When we were friends

Some have died. Too many. A High School Friend, knocked back by alcohol, claimed by Covid, I hadn’t seen in decades. No funeral due to the pandemic. We knew each other in high school but I ran with a different crowd, I thought I was all that, you know, how at 17 you can think you’re all that without knowing what that is and what you may become. A few years later, we partied together, were roommates at the beat-up house at the end of the street on the way to Newnan’s Lake in Gainesville. He had a car, shuttled the lot of us to Daytona to be with family and other old friends. On one summer trip the afternoon skies opened up as it does in Florida. We rounded a corner, the sheets of rain easing up, and came upon a rollover. Pickup lost control on rain-slick country road. Little metal cylinders rolled around the soggy pavement and two guys too young to drink legally scrambled to pick them up. One guy motioned for us to come over and said “take as many beers as you want” and we realized that dozen of cans of PBR were on the tarmac. “Take them – cops are coming!” He shoved an armful at me. I stared, and then heard the sirens. “Hurry!!” My Housemate and I shuttled back and forth to his car and we had quite a stash by the time the Sheriff arrived. We were asked if we were witnesses and we said no sir no sir we just happened by afterwards and wanted to help but we’ll be on our way now sir. And we were. Partied all weekend at the beach. My Roomie more than most but thought that was just the way he was so the days and weeks and years went on and I realized that My Friend would never let go of those PBRs and Jack and shrooms and whatever other mind-altering substance came his way. I went West with the woman who became my wife and there was a 25-year reunion at a beach hotel and I was with wife and two kids and My Old Roomie was sober, with a woman friend he had met at AA. Later, he was homeless, or so I heard. I didn’t check to see if that was true. I had my own problems – that’s what I told myself. His sister texted me to say My Classmate had died of Covid, had been sick at home for too long and it was too late by the time he was carted off to the hospital and died. No funeral due to Covid and now it’s been several years and his face swims into view when we talk about school chums, where are they now and so on. My wife and I have now returned to that beach town where we met and memories swirl around like skeeters on a July night. I can tell you one thing that is true: There was a time during my brief span on Earth when this man and I were friends. On this lonely planet, for a brief time, we were friends. That will have to do.

Finn Murphy’s “Rocky Mountain High” may give you a “Hemp Space” buzz

“Rocky Mountain High” reminds us of how we sat around a campfire everybody getting high on Colorado in the summer of ’72. John Denver’s melodic version of Aspen and the Roaring Fork Valley. Longhairs from all over stoned on this beautiful slice of paradise. I was there, a traveler from flat, muggy Florida. The air was sweet. So were the sights. The Rainbow Family gathered a few mountain ranges over. Longhairs clogged interstate on-ramps. Meanwhile, our parents’ generation was all in a dither, nervous about drugs and sex and rock’n’roll, nervous about the fate of their offspring.

We got jobs, married, and had kids that don’t listen to us. The marijuana that was such forbidden fruit then is now available at your corner dispensary in Colorado and many other states that aren’t Wyoming. The other cannabis sativa, hemp, grew into a commodity akin to oil, gas, and coal, subject to the same boom-and-bust cycles. Guys who looked like hedge-fund managers (they were) began showing up at farms along the Front Range asking where all the hemp was and did the farmers have any for sale?

If the present situation seems ripe for dark comedy, Finn Murphy spells it out in “Rocky Mountain High: A Tale of Boom and Bust in the New Wild West.” Murphy’s a Boomer, an enterprising capitalist and Ivy League grad from Connecticut. He sees hemp as they new big thing and moves to Boulder County, buys a 36-acre spread, and strolls out in his Wall Street suit to greet his rural neighbors.

It didn’t go well. There are some high times to celebrate but, as the reader knows from the subtitle, both boom and bust await Mr. Murphy and his colleagues in “The Hemp Space,” the countercultural term for this new business.

First, the boom. Hemp is a cannabis product that cannot register more than 0.3% of THC, so says the Colorado Department of Agriculture (and the one in Wyoming). The CDA inspects your crops, makes sure that you are not growing smokeable marijuana because that’s a whole other thing. That’s being grown a few fields over. Hemp is made into CBD among other products. CBD was a thing in the 2010s, the cure for every Boomer’s aching joints. CBD stores popped up on every corner. Many of us bought the overpriced oils, put drops under our tongues, rubbed it on aging body parts, and eagerly awaited the cure.

Murphy saw the promise of legal hemp. Over the decades, he had birthed and sold many businesses, some in areas he knew little about. In the book, he leads us through his decision-making process and into the growing, harvesting, and selling of the product. He thought the harvesting end would be the most lucrative. He told his neighbors (he calls them the “Weedwhackers” – and they shall remain nameless) he would harvest their crop and since nobody knew the costs of such a venture, agreed to settle up when the work was done.

Murphy spends way too much time telling us about the costs of this enterprise. But it is instructional. Farmers need farm implements to harvest fields of five-foot hemp trees. Murphy buys three big hoophouses in which to dry the hemp. They are $10,000 each. He later has to buy thousands of dollars of tools and equipment to erect the hoophouses. He spends more than the $150,000 he budgeted for equipment on bucking and trimming machines, fans, generators, and humidifiers. He hired a band of trimmigrants to do the tough and sticky work.

But it’s the author’s self-effacing humor and eye for life’s strange contradictions that kept me reading. He also knows how to keep the reader turning the page. He concludes the “Start Me Up” chapter this way:

We’d all be rich and happy. We agreed then and there on handshakes to go forward, and the room was awash with good fellowship and excitement.

My thought: This is really going to be bad, isn’t it?

And it was. Nobody died but the “fellowship” didn’t last.

Murphy’s first book is “The Long Haul,” also by Norton. It’s about his foray into the long-haul trucking business.

For information on the Wyoming “Hemp Space,” go to the Wyoming Hemp Association.

Night of the Widowmaker, ten years on

Ten years ago on these pages, I regaled my readers with stories of my heart attack. It was an exciting misadventure. Nobody in my family had heart issues and neither did I. I was struck down in the middle of a working day. The scientific name for my affliction is anterior ST-segment elevation myocardial infarction or STEMI. It’s commonly known as “The Widowmaker.”

I didn’t hear the term from a cardiologist until I was recovering in my hospital room. Such finality. It seemed so 19th century. "Night of the Widowmaker" could easily be the title of a thriller novel. Its shock value was too tempting for a storyteller to ignore. I used it hundreds of times in place of heart attack. When I took the time to describe it in detail, tossing in an encyclopedia of medical terms, I could see my listener’s attention begin to wane. Simply described, the left anterior descending (LAD) artery gets blocked by a clot or plaque and the heart reacts.

The signs are there should you pay attention. Chest pain, shortness of breath, excessive sweating, jaw pain. Mine was a belly ache. Since it happened during norovirus season, I figured I was getting ready to blow chunks and/or get the runs. I got neither. It was Dec, 17, 2012, and the eve of my birthday number 62. I might have to lay off the cake and ice cream. I was off work for two weeks so I could lie around and see what happened. After a week, I went to my GP and he thought I might have pneumonia so sent me for an X-ray. He had a perfectly good EKG machine out in the hall but that never entered into the conversation. The X-ray showed congestion and the doc prescribed an antibiotic and bed rest.

On Jan. 2, I headed to work but only made it as far as my front door. I couldn’t open it. I called my wife. She decided to come home and take me to the ER. When she arrived, she saw I was in pain so called 911. The EMTs got there quick, took my vitals, and said I was having heart failure. They bundled me onto a gurney and sped, sirens blaring, to the hospital. Tests and X-rays showed the heart attack and also congestive heart failure. Dr. Khan wanted to get me to surgery right away but held off because I couldn’t breathe. So he stashed me on the telemetry floor and prescribed Lasik to rid my body of fluids. The next day, I had an oblation which opened the LAD and I began to recover.

