Pot Farm by Matthew Gavin Frank

By Matthew Gavin Frank

After 8 months in his adolescence domestic aiding his mom via her bout with melanoma, Matthew Frank and his spouse have been themselves determined for convenience. they discovered sanctuary within the impossible place—amid a set of outcasts and eccentrics on a plot of land miles outdoor their convenience area: a “mostly medical” marijuana farm in California.

Pot Farm information the unusual, elegant, and occasionally risky goings-on at Weckman Farm, a spot with hidden politics and social hierarchies, populated via getting better drug addicts, replacement healers, pseudo-hippie childrens, and clinical marijuana clients seeking to provide again. there's additionally woman Wanda, the big, elusive, prosperous, and seriously armed businesswoman who owns the farm and runs it from underneath a housedress and a hat of peacock feathers. Frank explores many of the roles that let this to work—from box pickers to tractor drivers, chefs to yoga teachers, managers to snipers, unlawful immigrants to felony revisionists, and the supply staff to the hospice staff at the different finish. His publication additionally appears on the blurry laws regulating the marijuana in addition to the daily logistics of operating such an operation and the entire relationships that brings into play.

Through firsthand observations and reports (some motivated by means of the farm’s money crop), interviews, and study, Pot Farm exposes a thriving yet unsung faction of up to date American tradition.

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Pot Farm

After 8 months in his formative years domestic aiding his mom via her bout with melanoma, Matthew Frank and his spouse have been themselves determined for convenience. they discovered sanctuary within the very unlikely place—amid a suite of outcasts and eccentrics on a plot of land miles outdoors their convenience sector: a “mostly medical” marijuana farm in California.

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Ideal for a long night of smiling and nodding and being a good sport at the annual press, showbiz, and politics bunfight that is the White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner. I was there in my capacity as vulgar lounge entertainer. Megan, my date, was there because she loves me and was proving it again. I had been asked to be the guest speaker by the chair of the entertainment committee. I wasn’t their first choice, but after Steve Carell and Ellen DeGeneres turned the gig down I think I became a little more appealing.

And Mrs. Cheney and being introduced. I felt a little awkward; I’m always a bit shy around evil people, so Megan took the lead. She has a knack for dealing with difficult men and is very knowledgeable about fine art, having worked for a time as an art dealer in New York. She and Mrs. C struck up a conversation about Picasso—the Cheneys were the proud owners of a few of his sketches. ” asked Megan. “Oh, we don’t,” replied Mrs. C. “They’re nudes, and we have grandchildren. ” “But they’re Picassos,” protested Megan.

Sweet revenge. The family now numbered six in total, and although financially it must have been a struggle for my parents, the kids were never really aware of it. I knew we couldn’t afford a lot of luxuries, but neither could anyone else around us. It wasn’t as if we lived in Beverly Hills. In fact, when we got our hallway carpeted—a scary vomity-colored tweedish patterned thing supplied by a friend of my father who worked in the shipyards and got a cutting from a luxury liner—neighbors came from far and wide to gaze at its amazing splendor.

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