UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF DENNIS PERON

This is a true story told from the subjective viewpoint of a young man growing up during a pivotal moment in cannabis history.

The author is now a strategic advisor to the global cannabis industry, co-founder of Last Prisoner Project and Harborside Health Center, and works with entrepreneurs all over the world building their cannabis businesses.

His work is only possible because people like DENNIS PERON, JOHN ENTWISTLE, GILBERT BAKER, AND BROWNIE MARY risked their lives and freedom to bring cannabis medicine out of the shadows and into the light.

read andrew’s GUEST ESSay below

In the late ‘80s, I attended a small school in Orange County, California, called Chapman College (now Chapman University). It was a strange place for me to go to school. Chapman was a conservative institution located in the most uptight place in America. I was a weed dealer and LSD-dropping deadhead with dreams of becoming the next Jack Nicholson. 

George HW Bush was President and the war on drugs was raging. It was a dangerous time to be in the cannabis trade. How I managed to graduate with honors and win every school award while dealing weed in the dorms and trying to radicalize my fellow students astounds me. Divine intervention is the only explanation for walking out of there with a degree instead of in handcuffs. 

The plan after graduation was to party my brains out with my friends one last night, then get in the car with my older brother and go to San Francisco, where I was offered a job in a summer stock theater program. I’d never been to the Bay Area as an adult. I didn’t know anyone there. I had no place to stay. I didn’t have many possessions. Most importantly, I didn’t know anyone to buy and sell weed from. This filled me with a lot of anxiety. 

Being a fish out of water was one thing, being one without weed was another. What was I going to do?

Luckily for me, my older brother is Steve DeAngelo. Steve knew a cat named Dennis Peron in San Francisco. They had done some work together with cannabis and LSD in the Yippie and Hippie underground. They were both cannabis reform activists and Dennis had all the good weed I could smoke. After hearing this in the car, I started to feel better. My big brother was taking care of things. 

Steve had called ahead and Dennis agreed to let me crash at his house until I found a spot of my own. On the way up, we stopped in Big Sur and had an early morning acid trip two days after graduation. As we walked amongst large redwoods and watched the fog dance around the tree trunks with psychedelic beauty, I knew I was embarking on a new chapter in my life. I didn’t know the how or the what or even the why but I did know this summer was going to be different. Even with a head full of acid, I could feel it in my gut. 

We pulled up to a large Victorian house in the Castro neighborhood of San Francisco after driving most of the next day. Everything I owned was in one large duffle bag and a backpack. My brother resembled Keith Richards. His girlfriend at the time was dressed to kill in a tight mini-skirt and high heels. I was wearing jeans and a nondescript T-shirt. We were a motley-looking crew. 

It took a long time for someone to answer the doorbell. I began to wonder if anyone was home or if we were at the right house. Steve looked around and muttered, “I’m sure this is the place.” He rang the doorbell again. This was long before smartphones or the Internet. Just as I blurted out, “Should we hit a payphone and call him again?”, a stoned drag queen wearing a pink toga finally opened the door. 

“Everyone's upstairs, darlings, come on in,” she said. “Are you here to see Dennis?” And before we could answer, we were escorted up the stairs. As we wound up the long staircase, the energy began to change. We could hear a room full of voices and laughter, and the sweet smell of ganja enveloped us. I was still nervous to meet Dennis but I knew I was in a friendly place. I took a relaxed breath and began to settle down. 

At the top of the stairs was an open floor plan blending the living room, dining room, and kitchen all together. About 15 people were sitting around smoking weed, doing art projects, watching TV with the volume down, and listening to electronic dance music. Everyone in the room was male-presenting or a drag queen. The only woman in the place was my brother's girlfriend. When I saw a giant gay pride rainbow flag adorning the walls, it hit me. This was an LGBTQ+ house and Dennis was the ringleader of it. 

Dennis saw my brother from across the room and greeted us warmly. “Hi Steve, have your brother put his stuff down and follow me.” He quickly took us up to his bedroom to negotiate the terms of my stay in more privacy. You see, in the cannabis underground of that time, everything was a meeting and/or negotiation. What we were up to was illegal and dangerous so making sure everyone was “cool” was part of the ritual of accepting someone new into the scene. 

Dennis took out a cigarette. “These damn things are going to kill me someday,” he said but lit up nonetheless. My brother and his girlfriend followed suit. I didn’t smoke tobacco and wanted a joint but needed to bide my time. First things first. Dennis looked me up and down. He glanced suspiciously at my brother. He took a long drag of his smoke. “So what’s the story with Andrew?” he asked. 