Then I started telling my story. My heart, left to its own devices for two weeks, lost some of its pumping power. They filled me full of drugs, sent me home with orders for several rounds of cardiotherapy. Six months later, I got the bad news that my heart had only partially recovered and that I was a prime candidate for Catastrophic heart failure. To avoid further drama, I needed an Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator or ICD. So I got one. Its battery eventually ran down, so this last Thursday, I got a new one.

The ICD lasts from 7-10 years. I pushed mine to the end so Medicare and my insurance company would agree to foot the bill. Medicare reimbursement for an ICD is 23 thousand and change. That doesn’t include hospital and physician and other associated fees. That will quickly eat up my deductible so my out-of-pocket costs will be manageable.

Someone with a heart condition shouldn’t have to worry about affordability. Someone with breast cancer – my wife – shouldn’t have to worry about treatment costs. My son and daughter, both with mental health and medical needs, shouldn’t have to up their angst to find affordable treatments. Alas, that’s where we are in 2023 in the United States of America.

Next time, I'll explore the status of my heart ten years on.

For some of my ruminations on the widowmaker, put "heart" in the blog's search bar.

420 Day in Wyoming feels a lot like Wednesday

Happy 420 Day. 

Stoners in Boulder, Colo., used to treat this day as a smoke-filled holiday, known for one of the biggest 420 fests in the U.S. Legalization arrived via the voters in 2012. There now are hundreds of  marijuana dispensaries in the first state to start selling legal recreational weed. 

Wyoming, on the other hand, well, Wyoming is Wyoming. It will be the last state to approve it. Meanwhile, liquor rules the land. Prohibition (1920-1933) was a joke in this state while the temperance types in Colorado got an early start by prohibiting booze in 1916. Ah, Colorado, our sober southern neighbor.

Bootleggers abounded in WYO border towns for thirsty Coloradoans, Utahans, Nebraskans, Dakotans, Montanans, and Idahoans. Moonshine was an export commodity long before fireworks and fresh-faced UW grads. You can visit museums around the state that feature well-preserved stills from the 1930s. Museum volunteers lecture school groups on the bad old days when everyone was stewed to the gills with illicit hooch. Look how far we’ve come! Wyoming has a huge alcohol abuse problem. It also had the second-highest number of teen drug arrests in 2016, topped only by neighbor South Dakota and a bit more than neighbor Nebraska. Here’s a recent headline from the Cowboy State Daily: “Fentanyl Deaths in Wyoming Increasing; Federal, State Officials Worried.” 

My drugs of choice these days tend to be heavy on the Zs: Prozac, Zyrtec, Mirtazapine, Zestril. This is what happens when you have depression, get carted away with a heart attack, and sneeze your head off from May through October. These meds are prescribed liberally by physicians and pharmacists. Drug company reps hand out free samples. They need to be used with care as they carry a list of side effects (some alarming) listed on the three-page printout you get with each prescription. Oxycontin and Fentanyl carry similar warnings which nobody reads.

I’m pleased that the medical establishment gives us info so we can make decisions about what to take and what to jettison. No such lists were issued with the recreation drugs of the 60s and 70s. Our parents knew nothing nor did any adult we depended on for advice which we readily ignored. I was thinking about this the other day. KUWR’s Wyoming Sounds’ Throwback Thursday featured Grady Kirkpatrick playing songs on the forbidden list issued by an Illinois state law enforcement agency in 1971. The songs allegedly encouraged the use of illegal drugs. They included PUFF THE MAGIC DRAGON (Peter, Paul, and Mary), HI-DE-HO (Blood, Sweat, and Tears) AND LUCY IN THE SKY WITH DIAMONDS (Beatles). 

The list was probably inspired by Nixon’s War on Drugs. "Puff" was targeted due to the fact that marijuana cigarettes needed to be puffed in 1971 (no edibles or ganja-infused beer). Too many puffs and you saw magic dragons. Lucy was obviously an abbreviation for LSD which, if you had the good stuff, you would definitely see magic dragons, sea nymphs, and Jesus. I have it on good authority that some frat boys saw our savior after imbibing too much Purple Jesus punch, a once-popular grain alcohol/Hawaiian Punch mixture.

I don’t get why “Hi-De-Ho” is on the banned list. Some lyrics:

Hi de ho

Hi de hi

Gonna get me a piece of the sky

Gonna get me some of that old sweet roll

Singing hi de hi de hi de hi de hooooo.

I looked up the song, originally sung by Dusty Springfield. I don’t see the drug references. Sure, some druggies may be reaching for a piece of sky. And stoners might satisfy a craving with sweet rolls such as the frisbee-sized concoctions served at Johnson’s Corner truck stop in Colorado. But it’s a stretch.

Hi-De-Ho was a phrase used liberally by Cab Calloway. He may have smoked weed as musicians seemed to like their drugs in the Roaring 20s and the Pretty Exciting but Impoverished 30s. The police noted that hip musicians tended to be African-American and their music was enjoyed mostly by jitterbugging minorities. Go to YouTube and watch jitterbugging clips. You could be stoned making those moves but I have my doubts. The fast-paced dance featured jittery music and lots of throwing around partners’ bodies. One false move and your date could end up a bleeding and broken thing on the bandstand.

The dances I remember from high school were not complicated but needed a bit of sobriety to carry off. The dances I remember from 1970s rock concerts were as groovy and free-flowing as a 20-minute Grateful Dead jam.

Hi-De-Ho.

Are those radishes growing out of your ears?

Last weekend, I had radish seeds in my ears.

It had nothing to do with hygiene or gardening. Instead, it's an extension of my acupuncture treatments.

My acupuncturist Savannah conducted a standard treatment Friday and then asked if I wanted to extend it over the weekend. No needles, she promised, but plenty of radish seeds. They are attached to tiny sticky pads. She put four of them on each ear. She said they have the same effect as the needles. I can gently massage them a few times each day to duplicate acupuncture. Thus far, I can't tell if they make a difference. Acupuncture itself is working, though, which is a pleasant surprise. 

I used to group all alternative medical treatments into the New Age Netherworld of crystals, aromatherapy, chanting. I always put my health care into the hands of the medical establishment. Its members had done a pretty good getting me to 68. I think of antibiotics, which may have saved my life multiple times in childhood. Those inoculations against smallpox, measles and polio. All the miracle drugs of the post-war period that kept a generation alive into obnoxious old age. Our children and grandchildren, too, whom we rely on to explain tech to us.

Minds can change.

I fell in the spring of 2018. A stupid fall, but aren't they all? Four days later, I had terrible back pain. A few days later, I experienced some trouble walking. First I needed a cane and soon after, I was using a walker. A month later, I underwent spinal surgery.

My problems were just beginning. Recovering from spinal surgery takes a long time. Sixteen months, so far. I recovered the feeling in my hands and right leg within a few months. The left leg was a problem. My balance was off and the nerves in my ankle and foot didn't respond to two rounds of physical therapy. I had hoped I could retire my walker by the beginning of this summer but that didn't happen. The bottom of my feet were numb and my toes, traumatized, so said my podiatrist. My bowels and bladder misbehaved and I developed a prostate infection. A urologist conducted some tests and prescribed some antibiotics and prostate pills. I found a new neurologist. She conducted some tests and diagnosed me with neuropathy. She did some blood tests and said she had no idea why I had neuropathy but it could be an outcome to my spinal surgery. She suggested I return to physical therapy, work out in the YMCA pool, and wear compression socks. She suggested that I change my diet and take food supplements with nerve-energizing properties.

I did all those things and still have trouble getting around. I decided to try something new. I contacted acupuncturists in Cheyenne and none of them accepted my private insurance. And forget about Medicare -- acupuncture not covered. I found a clinic in Fort Collins that does take CIGNA. I am five treatments in, and I'm beginning to make progress.

