Cronic Life: The Camarena Story

I’m a Denver-born, border-bred, and promoter of the best plant on the planet. Run my name and you’ll see a rap sheet longer than a Colorado winter, every charge stamped “marijuana” going back to the ’90s. Mary Jane and I have been ride-or-die through smuggling, being tortured, raids, planted evidence, and dirty cops trying to frame me. They called it poison, I called it medicine. This is how the same herb that once put me behind bars has built me an empire.

At the age of 12, my mother became ill, and I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle in Palomas, Mexico—a small border town west of Juarez. My uncle, a respected businessman who owned a cattle export business, stores, and bars, he became the father figure I never had. He worked me hard, treated me like one of his workers, but it laid the foundation for the work ethic that guides me to this day.

While living in Mexico, I crossed the border on a school bus to attend school in the United States. Over time I started ditching class to run around with my skater friends. Some smoked weed, but I stayed away from it because I knew my uncle would whoop my ass if he ever caught me smoking. One day I was tending to the cattle behind the ranch house, and there was a bodega I was never allowed to enter. Curiosity pulled me in, and under a tarp I found a ton of weed stacked like bricks of gold, that moment planted a seed in me.

After crossing the border so many times, I noticed there were certain days the bus went through without customs checks. I started sneaking a couple buds across the border in my shoe for my friends. Before long, I went from smuggling grams to smuggling pounds over the border on the school bus.

At fourteen I moved back to Denver with my mom, but I would constantly be traveling back and forth to Mexico to visit my family. Being in Mexico could sometimes be dangerous and I learned that firsthand at fifteen, when a friend and I were smoking a joint outside a Quinceañera in Chihuahua. The sheriff rolled up on us, threw us in the back of a Suburban, and hauled us to jail. They demanded to know where the weed came from. When I said we found it, they dunked our heads in a bin of water until we could barely breathe. Only after several rounds did they finally believe us. They still beat us, stripped us, handcuffed us back-to-back, and left us in a freezing jail cell for the night. My uncle bailed us out the next morning—and the cops who roughed us up later learned the hard way that they had messed with the wrong guys.

By age twenty-five, I was bringing in tons of weed from Mexico. In 2001 I was caught in Pueblo, Colorado, with 100 pounds of brick sinsemilla after one of my drivers got cold feet and I had to drive. The judge wanted to give me five years for “bringing poison into his county.” I bonded out, stood out of trouble, got a nine-to-five, and enrolled in college for graphic design and digital arts. When it came time for sentencing, the progress that I had made impressed the judge so much that he reduced my sentence to three years.

After serving my time, I moved to El Paso to take care of my father. I finished my associate degree and—despite being on parole—still crossed the border regularly to visit family and handle business. A couple of years later, in 2005, I was busted in Denver with another shipment. And because I was on parole, I was facing 8–12 years. The cops beat me down when I refused their search, they broke my nose, choked me out, and I woke up in an ambulance on my way to the hospital. I ended up beating that case on illegal search and seizure, and luckily my parole officer in El Paso never found out about it, otherwise he would have violated me and sent me back to jail.

In 2006 I got caught up again, this time in Juarez, Mexico—and trust me, that’s not a place you want to be locked up. They gave my cousin 10 years in Cereso for a couple of tons. I prayed my way out of that situation and made a promise to God that I’d leave the illegal weed game behind forever if he just saved me. He did, and I kept my promise. I moved back to Denver, went straight, opened up a marketing company, and stayed out of Mexico. A year later, the Sinaloa Cartel unleashed war across Chihuahua and I lost a lot of friends and family, luckily, I wasn’t amongst them, God bless the dead.

Then came 2010. Colorado legalized medical marijuana, dispensaries were blossoming everywhere, and I couldn’t believe my eyes, after all I’ve been through, it’s finally legalized! My degree in graphic design was about to serve its purpose and that’s when I created Cronic Lifestyle Magazine. I felt my calling again and it felt like destiny. If I’d never been caught with those 100 pounds, I would’ve never gone to college, and I would never have started my magazine.

The magazine opened many doors. I built a massive network with dispensaries, and launched Ganja Genie, a weed distribution company. I opened Cronic Consulting, a clinic where patients received medical marijuana recommendations. The green rush was exploding, and I was determined to ride the wave legally this time. When Colorado passed Amendment 64 in 2012, recreational legalization changed the entire landscape. But my felonies prevented me from getting a dispensary license. That injustice still fuels me today—felons built this industry, yet many are still barred from benefiting from it.

Still, you can’t keep a good man down. So I opened up Cronic Life, a headshop where after purchasing a pipe you received free weed—legal under Colorado’s gifting laws. For more than three years it thrived. Even when cops raided my shop, all they could do is give me a ticket for marijuana consumption. That raid led to an idea: a legal smoking lounge. Since state law prohibited consumption inside businesses, I bought a 40-foot party bus, wrapped it like a giant joint, and called it The Rollin’ Joint—Denver’s first mobile smoking lounge. It became a staple at events, concerts, and tours throughout the city.

By 2016, Cronic became a national publication, since then I’ve had Redman, Kid Frost and Tommy Chong on the cover. I expanded to Miami, where we hosted yacht parties, connected with the local scene, and pushed cannabis legalization forward. Funny how ten years later, Florida’s still dragging their feet on recreational use!

In 2018, when Mexico’s Supreme Court ruled in favor of personal constitutional cannabis rights, I launched Verde Vida, the first Spanish medical marijuana magazine in Mexico, along with my CBD line Salud CBD, debuting both in Mexico City in 2019. The recreational industry did not evolve the way I had hoped, and it’s because everything is so controlled by the cartel that no one is allowed the opportunity to make money.

Then came 2020. Despite being a legal business owner with legal weed and documentation, Denver police seized my property, jailed me, and falsely charged me with felony distribution. I beat the case of course, but what followed was a series of targeted encounters by dirty undercover cops—raids, unwarranted stops, surveillance, even my Escalade being stolen, “found,” and allegedly loaded with meth, just to try and frame me. If not for a dealership owner who trusted me enough to warn me, I might not be here telling you this story.

I’ve been through some stuff, most I can’t even speak on, but I’ve paid for my past. I have fought for legalization through my magazine and my journey has been blessed. I stood in the streets of Denver’s capital every 4/20, pushing for the freedoms people enjoy today. I’ve built businesses, helped my community, and dedicated my life to this plant. I’m very thankful to God that I’m still here—still promoting his sacred herb for the healing of the nations!

I’m grateful to be apart of such an amazing industry, we’ve all had a hand in creating it in one form or another. I’m proud to say the magazine is now expanding into Mexico, Colombia, Australia, and Germany. I just came out with a cannabis terpene infused Tequila called “Malverde” so when you see me, you know we’re taking shots! And after all my efforts down South, I’m finally opening the first licensed dispensary in Juarez, Mexico called Cronic Life! Like I said, they can’t keep a good man down!

By JC