How Los Angeles Became the "Wild West" of Medical Marijuana

On a warm, bright winter day in January, I spent a few hours driving around two neighborhoods in Los Angeles, looking at marijuana stores.

You know, marijuana stores. Where you (well, not necessarily you) can walk in and, if you can prove a doctor has recommended marijuana to you for relief of an ailment, walk out with a brown bag full of buds, pot brownies, or cannabis candy bars. Los Angeles has more than 500 of these stores. My companions on the drives were two citizen activists who didn’t like seeing so many marijuana shops and who regularly let the Los Angeles City Council know of their unhappiness.

Michael Larsen, a 43-year-old family man, is public safety director for the Eagle Rock Neighborhood Council. He doesn’t like to discuss his day job in the press, saying it has drawn too many hostile medical marijuana supporters to his work-related websites in the past.

Eagle Rock, a neighborhood in northeast Los Angeles, is visibly aging but remains dignified and distinct, with commercial areas occupied mostly by low-slung, pale old buildings housing storefront doctor’s offices, service businesses such as beauty salons and tax preparers, and independent restaurants and boutiques rather than chain stores. As we cruise a mile or so up and down Eagle Rock, York, and Colorado boulevards, Larsen points out more than 10 pot dispensaries. “Eagle Rock is about being a small community with a small-town feel, and we want to retain that,” he says.

Responding to criticisms he’s received from medical marijuana activists, Larsen insists: “I’m not being uncompassionate. I may be a NIMBY, but I’m fine with that. Eagle Rock is struggling to maintain the character of the neighborhood, for my kids or other people and their kids.” Larsen tells me about the healthy-looking young men who sometimes congregate in parking lots or on streets near dispensaries, smoking pot or blasting music. He points out one such young man entering AEC, a dispensary on Colorado Boulevard, while we are in its parking lot. He tells me about a local woman in her 80s who can’t understand what kind of world she’s living in, where marijuana is sold on her corner.

Larsen also points out some grubby-looking auto repair shops along his neighborhood’s main strip and tells me how the locals managed to curb their profusion through the city’s planning process. He talks about the auto repair shops in much the same way he discusses the pot shops. He does not think either should be completely eliminated, but he believes they constitute a blight on the neighborhood when they are too conspicuous.

Larsen and I pass one marijuana dispensary, the Cornerstone Collective, that I visited the day before. If you didn’t know it was there, you wouldn’t know it was there. It has no pot leaf images, no neon signs announcing “Alternative” or “Herbal,” no commercial signage at all. The owner, Michael Backes, told me with amused pride that a while back, when a runaway car plowed straight through his wall, a local news crew identified the place as a “dentist office,” which is what it looks like from its waiting room. Backes is “doing it right,” Larsen tells me.

My drive through Studio City, in the southeast San Fernando Valley just over the mountains from Hollywood, is similar. Barbara Monahan Burke, a 64-year-old horticulturalist who serves as the neighborhood council’s co-chair for government affairs, doesn’t say anything about increases in crime associated with the marijuana dispensaries (a connection often asserted by public officials), but she does complain about occasional pot smoking in front of them, which can annoy commercial neighbors. “I personally believe in compassionate use of medical marijuana and voted for it,” she says.