My brother had a rap already planned. “Andrew just got out of college in L.A. and is moving to San Francisco to do some summer stock theater.” This warmed Dennis up because he hated L.A. and quickly retorted, “Smart boy.” When he heard about summer stock theater, he started to look at me differently as if his first impression of me was wrong. 

Steve continued. “Andrew just needs a place to crash until he finds his own apartment—he’s straight, Dennis, so don’t try any funny business with my little brother.” This made me blush and a wave of social anxiety froze me speechless. Dennis was taken aback, figuring anyone doing summer stock theater must be gay. I tried my best to smile and nod and be nice. After looking me over yet again, Dennis finally said the one line he’d repeat to me many times over the next two weeks. 

“It’s okay if you’re straight, Andrew, as long as you don’t flaunt it.” 

My brother and his girlfriend laughed. Dennis was in stitches, too. I sat there dumbly, trying to pick my jaw up off the floor. Did he really just say that? What do I do now? How do I come back from that without getting kicked out of the house? I joined in the laughter because I didn’t know what else to do. I started to get nervous about staying in the gay mecca of San Francisco. What would happen to me? How would a straight kid just out of college in Orange County adjust to this? I didn’t know. I began to sweat. 

Dennis got out a bag of weed and a rolling tray. “Here, somebody roll a joint,” he said. I knew that was my cue. I may not have known how to verbally spar with Dennis Peron but I did know how to roll a joint. Now was my chance to show Dennis I could be useful. I latched onto that task for dear life. I figured all the gay men and queens in the house would appreciate my skills—for joint rolling. 

Rolling joints may not seem like a useful job in the days of grinders and rolling machines but we didn’t have those things in 1989. You had to break the weed down by hand and be adept at rolling that into a joint. Most people couldn’t do it. Being Steve’s younger brother and a hardcore stoner myself, I was already an expert at it. 

We smoked the joint while Dennis laid down his rules of the house. 

“There’s only one hard and fast rule around here, Andrew,” he said. “I expect everyone sleeping in this house to have dinner every evening together and I expect you to help prepare the meals and break them down. Are you okay with that?” This was an easy thing for me to say yes to. My family had operated the same way all my life. He also said there was no drinking of alcohol in the house which didn’t bother me in the slightest. And I was not to bring anyone over without permission or who was under the age of consent. 

“Sure, Dennis, no problem,” I said. 

Dennis continued to inform me that there were many nooks in the house with beds in them and I should choose one that no one was using and post up in there. He walked over to a closet and handed me sheets, a blanket, and a pillow. We finished the joint and then Dennis escorted us back to the rest of the group. My brother left shortly after and I started chopping veggies in the kitchen for that night's meal. 

I’d never been around so many gay people in my life. Everyone was very nice to me but also eyed me up and down like Dennis did. I was a good-looking kid and thin as a rail. Now that my brother was gone, curiosity took hold of the entire group. I could feel eyes on me all around. Being an actor, I enjoyed this attention even if it made me blush sometimes. 

I found myself working next to a man named Gilbert Baker. I found out later he designed the gay pride flag that is so familiar today. He was tall with a mustache and dark bushy hair. He loved smoking weed. He introduced himself and took pity on me when he noticed my social anxiety. He bent down and whispered kindly in my ear. “You’re doing great. Just keep rolling those big beautiful fat joints of yours and all will be well.” I wasn’t sure if this made me feel better or worse as he said that last line in a sexy voice. I could tell the torment was starting. I decided to roll with it. 

As dinner time approached, more people came in. Young men wearing short shorts and drag queens in silken gowns. Artists with rings on every finger and scarves around their heads. Unshaven activists emerged from back doors and offices asking, “What’s for dinner?” And then there was Dennis himself working the stove. Dennis did not prep or clean but did all the cooking unless he was off making a speech. He was a relaxed leader but the man knew how to delegate. He gave an order in a way that did not seem like one. People loved to do whatever he said. It was the mark of an impactful leader. 

The meal was served like a buffet as there were too many people to fit around the dining room table. It was vegetarian and usually had several dishes and a big salad. People were everywhere, eating. In the living room, on the floor, out on the back porch. They’d pass joints. Smoke filled the air. Dennis held court and had one helluva sense of humor. He could cut it with the best of them. 

On most nights Dennis would point me out and let everyone know I was straight but that I would not be flaunting it. As soon as I’d blush, the entire room would howl with laughter, which would only make me blush more. It wasn’t an easy thing to go through but it was all in good fun and it served an important purpose of covering my ass from unwarranted advances. 