Which brings me back to the radish seeds. I haven't noticed much difference in my gait. But it's no worse. Next week, if the weather allows. I return to Fort Collins for more acupuncture and possibly an earseeds' recharge.

After 16 months letting traditional medicine have its way with me, I am open to all new venues. A writer friend in Louisiana said he was attended to by a witch doctor during a recent injury. He said her treatments helped. He also gave me her email. It's been tempting to contact her. I know up front that witch doctoring is not covered by Medicare. CIGNA, or other traditional health plans.

But who knows?

My eyes (and ears) have been opened to alternatives.

Part V: The Way Mike Worked -- Serving Fish 'n' Chips in Shrimp 'n' Grits Country

We called her Mom. She insisted. Never found out her real name. Her husband Tally called her "dear" or "hon" in the Southern way. She was younger than Tally by a decade or so, or so she seemed. Tally walked a limp that we thought came from the war, World War II, the one that all of our father's fought in. He said it came from a gunshot, a disagreement among bootleggers during Prohibition. We had no reason not to believe him.

We met at Long John Silver's Fish and Chips across from the University of South Carolina campus. Mom was the manager. She had replaced our first manager who had been skimming a bit off the top of the nightly deposit. One day he was our boss. And then he was gone.

In October of 1970, I was one of a half-dozen employees, mostly students, at this fast-food restaurant named for the fictional pirate in "Treasure Island." Color scheme was the brown of "a dead man's chest" and the gold of new doubloons. Everything was fried in vats of hot grease that was a shimmering gold when new and a dark brown when old and ready to be refreshed but it was almost quitting time and the day crew could do it. All of us wore grease-spatter splotches on our arms. Meals were served in cardboard replicas of a chest of gold. Sides were fries and hush puppies. Condiments were tartar sauce and malt vinegar that the Brits allegedly used on the fish and chips they bought at street corner vendors in London. My co-workers and I tried to cook up extra food at the end of the night so we could carry some home for late-night greasyspoon snacks.

Fish-and-chips were a new concept in the South. Some customers ordered and then wondered why they got fries instead of chips. We had to explain that in England, fries were called chips. The potatoes were a bit chunkier over there, not flat or curved or crispy, but they still were called chips.

After avoiding work and most of my classes my freshman year, I decided that I needed a job. I had premonitions of bad juju to come. I could read the tea leaves that we used in our sweet tea. I could divine the stars. I also could read the grade reports sent home by the university. I was on probation after a lackluster freshman year. I swore to the Navy ROTC unit's marine major that I was going to do better, really I was. He looked at my grades and the report of my lackluster performance on my first-year summer cruise. I had sailed to Guantanamo Bay and back on the USS John F. Kennedy. I had neglected my duties.

I did, however, distinguish myself during a 1970 Fourth of July weekend leave in D.C. when my BFF Pat and I rescued his younger sisters and grandmother from a stampeding crowd at the Honor America Day Concert at the Washington Monument. The riot wasn't a reaction to another sappy tune by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir or another joke by Bob Hope. But a cloud of tear gas launched to disperse the Yippie-sponsored smoke-in at the monument. Pat's and my quick action didn't save any lives but we were proud of it nonetheless. Too bad that didn't show up in my midshipman record. I might have received a medal. "For valor in rescuing civilians threatened by a cloud of tear gas fired on pot-smoking hippies." Something like that. Later, Pat and I and his older brother Mike smoked a joint and talked about what a weird night it was.

When I returned to Norfolk, just before our ship sailed to Cuba, I called my girlfriend and she broke up with me.

I was looking for a new girlfriend when I returned to campus in the fall. I had a crush on one of my fish-and-chips coworkers. Kaley was pretty, blonde and had a wicked sense of humor. She also had a boyfriend, a Vietnam vet named Tim whose hair got longer and shaggier every time he came to pick Kaley up from work. The duo invited me to a party one night. I hung around Kaley and Tim as I didn't know anyone and my short haircut fueled my paranoia and everyone else's, or so it seemed. Tim broke out a syringe and prepared it, junkie-style. He shot up Kaley and then held up the syringe for me. I was almost stoned enough to say yes. But I didn't. Tim proceeded to minister to himself. They were soon in la-la land and didn't notice as I slipped out of the house and walked several miles back to my dorm.

The U.S. Navy revoked my scholarship in January and I was on my own. I could finally grow my hair and major in English. I kept working at Long John Silver's. When spring sprang, Mom and Tally asked me to come to their house and mow the lawn. Mom would feed me lunch. I agreed. It was the first of many trips to their house. By summer, the mowing of the lawn was an ordeal, with sweat streaming off of me and me pining for AC and a cold drink. One afternoon, stunned by Carolina heat, I went into the house. Heading for the bathroom, I opened the wrong door into a bedroom. It had a single bed, a shelf with photos and football trophies. The photos showed a young man in football uniform, in graduation gown, in army uniform.

"Our son Tom." Startled, I turned to see Mom in the doorway. She wore a sad face, unusual for her. She walked in and stood next to me. She picked up the photo of her son in uniform. "Missing in action. Vietnam. We kept his room ready for him but he hasn't come back. Three years now. Our only child." She replaced the photo. "Lunch is ready." She walked out and I followed. Mom and Tally were the same talkative duo they always were. Now that I am an old man, I recognize the relentless nature of sorrow. Sometimes, small talk over lemonade and sandwiches with tomatoes fresh from the garden are the only things for it.

A few weeks later, a traveling circus troupe came to town with a batch of purple haze fresh from the octopus's garden. We had a wonderful time. The circus people left town but I found my jacked-up self in the campus cafeteria babbling over breakfast to a group of exchange students from Hong Kong. They were very polite. And then I was at the university infirmary, knocked down by thorazine.

At the end of USC's summer session, I ended my college career and quit my job as a fish-and-chips wrangler. I left town. My plan was to live at my parents' house and surf until I got drafted.

Flashback: How the LSD revolution almost came to Wyoming

Always on the lookout for mentions of Wyoming on the Internet. This one is a chapter in Wyoming counterculture history.

An Oct. 31 Westword story by Chris Walker was headed "Acid Trip: Denver's secret LSD labs fueled the psychedelic revolution."

It  tells the story of Tim Scully, LSD-maker in the 1960s. Scully spent time in a federal penitentiary for making and distributing LSD. He and his pals had two labs in Denver. They were discovered, but in a fluke, Scully didn't  serve time for his Mile High City transgressions. He later got busted in California and served hard time.

In November of 1967, Scully and his childhood friend and drug partner Don Douglas scouted the West for places safer than Berkeley, a counterculture hotbed in the sixties.

From the Westword article:

He convinced Douglas to join him on an interstate scouting trip. They managed to evade the feds and travel to Seattle, where they bought a used station wagon that they used to drive east through Washington into Idaho and Wyoming. The pair had envisioned setting up a lab in an extremely rural, isolated location, but they realized that wouldn’t work for two reasons. 

“In Wyoming, we learned that cowboys don’t like hippies. We stuck out like sore thumbs,” says Scully.  

The other reason? To run certain processes in the lab, they’d need plentiful supplies of dry ice — which were only available in big cities. So Douglas and Scully turned south, setting their sights on Denver.

The article doesn't mention just where in Wyoming cowboys hated hippies and there was a shortage of dry ice. Any guesses? Could be almost anywhere, I suppose. It must haven't occurred to the duo that two longhairs settling in any small town was sure to cause reactions from the populace, since nothing that happens in a small community goes unnoticed and gossiped about.

Small town resident #1: What do you suppose those two longhairs are doing in that house over on Elm Street?
Small town resident #2: Making some bitchin' batches of pure Orange Sunshine, most likely.
Small town resident #1: That's a relief. Thought they might be plotting the overthrow of the U.S. government.
Small town resident #2: That's the job of the John Birch Society. They meet over at the Grange Hall.

