Marijuana Policy Project

Rhode Island, which I think is a small resort destination just off the North Carolina coast, legalized the sale of marijuana to sick folks last month.

The governor had vetoed the measure, while humming something about “higher than a kite can fly,” but the Rhode Island legislators, who prefer whiskey to marijuana, overrode the veto and then toasted themselves with Jack Daniels for their compassion.

Speaking of compassion (this column floats along seamlessly, sort of like a cloud of marijuana smoke), the most interesting part of the Rhode Island legislation is the provision that the marijuana be sold through licensed “compassion centers,” which apparently are more angelic than amoral, corporate CVS and Walgreen drug stores.

Dispensing of marijuana to the desperately ill, whatever one might think of the moral and criminal justice implications, is a niche business. I predict that before too long, the compassion centers will expand (three states now have them) and their business model will include dispensing not just marijuana, but “compassion” in all its many forms.

Consider that Hartford’s Mayor Eddie Perez could stagger on in to a compassion center, where he would be told (for a price), “Oh, Eddie, being a mayor is very hard and it’s not your fault that everyone is picking on you for doing favors for your buddies and having them do favors for you. Everything will be just fine.”

See? Mayor Eddie will walk out feeling like a new man.

And U.S. Sen. Chris Dodd could take a trip to a compassion center, where he will be assured that it’s not his fault (and certainly not his doing) that his wife has been elected or appointed or something to 863 different corporate boards of directors, because, after all, she is the best woman for the job and, besides, aren’t you the lucky one to be married to her.

See? Chris will have a new bounce in his step, after a healthy dose of compassion.

Once the compassion centers are settled in and have performed some market research, they’ll be able to offer package deals. For instance, the staff at the Old State House museum in Hartford, suffering from the crackerjack travel and tourism expertise that Hartford and Connecticut don’t bring to the table, needs a strong prescription for compassion, as they wait around to see if the plug is pulled and the museum is transformed into a nuclear power plant.

A local compassion center could probably unleash its entire staff on the public school teachers in Hartford, who are all disappointed and sad about a National Council on Teacher Quality Report that suggests the city’s teachers should work longer, take less sick time, and be evaluated much more strictly. And, oh, yes, the council also said that their mothers don’t dress them very pretty.

Problems and affliction and bad editors come in many different forms; the need for compassion products seems endless and immensely profitable.

The rowdy, noisy, well-armed patrons of The Mansion drinking emporium and fun palace on Hartford’s Ann Uccello Street (if I remember right, Ann was a local bartender who was very good at handing out compassion) need some serious compassion, because the tyrants at the state Department of Consumer Protection have shut the place down for violating city ordinances against having fun.

Some of you whose lives have been ruined by becoming accountants and auditors and stuff might wonder why anyone should pay for compassion when it is so readily available for free.

Voltaire had it right: "Le sens commun n’est pas si commun." Common sense is not so common. And neither is compassion.