After dinner was over, Dennis went off into his bedroom with some people. It was hard to tell what they were going to do but I was not invited. After helping to clean up, I ventured into the living room to roll joints and get as stoned as I could before retiring for the evening. I was just posting up with the rolling tray when someone put a VHS tape into the machine to watch a movie. This seemed like a normal thing to do and I wondered what would be playing. 

I sparked up the first joint to a film of young men enthusiastically engaging in sexual acts with each other. The room got a little quiet as the tape played a hit show of pornographic images that simultaneously scared and titillated me. The first thought was how young the actors seemed to be. Someone else must have read my mind when I heard a voice from across the room say, “Are these boys 18?”

A rather long and contentious discussion ensued about whether or not they were 18 or should they have to be 18 and what the ethics of pornography were. I sat there rolling joints because I didn’t know what else to do. I had just sat down and couldn’t now get up and leave. That would be rude, I thought. 

As I passed the joints around, it was decided that the performers were indeed 18, that the porn industry polices itself well, and that they were super hot to boot. A couple of guys took their pants off and started to touch themselves while watching the video. I was shocked by this development and felt like a deer in the headlights. What should I do now? Do I get up and run away? How would that look? Sitting there frozen I knew I was not in Orange County anymore. 

I did what I always do when I didn’t know what to do: I kept rolling joints. No one else took much notice of them but me. People were having conversations, discussing projects, writing letters all while the video blared on and men in tighty whities touched themselves. Someone brought in a giant bowl of popcorn and it became clear to me that an after-dinner porno double feature was perfectly normal in this house. Just three days after graduation, and the summer was off to a fast start. 

I decided it was time to claim my bedroom cubby while there was still one to claim. I passed out the joints, put a couple in my pocket, and set out for bed. Dennis was generous with his weed and always kept his people supplied. It was an ethos I would hold onto my entire life. Down on the ground floor, I found what appeared to be an old walk-in closet with a mattress on the floor. The door was missing but there was a tie-dye sheet hung up for a little privacy (but not much). I made my bed, smoked a joint or two, read a book, and laid down to sleep. 

I spent the next fortnight at Dennis Peron’s house. I quickly learned that Dennis was an important figure in San Francisco and had been close with Harvey Milk. Dennis was the dealer who kept the cannabis flowing in the San Francisco gay community and he had been doing it since the 1970s. The revolutionary beat had been going down at his house for a long time. I discovered I was in the presence of someone who was at the center of an important circle of pioneers. 

Dennis lost the love of his life to HIV and this experience infused his mission with even more urgency. Now he was supplying medicine to a community suffering through a brutal epidemic. When news of someone passing came through the house, it sent a bone chilling silence through everyone. Dennis would break that up with a remembrance or a joke and everyone would be able to breathe again. Watching him care for his people moved me deeply. This was a serious time for the gay community and Dennis was there for them. 

Every day was an adventure. Dennis was selling large amounts of weed both wholesale and retail to pay for it all. He had a wellness center in his house for those suffering and dying from HIV. He provided them with medicine, healthy food, nurses, doctors, and support people. The indefatigable John Entwistle led a team of activists in the house who were trying to legalize medical cannabis in San Francisco (it passed in 1992). John and Dennis eventually married many years later. Brownie Mary (an elderly lady who gave free cannabis brownies to AIDS patients) was there with her pot brownies on the weekends, and creative projects were gearing up for the pride parade in a few weeks. 

I suppose if I had been gay, I would’ve been in some kind of heaven. It felt pretty close to that for me because of all the joints I got to smoke, all the dinners I got to be a part of, and all the conversations I had with people coming and going all day long. The scene at Dennis Peron’s house was legendary; I could feel that every moment I was there. I knew there was hipstory being made and I was honored to plug into it for a couple of weeks. 

Being exposed to the gay mecca of San Francisco as a 21-year-old straight kid just out of a conservative college was one of the most disorienting and memorable experiences of my life. While it was uncomfortable at times, the freedom I felt in that house was something I wanted to feel for the rest of my life. Being under the influence of Dennis Peron helped make me the human being I am today. After I found my own place, I went over to Dennis’s house a few more times that summer. 

After a while, I learned to make a big entrance announcing, “Here comes the straight kid,” which would inevitably be followed by Dennis billowing across the room, “And you better not flaunt it!” And then they would burst out laughing and hand me a tray for joint rolling. “Now make yourself useful, DeAngelo,” they’d say. 

And so I did.