Hitchhikers cruising through Wyoming in the late 60s and early 70s heard stories of cowboys picking up a hitchhiker and taking him into Cheyenne for a mandatory haircut. I heard the story in 1972 when hitching rides in Wyoming. I also have heard the tale since moving to Cheyenne in 1991. It could be one of those Hitchhikers' Myths, kind of like Urban Myths but passed along by hitchers of yore. I heard many similar stories during my years on the road. Grisly murders in New Mexico. "Easy Rider"- style shootings in Georgia. Rapes and near-rapes everywhere.

I only experienced a few scary episodes, most in Nevada for some odd reason. Rural Nevada can be a lot like Wyoming, only hotter. .Rednecks are rednecks, I guess, but I got rides from some in my longhair days.

What a long, strange trip it's been....

A final note on LSD. Microdosing LSD is a hot topic. This from Business Insider:

LSD microdosing has emerged as Silicon Valley's favorite illegal drug habit, with engineers, programmers, writers, and artists sharing their stories of the practice in numerous blogs and outlets, including the New York Times. Many people say it improves their concentration or creativity; others say they use it to help treat symptoms of mental illnesses like depression and anxiety. 

And this:

Paul Austin, 27, bills himself as a professional microdosing coach. After personally experimenting with the regimen — which involves taking tiny, "sub-perceptual" doses of LSD or another psychedelic for up to 7 months — Austin said he was inspired to share what he learned with the world. He now offers 30-minute Skype microdosing "consulting" sessions for $127 through his website, The Third Wave

As a writer with depression, I may have to explore this further. Just as an academic exercise, of course.

Wish we were memorializing Prince in 2036 instead of 2016

Symbol for the opioid formerly known as Oxycodone.

News of Prince's death rocked music fans. I'm not a big Prince fan, but do admire his creativity. The soundtrack of my life is more Sgt. Pepper's than Purple Rain. I remember well Prince's videos airing on the early days of MTV. Remember music videos on Music TV? Yes, I thought that you would. A new public TV station in Boulder also aired music videos at night. That was Colorado Public Television Channel 12, which now is based in Denver's LoDo. I remember videos by Prince and Pat Benetar and the "Roly Poly Fish Heads" song by Barnes & Barnes and the late great band The Call with its subversive lyrics and sneaky Biblical references. I was thirtysomething then, and music videos were new and quirky. We talked about them at work. Didya see...? Yeah, weird, eh? Yeah. Weird, Weird, and cool. 

The videos have moved to the web. And Prince is gone. The most disturbing aspect of the tragedy are the allegations that he was hooked on opioids for pain. Prince spent his adult life dancing across stages. He jumped from platforms and did the splits, all while wearing his trademark high-heel shoes. When you get to be 57, no matter your physical prowess, gravity takes a toll. Prince had hip replacement surgery and back problems. What does a performer do about chronic pain? Painkillers. And Percocet offers some wonderful painkilling properties. Better living through chemistry, eh? Problem is, that opioid high is addicting and ya wanna keep poppin' those pills.

In the past year, I've undergone two knee replacement surgeries. Both times, my orthopedic doctor prescribed Percocet (Oxycodone + Acetaminophen) for pain. As the weeks passed, the doc weaned me from a higher dose to a smaller one and finally to none at all. A wise man, one who has written many prescriptions for opioids -- and has undoubtedly heard many pleas for more, sir, please, more. Pain sufferers can be a pain -- and very persuasive. No wonder the pills are handed out like candy.

Patient: Doc, I'm in terrible pain.

Doc: You are a terrible pain.

Patient: Trouble right here in Magic City, Doc. I need opioids and it rhymes with hemorrhoids and it stands for pool and...

Doc: Are you high?

Patient: High on life.

Doc: Here's a prescription for a gazillion Percocet.

Patient (kisses Doc's feet, backs slowly out the door):  You won't regret this Doc!

Doc: Yes I will. 

Since I began my personal experience with opioids, I have heard scores of blood-curdling stories about opioid abuse. Fatal overdoses, lost jobs, ruined marriages, etc. Addicts will do anything (and have) to get their hands on Oxy. When they can't, some turn to heroin. Thus the heroin epidemic in the hinterland.

What are our other options when pain haunts us? It would be nice to just say no, but it's not that easy when your body and your brain are working against you. Pain screams for relief. If you are lucky, the pain in only temporary. Knee and hip replacements heal over time and you feel almost as good as new, a return to the days when you only had a bit of knee pain. Aleve can soothe the ache after a Snowy Range hike. Sure, the commercials are annoying but that's a small price to pay for 24-hour pain relief! Caution: Aleve may cause nausea, light-headednesss, heartburn, dizziness, abdominal pain. But still better than Heroin P.M.

Medical marijuana is a hot issue in many states including Wyoming. Marijuana won't kill you. It may lead to harder stuff. But what if you are already taking the harder stuff in the form of opioids? Wouldn't pot be a welcome change from the fever dreams of opioids and the threat of addiction?

We don't yet know Prince's autopsy results.He may have died from a heart attack or an aneurysm. Both can kill quickly, especially if you are alone in an elevator and have no phone to call 911. In those circumstances, you can't always think straight -- or have enough time to dial for help.

Meanwhile, let the tributes roll on. Prince deserves it. I just wish we were giving him a posthumous send-off 20 years in the future.

Happy 420 Day to all of my friends and relatives in Colorado

Read the cover story at the Psychedelic Library.

Tomorrow, 04/20/14, is 420 day in Colorado. I only recently became aware that 420 was code for marijuana, pot, weed, ganja, reefer, cannabis, etc. It seems silly that a product with so many nicknames would also need one that was numbers only, but there you have it. The origin of the term is complicated. The answer seems to lie with a group of stoners who attended San Rafael High School in Marin County in 1970. You can read the story at 420 Magazine, the source for all things 420.

This only goes to show my advanced age. I was one of the first 12 million or so who had tried pot by Oct. 31, 1969, if one can believe stats in the esteemed Life Magazine (see above).

Public school kids turned on this Catholic school kid to demon weed (figures, doesn't it?). We all worked together at a combination pancake house and Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise in Daytona Beach, Fla. They asked me if I wanted to get high and go see a concert. Sure, I said, thinking we were going to get some adults to buy us booze and see one of the local rock groups play.

On our way to the concert, Ronnie took out his marijuana stash. He taught me how to smoke a joint. It was quite a ritual, one that spoke to my Catholic roots. I always enjoyed the ritual more than the high -- maybe that speaks volumes about my life. Once we were suitably stoned, we went to a club and saw a group called the Hour Glass in concert. Only later did I realize that these guys would become the Allman Brothers Band, they of "Live at Fillmore East" and the legend of Duane Allman. The Allmans had grown up in Daytona and attended Seabreeze High School, where my pot-smoking pals all went to school.

So now I was 17 and had tried pot. I thought it was pretty cool. It was a different high than Boone's Farm or beer. I liked it, but not enough to keep smoking. I was a jock, after all, and smoking anything was verboten, as was hanging out with hippies, surfing during basketball season, indulging in premarital sex, taking God's name in vain and coveting my neighbor's ass, which was pretty fine if I remember correctly.

My first two years of college, 1969-1971, are kind of a blur. I was trying to smoke as much pot as possible in order to remain firmly entrenched in the minds of the Life Magazine editorial staff, most of whom were the same age as my parents and equally clueless. And I continued smoking for some reason. By the late 1970s, I had left marijuana behind, realizing that it's tough to engage fully in an adult lifestyle while slackin' with Dr. Ganja. I had moved to Denver by then, the future capital city of the 420 legal pot crowd. Strangely enough, the drug of choice in Denver in 1979 was cocaine. Ah, there's a drug for you. A rush that blows off the top of your head and expensive as hell. One more likely to lead you to the pokey or the poor house than to nirvana. I even recall cheering to J.J. Cale as Red Rocks when he strummed into "Cocaine," which became a big hit for Eric Clapton whose own drug jones almost landed him in the morgue.

