Big Weed (21 page)

Here's where the hypocrisy of this stuff comes in. An actor, athlete, or other celebrity can be more easily forgiven by the media and public if he is TMZed dancing drunk and naked on a friend's roof than if he is busted with an ounce of marijuana intended for personal consumption. Our current political and cultural landscape is out of sync with reality and in need of reform.
Which sometimes puts me in the ridiculous position of marijuana investment career counselor to the stars.

“You probably want to wait until you retire from the NBA,” I told one athlete. “Whatever you could make from investing in our company is not worth losing your shoe deal over, not to mention your career.” He reluctantly agreed.

Well, I finally met the ball player whom I'll simply describe as Mr. Tall. He didn't waste any time telling me how much he loved marijuana but never touched the stuff during the season. There was actually only a three-month window every summer when he could happily smoke weed without having to worry about a drug test from the NBA. Like a lot of athletes, he used weed for a variety of reasons.
It didn't cloud his head the way alcohol did. If he was hurting from an injury or just looking to comfort some aches, the drug's analgesic properties worked wonders. Above all, it helped him relax and sleep in a way that alcohol never would.

Mr. Tall was a state resident. And I liked him, so much so that we ended up working out a deal that will get him involved when he retires. But he's itching to do so now. In fact, every time he hears we are having some kind of event, he tells me how much he wishes he could be a part of it.

It was just his pain-in-the-ass multimillion-dollar basketball contract that was keeping him from being a part of our day to day. “Chris, man,” he likes to say. “I tell you, as soon as I retire, I'm going to be there for you and Green Man. Anything you want. The Cannabis Cup, any event you're at, I'm there. I'm going to be lighting bongs for people at the booth.”

The musician known as Redman gave me a big hug when he entered the room and settled into a couch to start our meeting. I knew him only by reputation. He is a legendary figure in hip-hop, a Jersey-born rapper who has cut numerous records with his partner in rhyme, Method Man.

We met in Denver at the office of a mutual friend. Redman wasn't a Colorado resident, but he was passionate as hell. He and Method Man were often photographed smoking fat joints or displaying Ziploc bags filled with monster buds.

We got down to business. The conversation took its twists and turns but finally got around to the real reason we were meeting. Redman was looking to capitalize on the cannabis business. He'd liked what he'd seen of our operation, and he wanted in. There was just one thing that would clinch the deal for him.

He wanted us to name a strain after him. And he wanted it available for his fans to buy by the time his next album came out. That would be tricky.

“I don't have a problem naming something after you,” I told him. “We could rename something that you yourself love. The bigger problem is, the only fans that would be able to buy it are those who live in or visit Colorado. That's probably not worth it for you. You're looking for a national platform. Plus you can't make money from it. That would qualify you as an owner, and you don't qualify for that because of your residency status.”

“How do we get it outside Colorado?”

I shook my head. “We don't.”

“You can't mail it?”

“Not without breaking a dozen different federal laws, no.”

“Oh.”

The guy I'll called Señor Duffel was also excited about the cannabis industry. He'd seen our name around town, and he was ready to jump in feet first.

“I could probably invest a million to start.”

“A million dollars?” I was impressed by how casually and assuredly he said it. A million dollars was always welcome. It would speed up my capital campaign enormously.

“One catch,” he said. “It's a million cash. We'll deliver it to you in a duffel bag. But you'll have to be responsible for laundering it.”

Oh shit.

“Laundering? Uh, no,” I said. “It doesn't work like that. It has to be completely legal. We have to file an affidavit for every single dime we take in. We must be able to trace this back to a legitimate source.”

“You mean to say, you're, like, completely legit?”

“That's right.”

“Oh.”

The guy I'll call Boris was a millionaire many times over who owned and operated mines in various locations in Eastern Europe.

He wanted to invest. But he also wasn't a resident of Colorado. In fact, you could say he wasn't a resident of anywhere. This oligarch traveled by private jet to reach his various mining enterprises and the meetings he took all over the world.

He spent a lot of his life on that plane, smoking his way through copious quantities of marijuana at 33,000 feet.