some nasty drugs just to function day to day. I was depressed enough as it was when life threw me another curveball: my wife of five years and heretofore love of my life, who just days earlier told me "always and forever," had left me; and a text message saying, "I can't do this..."-came a few days later, she was gone. My gut reaction was to call up the Army and ask if I could serve my country as a human target, but after some self-reflection and a broken ankle (long story) I figured they wouldn't want me and decided to let my disability consume what was left of me.
Skip ahead a few months and my room had become a jungle of trash, cannabis plants and self-loathing. My ex-mother-in-law/roommate suggested I leave my room for a bit and go check out the new cannabis café she'd heard about on the radio. After much hesitation I said okay. She grabbed her keys and waited patiently as I gulped down four milligrams of Xanax and my pain killers so I could cope with the outside world. I'd been spending an average of 22 hours a day cooped up in my room since my wife left and I wasn't sure I belonged in the outside world anymore. "Hurry up," I hear from the living room. My mother-in-law was willing to do anything to get me to leave my room (probably just to scan for dishes and general trash).
The café is nestled in Portland's Woodlawn district, I'm amazed at the gritty bohemian neighborhood, "this could be promising" I think to myself as I struggle to find the damn front door. "What the fuck, this isn't the place it's full of old clothes and shit..." I was not in the café but rather the second hand store next to it; "well, I might as well go all out and ask..." I think. "Hey, do you know where the Cannabis Café is?" I asked the woman behind the counter. "What?" she replies? "You know the café where I can smoke my weed with other people" I said. I was expecting to meet with a negative attitude, but she actually smiled and said, "You just missed it. You need to go around the corner and up the stairs." "Oh thank you," I said as I pretended to look around her store for another minute just to be polite, decided I didn't really need a Precious Moments nativity scene and lumbered my broken ass up the flight of stairs round the corner.
At the top I found myself in front of a heavy door with a sign that told me to knock. I knocked-and nothing happened. I stood there a couple minutes mentally going over reasons for them not to be there. "Great," I thought, "another group trying to do right by the American people shut down by the Man." Then I noticed the doorbell; maybe a good ring would get those damn stoners to answer the door. Sure enough that did it. After some paperwork and the usual verbal diarrhea I get whenever I'm nervous they led me to another door. The pungent aroma of Ganja wafted up the stairs to greet me, and I knew that I'd finally come home.
Smiles greeted me as I descended the steps, and a budtender named Ralph handed me a cellophane bag full of sweet vapor from what he called "the Strawberry". One good inhale was all it took to feel the effects, and in seconds all my worries and tension, not to mention the the ache in my back and joints, melted into euphoria. I smiled and handed the bag to the next person sitting at the bar so I could take what's become my usual seat. The afternoon seemed to stretch into forever as I lost myself in shared stories of pain and loss, joy and passion.
Now I'm a regular and know all the other regulars by name. Jude jokes that the hollering of "Mahoney!" when we come down the stairs reminds him of Norm from Cheers. My mind wanders to the faces of people encountered and stories shared here in the café as I prepare to move closer to my father. Life is so strange. You can lose everything you hold dear in your life only to find when you come here you can't help but share a smile or surprise yourself with an outburst of laughter. The stories are all similar in size and shape, but it's the content that captivates and fuels the imaginations of those who frequent this establishment. Good, God fearing Americans, who face pain and nausea, people undergoing dialysis or confined to wheelchairs.
These are not your stereotypical stoners. The café's patrons are doctors and lawyers, teachers and scientists, accountants and engineers. There are veterans of wars from Korea to Iraq among us struggling with psychological trauma I can only imagine. I'd like to think they're able to set aside those memories and find peace here the same way I have.
There are no deadlines at the cafe, no blood tests, dialysis appointments or expensive pills that treat one problem while causing three others, no debt or credit reports for low-income housing that you qualify for because of that medical debt. This is a place where we can be who we are, independent of the conditions that have brought us here. This is a place of freedom fought for and created by the people. Nowhere else do we have the luxury of acceptance and the gift of tolerance to partake of the one thing that frees us, from our mental and physical maladies. Everyone who works at the café is a volunteer, and all that's asked of anyone is that they do what they can to help. I love this freedom fought for by the people. The Civil Rights Movement lives on in Portland's NE district. I have heard the points from the opposition and I think that Professor Raphael Mechoulam at Hebrew University had the right answer to all those questions and false points; he says "People use it because it works, that's all."
I really don't know what others think, but I can honestly say I feel incredibly fortunate to have lived in Portland just as the café established itself. Where people have become such an integral part of the growth and changing shape of the medical marijuana movement. Those people who have fought and continue to fight, for people like me are so selfless and unstinting in their generosity. It is their hard work and courage to buck the odds that have allowed this place to spin into creation ensuring the existence of a haven where the outcasts of society are the majority. Am I biased? You bet your life I am. It's part of the human condition we all share. If you can trust one thing about humanity, it's that we all display a selfish streak from time to time and our biases sometimes rule the day. But here at the café we can focus on the more selfless aspects of our existence and experience a kind of brotherhood that is sometimes lacking in our lives outside of this place. I truly hope the momentum continues to build and the rest of the world can find their path. What we have in the Rose City is a hidden paradise, a community unafraid to fight for the civil rights of the ill and injured, and a brotherhood of likeminded individuals who encourage each other when the going is rough. My life is taking me away from here for now, but I know the café will be there when I come back, as will the friends I've made and the cause they continue to fight for.
~LokiGen