On Sunday, Denver celebrates "420 Day." I won't be there. It's Easter. I won't be hiding Easter eggs for the kids as they are all grown up now. Chris and I are cooking some steaks with tea totaling friends, so won't even be imbibing a Colorado craft beer or a California wine. Boring old age.

I have mixed feelings about legal pot. Both of my kids have had problems with drugs and alcohol. Both have been in treatment and are now clean and sober. One lives in Tucson and one in L.A., the latter not the best place for people with an inclination for drugs. But we hear now, this time from Al-Jazeera America, that heroin and other opiates are now a deadly plague in rural areas, notably Vermont, better known as the Portlandia of the east. I've known junkies, and don't care to again. Heroin was around when I was in college. Most of my friends had enough sense to avoid it. Even my friend Rick avoided smack, and he rarely met a drug he didn't like. He's now some sort of backwoods preacher in central Florida with a zillion kids. I was best man at his wedding back in the 1980s.

Wyoming won't legalize pot anytime soon. We like our booze, though. The Legislature just got around to banning open containers in vehicles a few sessions ago. And it wasn't without a huge debate about whether the ban applied just to the driver or all of the passengers. I remember fondly a decade ago pulling into  a liquor store drive-up in Sheridan County and ordering gin-and-tonics all around. We were off to a summer cowboy polo match and gin was the drug of choice. I wasn't driving, so I ordered two to go. That was the most fun I ever had at a cowboy polo match.

Happy 420 Day to all of my friends and relatives in Denver. Enjoy!

If you're interested, the Denver Post Cannabist blog has a list of 420 events. And Time mag has an article about the brouhaha in Denver over lighting up in public.

1972 Colorado: A flashback without the nostalgia

A few days ago, I mourned the loss of poet and poetry promoter Kurt Brown. His latest book was a look back at Aspen in its heyday, “Lost Sheep: Aspen’s Counterculture in the 1970s” (Conundrum Press, 2012).

All of us who lived here -- or travelled through -- in the late 1960s or early 1970s have vivid memories of Aspen and other Rocky Mountain hotspots such as Jackson, Boulder, Missoula and fabled Taos. Denver acted as a kind of way-station for coastal travellers, much as it did for miners after placer gold was discovered at the confluence of Cherry Creek and the South Platte. Much as it did for Jack Kerouac and Alan Ginsberg and other Beats as they made their mad motorized dashes between New York and San Francisco and back again.

In the 1970s, it seemed as it everyone knew someone with a rundown apartment or house in Denver's Capitol Hill. Those were heady pre-gentrification days, when you could live ten to a house and still have room left for hitchhikers from Florida. And a steady supply of pot, although other illicit drugs, some with nasty side-effects, were seeping into the mix. By legalizing pot, Colorado now is closing the circle on its Wild West Reefer Roots. Not a bad name for a roots band, eh?

The year 1972 was a heady one for Colorado. An iconoclastic Dem legislator, Dick Lamm, was pushing a bill to defund the 1976 Winter Olympics. It passed, causing apoplectic fits among the gasbags at the International Olympic Committee. Avant garde artist Christo was building the "Valley Curtain" in a canyon near Rifle, which caused fits among conservative gasbags on the Western Slope. Hunter S. Thompson was running for sheriff of Pitkin County on a platform to legalize marijuana.

Excitement was building for the first Rainbow Gathering in Granby. Here's how it's described on the Woodstock Museum's web site:

The Woodstock Festival of '69 inspired the 1st Rainbow Gathering, attracting tens of thousands to celebrate their connection to the earth and to each other. This historic, hippie gathering of 1972 was prophecied by Hopi, Sioux, Muskokee-Cree and other American Indian tribes. And they were there! Rainbow Gatherings continue today, all over the world. Always free!

The prophecy says that the great-great grandchildren of the white conqueror would grow their hair long and rebel against society, travel east and west, gather in the mountains under the symbol of the White Buffalo. They would dance, sing and chant in many tongues. Their symbol would be the dove. They would be Brothers and sisters to the Hopi, people of peace. They would come and go, yet be a sign to the Indian that the spirit is returning.

I'm always a bit dubious when hippies and New Agers declare an affinity with Native American spirituality. The Indians I know feel the same way. Just another aspect of their culture being ripped off.

But the Rainbow Family Gathering was a big deal. You have to remember that Colorado was not some sort of hippie paradise. The Front Range was made up of working cities and towns. Denver's growth had been fueled by an influx of World War II veterans who lived in suburbia and made a living in aerospace, real estate and assorted industries. Some of those veterans' children were growing up and hanging out in Capitol Hill and Boulder. The parents were pissed. At the same time, some of those Boomer kids were content to attend CU or DU or CSU, join a frat or sorority, and start looking for their own place in the society of suburbia. As is the case with most generations, we are not all cut from the same swatch of tie-dyed cloth.

Thousands worked at Colorado Ironworks in Pueblo. The same could be said for the big Samsonite and Gates Rubber Company plants in Denver. Colorado Springs was solidly a military town, seeds being planted for the born-again conservative insurgency yet to arrive from the coasts. Fort Collins was an Aggie town, living up to the whitewashed "A" emblazoned on the mountain above town. Greeley was a beef-packing town, with its sprawling Monfort plant and acres of corrals holding cattle destined for slaughter.

Boulder was a long way from becoming The People's Republic of Boulder. Businesses on The Hill posted signs prohibiting junkies from their premises. While all longhairs may have looked like junkies to some business owners, the town was experiencing an upsurge in heroin abuse and abuse of dumb-ass drugs like Quaaludes and speed. Acid trippers added another element. Most people dropped acid at concerts or at home or up in Gold Hill while communing with nature. But a number of burnt-out cases roamed Boulder and Aspen, as recounted in Kurt's book. They were byproducts of a counterculture that took prisoners in the form of druggies who never made it to the other side. I knew a few myself.

I wasn't one. I hitchhiked through the West that summer with my Boston girlfriend, Sharon. She wanted to be a nurse. I wanted to be a writer. Now free of any military commitment, I was out to see the world, or at least the USA. It was as crazy and free and fun and dangerous as The Beats said.

--To be continued--

Sending a thanks to Scott Myers, who writes the Go Into the Story blog for The Black List web site. His column about Kurt Brown included a link to my remembrance of Kurt. If you're a budding screenwriter, or even one that's in flower and has a backlog of scripts, TBL is the resource for you.

The Cardiac Chronicles: Every patient tells a story

I said farewell yesterday to my pals at Cardiac Rehab. This is my third and final stage of rehab. 

R has had multiple stents and an open heart surgery. Two weeks ago, just after getting home from a camping trip in Poudre Canyon, he went to the hospital with chest pain. Coronary embolism, said the docs, and kept him overnight for observation.

R has disabilities from Vietnam where he "zigged when he should have zagged." He's taking a new med that provides some interesting hallucinations. Yesterday he was playing cards with Mickey, Goofy and Donald Duck.

Everyone has a story.

D's heart has stents and she is now equipped with an Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator or ICD. It's never fired, which is good because it means she hasn't been hit with a catastrophic heart attack. Should that happen, she'll get buzzed back to life. As one hospital web site put it:

The ICD is working for you 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It is like having the paramedics with you at all times.

Looks as if I'll have lots of company once I get my ICD in July. Better alert my wife to expect guests. 

D told us a story as we warmed up. A friend had trouble breathing a few weeks ago. She went to the doctor. He conducted a few tests and diagnosed an advanced case of lung cancer. The woman died three days later. She was only in her fifties.

F was a Marine and is a diehard Denver Broncos fan. He wears a Marine cap to one session and an Orange Crush cap to the next. He was born in Mexico and grew up in the American Southwest. He joined the Marines to earn his citizenship. F recently moved to Cheyenne to be near family. Colorado Springs was getting too violent, he said. He carries around an oxygen canister from a lifetime of cigarettes.

