Our mistake, in retrospect, is as glaring as the ballast in a thousand-watt grow light: We figured you all had inhaled enough Humboldt hints — the fertilizer ads promising “enormous buds,” the billboards touting “higher yields,” heck, the print ads in our own pages — that you’d cotton to the irony in those quotation marks. “Garden supply.”
Nu-huh-hudge. Winkily wink.
Such are the effects of living in a region where the No. 1 industry dare not speak its own name. Innumerable local businesses got their, shall we say, seed money from our illicit botanical bounty, and over the years a host of support industries have — cough — cropped up. And I’m not just talking about the head shops and dispensaries. I mean the doctors dealing 215 cards; the lawyers getting paid in cash; the restaurant serving gouda-bacon French fries