M is like everybody's joke-telling uncle. He always wears a Harley or Sturgis T-shirt. J is recuperating from a stroke and arrives at exercise class pushing a wheeled walker. While he's in our class, his wife works out in the main gym.

I'm a lucky man and I know it.

Next week I go back to working out at the YMCA. I will be unsupervised by nurses and exercise physiologists for the first time in four months. The trick now will be finding the will to continue exercising when nobody will be checking me off on a list. Thing is, I have to exercise and keep exercising as if my life depended on it. In the year leading up to my heart attack, I swam every other day at the Y. I'd lost 40 pounds and was in great shape. That might have kept me from dying but it didn't prevent heart damage. Once I've recovered from my ICD surgery, I'll be back in the pool.

Today in Houston, my brother Dan is receiving his final dose of the atomic bomb of chemotherapy. It's designed to wipe out the remaining marrow cells so that on Wednesday, he can receive new marrow that will banish leukemia forever. When I talked to him on Thursday, he'd been very sick with the first treatment, sicker than he's been since treatment began last December. My sister Molly donated the marrow and she was sitting up with my sister Mary who had just had a third of a lung removed due to carcinoid cancer. They are all at the MD Anderson Hospital in Houston, the best cancer treatment center in the country. They are lucky too. They are getting the best treatment available. My brother has even volunteered as a test subject due to a wayward gene in his make-up.

I feel heartsick that my brother and sister have cancer and are in pain. I know what it means to have a sick heart. That said, I'm a lucky man.

"Good Night, Ryan:" Yet another Iraq veteran dies by his own hand

The film that accompanies Nicholas D. Kristof's New York Times story makes me incredibly sad -- and pisses me off. Why isn't more being done to take care of these young people that we send to war?

THERE’S a window into a tragedy within the American military: For every soldier killed on the battlefield this year, about 25 veterans are dying by their own hands.  

An American soldier dies every day and a half, on average, in Iraq or Afghanistan. Veterans kill themselves at a rate of one every 80 minutes. More than 6,500 veteran suicides are logged every year — more than the total number of soldiers killed in Afghanistan and Iraq combined since those wars began.

What hath Coke wrought?

Ol' Doc Pemberton offers up a serving of CoCola (Southern pronunciation) at the World of Coca Cola in Atlanta. I was taking a walk in the sun during a break in the Federation of Families for Children's Mental Health conference. One of the discussion topics has been the high incidence of drug and alcohol abuse among youth with mental health issues. Way back when, patent medicine was laced with coca and laudanum. Parents gave it too their kids for all kinds of reasons. Our heritage of abuse? My understanding is that the coke in Coke was replaced early on with caffeine, which is the drug of choice for most of us now.

Depressed? Get over it, cowboy!

Wyoming teens still engage in risky behavior.

That’s not really news for teens living anywhere or at any time. I must admit that I engaged in some risky behaviors as a lad. Lived to tell the tale and to lament the fact that we don’t seem to be making any progress on this front.

In its Kids Count report, the Annie E. Casey Foundation says this:

Wyoming’s death rate among people 15 to 19 years old, based on accidents, suicides, homicides and other causes, was 86 per 100,000. Only seven other states had a higher rate.

In 2000, Wyoming’s teen death rate was 81 per 100,000.

For our teens, things are getting worse, not better.

And this happening during boom times, a time of budget surpluses and increases in state spending on education and, to a certain extent, health care. This includes boosts in funding for mental health care, too.

So, if throwing money at a problem fixes it, we should all have happy and productive and living teens.

Some of us do not. In 2008, six percent of the state’s teens were not attending school and had not graduated from high school. That’s better than 2000 when that figure was 10 percent. Teen pregnancy is up. Fifty-one births were recorded in 2007 for every 1,000 females 15-19 years old. That was 42 per 1,000 in 2000.

Lots of bad news sprinkled with some good news.

These are more than boring stats for those of us with teen children. Our 17-year-old daughter Annie has engaged in some risky behavior. I’m sure that Chris and I know only some of it. The war on drugs has failed us and our country. Teens seem to get booze any time they want. Annie seems to know more high school drop-outs than kids still in school. There’s a batch of homeless teens in Cheyenne who roam from one friend’s house to another and occasionally sleep under bridges. One only has to wander through the mall to see our town’s array of teen mothers.

One could write a book on this subject, but someone else will have to do that. I just want to explore one factor that underlies all of these problems.

Wyoming.

A conservative state with a frontier mentality. If you live here, you get to enjoy some incredible scenery and outdoor activities. Peace and quiet and low crime rates. In exchange, you will be underpaid and have access to second-rate health care and third-rate amenities in the arts and culture. Mental health care is almost nonexistent. This is a state without a single child psychiatrist and only one drug and alcohol treatment center for teens. The reigning attitude is that you can tough it out, no matter what the “it” is? Drunk? Quit drinking. Depressed? Get over it, boy, and get to work. Suicidal? If you want to shoot yourself, please do it outside.

This is all tied in with the rugged individualism that made Wyoming great. That’s the myth, anyway. Our State Legislature actually spent time during the past session on an official code based on some pretend cowboy past. I blogged about during the session (http://hummingbirdminds.blogspot.com/2010/02/wyomings-new-code-of-west.html) and last spring http://hummingbirdminds.blogspot.com/2010/04/uw-panel-discusses-wyomings-new-code-of.html.

The Legislature is representative of Wyoming in that it is overwhelmingly Republican and more conservative that most of the Wyomingites I know. It has many more members from the ranching and agricultural fields than is represented in the population as a whole. The part-time Wyoming House and Senate should be made up of mainly of those from the extractive industries, tourism and government – local, state and federal. A columnist once postulated that if Wyoming had a logo that better represented its population, it would replace the bucking horse with a bureaucrat carrying a briefcase. Just imagine that image on state letterhead.

We hate gubment. We are the gubment. Wyomingites get more back in funding from Uncle Sam then they pay in taxes.

We hate gubment.

Back to our teenagers. We have some fine teens in this town. Smart, energetic, talented. In a few years, they’ll be of to college and exciting careers in places other than Wyoming. Some will had for the military, and still others for the oil patch.

Many others will be left behind. Pregnant at 16, or working fast-food jobs while something better opens up. Others will die while driving drunk.

And we’ll sit back, watch the unfolding chaos, and ponder the wonders of the Cowboy Code.

Tea Party vs. Marijuana Party -- high times in front of the Wyoming Capitol Building

On my way to lunch today, I walked into a smackdown between local Tea Party protesters and activists from the Marijuana Party.

Wasn't much of a smackdown. The Marijuana Party had reserved the space in front of the State Capitol Building in Cheyenne. The Tea Partiers arrived out of nowhere to urge Gov. Dave Freudenthal to join in the lawsuit by some state attorneys general to "nullify" health care reform. Gov Dave has already announced that Wyoming will not be a part of such a loony stunt.

"Nullify" is a popular term with the Tea Party crowd. They want to nullify some federal powers except the ones that fund useless foreign wars, huge pointless aircraft carriers, spy satellites, V.A. benefits, police and fire protection, pothole-free highways, the Border Patrol, dozens of anti-commie nukes in their silos outside Cheyenne, Social Security and Medicare. Other than those few things, they don't want gubment intruding into their lives.

The Marijuana Party advocates for access to medical marijuana. Its members were a lot younger than the Tea Party folks. One of them held up a sign that read "Cannabis medicine is a civil right." A few feet away, a Teabagger sported a sign that read "Nullify Healthcare -- Special Session Now." Sign included a swastika, of course. On the sign's other side was a "Ron Micheli for Governor" sticker. Micheli is a right-wing Republican from southwest Wyoming running for Gov.

Tensions rose when Highway Patrolmen (Capitol Security) and Cheyenne cops arrived to confront the Pot Party people about an information table that was blocking Tea party access to the Capitol. A Tea Party protestor was fuming that the Pot Party hippie had called him an "MF." I assumed that meant "Motherf****r." But it could have been "My Friend."

The Channel 13 and Channel 5 cameras were rolling. I expected a melee to break out, or at least a scuffle.

Much to my relief, Joe Hippie broke out a big bong and everyone had a hit of Cheyenne Green. Even the cops. Pretty soon we were all singing Kumbayaa. The teabaggers and the hippies and the cops pulled out their Glocks and fired celebratory rounds, bringing down an errant black helicopter in the process. Motorists honked their horns in celebration. Gov Dave declared Friday a Day of Forgiveness and Reconciliation.

Next week we'll get back to name-calling and nullification.

Hummingbird Mind: My son Kevin, the climber

To commemorate ADD/ADHD Awareness Week (Sept. 14-18), I offer this essay, "We Are Distracted," which in a slightly different form appeared in the 1996 book In Short: A Collection of Brief Creative Nonfiction, W.W. Norton, edited by Judith Kitchen and Mary Paumier Jones.)

I. WE ARE DISTRACTED

We are distracted by the agility of my eight-year-old son Kevin as he clambers up the slick granite rock formation near Rocky Mountain National Park. He is fifty feet above us; we are a bit frightened by the risks he takes, the way he clings like a human fly to the sides of the rock. We all look up and watch one of Kevin's handholds become a fingerhold and just when it's about to become a no-hold, he pushes off the rock with his feet, leaps a three-foot gap between spires, and wraps his arms tightly around the precious purchase he has made with this part of the Rockies.

We are like three slugs on a slab -- Kevin's classmate Freeman, his father Randy, and I. We lean against the cool rock surface of this six-million-year-old mountain and watch Kevin. We look up and Kevin never looks down. It would break his concentration, interrupt his communion with the rock, I think. To concentrate is everything for Kevin. He can't do it for extended periods of time unless he is under the influence of Ritalin, a drug that helps him control his hyperactivity-inspired impulsiveness. Right now as he climbs toward the sharp blue Colorado sky, the Ritalin, a central nervous system stimulant, is working on my son's brain stem arousal system causing to not be aroused. Medical researchers are not sure why a stimulant has the opposite effect on hyperactive kids. Says the 1994 Physician's Desk Reference: There is no "specific evidence which clearly establishes the mechanism whereby Ritalin produces its mental and behavioral effects on children, nor conclusive evidence regarding how these effects relate to the condition of the central nervous system."

II. HYPER/ACTIVE

When Kevin is in the classroom and a bird flies to a branch on a tree across the street, he will stop everything and look at the bird. A whispered comment at the opposite end of the classroom might as well be a sonic boom. If he is surrounded by too much energy in his orbit, he absorbs the energy. It sometimes causes him to twist and whirl and slam into his playmates; not so much now as when he was toddler and his way of playing was FULL BODY CONTACT. Slam, bam - and there was suddenly a kid crying, one nonplused Kevin and usually a very pissed-off parent, who soon would be in my face, asking me why I didn't control my son on the playground because he was really going to hurt someone someday.

III. NAMES, ALPHABETS, NAMES

Physicians have been prescribing Ritalin (a.k.a. methylphenidate) for more than 30 years for a condition that has been known as Minimal Brain Damage (MBD), Minimal Brain Dysfunction in Children (MBDC), Attention deficit Disorder (ADD), and ADD with Hyperactivity (ADHD). If some progressive therapists and groups such as CHADD (Children and Adults with Attention Deficit Disorder) have their way, the official designation may one day be changed to Attention Deficit Syndrome with hyperactivity (ADHS). This alphabet soup can be confusing. Once, on his first day at a new school, my son announced in front of the class that he had ADHD. The next day, several very nervous parents called the school, concerned about the new student who had AIDS. Being a "hyper" kid turns you into one type or pariah; AIDS carriers get special mistreatment. It was weeks before the confusion was straightened out. But the impression had been made. Kevin was different; different is bad.

IV. SOME THEORIES

Some critics, such as noted psychiatrist Peter R. Breggin, regard ADD/ADHD as chimeras, non-conditions, a conspiracy by the entrenched psychiatric establishment to dose our children with drugs. "Just Say No To Ritalin!" could be their battle cry.Thom Hartmann published the 1993 book Attention Deficit Disorder: A Different Perspective." He once summed up his book this way: "If you lived 10,000 years ago, before the agricultural revolution, and were part of a hunting society, then the ability to have an 'open, highly distractible' state of mind would be an asset. Walking through the woods/jungle, if you didn't notice that flash of light out of the corner of your eye, you may miss either the bunny which is lunch, or get eaten by a tiger."

Hartmann surmises that the ADD hunters were survivors and their DNA went into the gene pool. "Modern people with ADD are those with leftover 'hunter' genes."

There are a few problems with the theory. Since impulsiveness is one of the hallmarks of ADD and ADHD, isn't it likely that the hunter with hyperactivity might charge headlong into a herd of charging mastodons without considering the consequences? Maybe he would neglect to tread carefully in saber-tooth tiger country?

V. CONTRAINDICATIONS

The pharmacist always gives me a yellow sheet with Kevin's Ritalin prescription. Under "Side Effects" it reads: "Decreased appetite; stomach ache; difficulty falling asleep; headache." Under "Cautions:" DO NOT DRIVE, OPERATE MACHINERY, OR DO ANYTHING ELSE that might be dangerous until you know how you react to this medicine." It says nothing about rock climbing, although you might infer that it comes under "dangerous," or at least, risky.

VI. TO FALL...

Kevin never has fallen. When he was two, he climbed the highest trees in the park near our Denver home. Fifty-foot-tall pines and spruces. The first time he did this, her looked down at me and said, "You worried, Daddy?"

"Yes," I said, which seemed to please him.

So what if he falls? Randy, Freeman, and I watch him climb and this occurs to them because Randy says, "Does this worry you?"

"Yes," I say, "it worries me." And it thrills me too. I've seen him all alone on the playground because the mothers won't let their kids near him. I've seen him mark time in his room, usually because he's been restricted in some way because he's had trouble at home or on the school bus or on the playground.

VII. TO FLY...

Do rock climbers dream about falling or of flying? Do hyperactive kids dream of solitude on a granite mountain? Or do they dream of this: dancing and laughing, surrounded by friends, the mountains a distant mirage?

From the author: This was written 16 years ago, when my son Kevin was eight. At 24, he's a college student in Arizona, doing his own thing.

The Fourth of July Honor America Smoke-In and Gas-In -- not exactly Woodstock

I missed Woodstock. I had to work. Some surfer friends invited me to drive the 900-some miles with them to a field in upstate New York. They didn't have tickets but didn't see it as a problem. "Hendrix's going to be there, man -- and Santana!" I'd need money for gas and food. Take off a week from work. Sounded tempting, but I said no.

Class of 1969, working to pay for college. I had a ROTC scholarship but I still needed spending money. I needed clothes, too, because the ones I had bought over the preceding months had terminal smoke damage from the fire that burnt half of our house and infused the rest with clouds of smoke. I wanted to spend more time with my girlfriend before we headed off to separate colleges. I wanted to get in some storm surfing, too, as August can bring some big waves to Daytona. I was a hard-working lad, looking ahead with bright eyes and a sense of purpose -- with a bit of fear lurking in the background.

Over the next decade, I went to plenty of small music festivals and lots of concerts. I saw "Woodstock" the movie numerous times. I felt a twinge of regret that I didn't cast fate to the wind and just go. As it turns out, I missed so many of key cultural events of the 1960s and 1970s. I wasn't at Altamont, either. Don't hear too many Baby Boomers waxing nostalgic about that one. I never got to see Janis or Jimmy in concert, but I did see Woodstock performers Canned Heat and John Sebastian. Sebastian was on a concert bill with the Edgar Winter Group, which seems an odd match-up. Maybe that bad juju caused the riot that night at the Orlando Sports Stadium. That, and a group of people climbing the stadium fences to get in for free. We got tear-gassed and two of my friends -- including the driver of our concert vehicle -- were thrown in the slammer. We hitched a ride to the county jail and got the keys from Rick and got home around dawn.

Not exactly Woodstock.

I was tear-gassed at another concert. This was the "Honor America" concert during Fourth of July weekend 1970 on the National Mall in D.C. Paul from Notre Dame and I were on leave from our summer ROTC cruise and hitched from Norfolk to D.C., where both of us had college friends. Our original destination was the Atlanta Pop Festival, but we decided it was too far to go and, in D.C., there was a girl waiting for Paul. So D.C. it was.

Paul went to Alexandria, and I stayed with my friend Pat and his big Catholic family in northwest D.C. Pat and his brother and sisters and parents and grandma all went to the National Mall for the concert. Meanwhile, over the the Washington Monument, hippies were staging a smoke-in. As we settled in to enjoy the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, pray with Billy Graham and hear quips from Bob Hope, Pat and I thought we could smell the smoke drifting over from the monument. That's probably because we both were stoned, having earlier staged a much smaller smoke-in behind Pat's garage.

The crowd for "Honor America" was heavy on families. Who wouldn't enjoy the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and fireworks on the National Mall? We were all having a grand time until the tear gas arrived. Pat and I had been right -- prevailing winds had caused the smoke from the smoke-in to drift over to our crowd. That pissed off the cops and they dispersed the smokers with clouds of tear gas which immediately inundated us. Not too many of the Honor American crowd had been tear-gassed. Pat and I had the benefit of multiple gassings that spring during post-Kent State riots at University of South Carolina. We told Pat's family members to put a cloth over their faces. "Don't run," Pat said. "It only makes it worse."

They ran. Pat and I grabbed his grandma and guided her slowly back to the car. She was having difficulty breathing. You could see panic and tears on the faces of the escaping concert-goers. Later, over a joint with Pat and his brother, we laughed about it. "Welcome to the Fourth of July Honor America Smoke-In and Gas-In." "Our parents warned us about going to those concerts."

Not exactly Woodstock.

Not every concert ended in tear gas. In 1976 in Gainesville, I saw the wonderful Rolling Thunder Review tour with Dylan and Joan Baez and Roger McGuinn and Kinky Friedman. I was at the Eagles Hotel California concert outside in a different stadium in Orlando. I saw Arlo Guthrie and Pete Seeger at Red Rocks outside Denver in 1972 during a hitchhiking trip around the U.S. That same summer, I saw Quicksilver Messenger Service in Berkeley. I was at three Allman Brothers concerts with the original members, including the amazing Duane Allman.

None of them were Woodstock. But so what? I had fun at most of them. As for the rest -- they make great stories to tell our kids and grand-kids when they ask: "Dad (Grandpa) -- were you at Woodstock?"

Not at Woodstock, I say, but do I have some stories for you.

Spring break trip to DAM

I like this photo for the angles and edges and shadows -- and I'm not talking about those tiny people looking at us. The human subjects (left to right) are Chris, my wife; Annie, my daughter; and Brandon, Annie's friend. We were gathered outside the Denver Art Museum before spending the day inside. The DAM roof is under construction (note workers dangling from ropes on the slanted roof in the background). The entranceway is covered with multicolored plastic sheeting with instuctions pointing out the way to out-of-towners. On the far right side of the pic is a massive sculpture that can be dark and foreboding if you face it with foreboding on a dark winter day. It seemed slightly playful the day we were there. Also, out out of the picture on the right was a trio of stoners who were laughing hysterically. Maybe they were laughing at the sculpture, but I prefer to think they were laughing with it. Later, one detached himself from the group and wandered over to bum a cigarette. I began to deliver my standard "smoking is bad for you" routine, when the kid held up his hand and said: "I don't need no lectures, man. I just need a cigarette." I told him that Chris and I quit smoking 25 years ago when Chris was pregnant with our son. He sighed in disgust and wandered away. I'll have to remember how boring my lectures are next time I'm confronted by a big city cigarette moocher or panhandler.

Dear Wyoming Reps: Don't waiver on mental health legislation

Here's the text of a letter I e-mailed to Rep. Keith Gingery, R-Jackson, supporting his stance on increased funding for mental health care and substance abuse treatment. I copied it to my representative, Lori Millin, D-Cheyenne, in the hopes that they can work together and keep Wyoming from backsliding on this issue. While the Legislature commences Tuesday, there's still time to contact your rep on this issue. For background info, see my previous posts on this issue.

Here's the letter:

Dear Rep. Gingery:

Thank you for your outspoken stance on increasing support for mental health and substance abuse programs in Wyoming.

I speak as a parent whose son Kevin spent a year in a drug treatment center 2,000 miles away because there was no place to send him in Wyoming. He was 17 at the time, and now is 23 with six years of sobriety in A.A. He goes to school in Arizona.

Our daughter Annie just finished a five-month stay at Wyoming Behavioral Institute in Casper. She was being treated for bipolar disorder. Before WBI, she spent six months at Mountain Crest Hospital in Fort Collins, Colo. Treatment costs were very high, and we would not have been able to afford it with my State of Wyoming health insurance. The Great West plan paid for approximately six weeks of in-patient mental health care. It's possible that the Mental Health Parity Legislation that passed Congress late in 2008 will provide some relief to families with mental health care challenges.

How did we afford our daughter's treatment? The Children's Mental Health Waiver funded by Medicaid through the Wyoming Department of Health. It also helps pay for an after-care program. It took some research and a bit of paperwork to get into this program, but it was well worth it.

Let's keep funding these programs. And find ways to keep our kids closer to home when they need treatment.

Thanks for all you do on behalf of Wyoming families.

Sincerely,
Michael Shay, Cheyenne

P.S.: I'm forwarding a copy of this e-mail to my state representative, Lori Millin, who's been very supportive of health-care legislation.

Rep. Gingery to legislators: pass mental health funding bills

Rep. Keith Gingery, R-Jackson, urges his fellow legislators to "continue to fund changes in its mental health and substance abuse treatment system to keep it from backsliding into being one of the worst in the nation," according to an AP story.

"People come first," Rep. Keith Gingery, R-Jackson, said. "We have to make them the highest priority."

Gingery is co-chairman of the Legislature's Select Committee on Mental Health and Substance Abuse Services. The committee is proposing legislation to spend $14.2 million to continue fixing what had been a dysfunctional mental health and substance abuse treatment system. Gingery expects supporters will have to work hard to ensure that the money will be appropriated in the legislative session that begins Jan. 13. Lawmakers expect to have fewer dollars than in the past few years for new expenditures.

Gingery said Wyoming has gone from having one of the worst mental health and substance abuse treatment programs to one of the best.That's because of increased funding since 2005, he said, that has allowed the state to overhaul the system and move toward a regional delivery system.

The bill calls for $700,000 for early intervention with preschoolers; $260,000 toward a group home for those with mental illness; $3 million toward crisis stabilization programs in five regions around the state, allowing for someone who is suffering from a mental health emergency to receive treatment near home rather than at the State Hospital in Evanston; $3.6 million toward treatment programs in four regions for people who have both mental illness and substance abuse problems; $3.1 million toward raising salaries for mental health and substance abuse treatment providers; $3.5 million toward adult acute psychiatric care in a hospital in each of five regions.

Meanwhile, Gov Dave told agency directors today to prepare for 5 percent cuts in their budgets for the next fiscal year that begins July 1. That can mean steep cuts in the very programs that Rep. Gingery wants to improve. State funding for Medicaid programs could suffer big cuts.

Dr. Brent Sherard, director of the Wyo. Dept. of Health, said his agency will look for ways to trim costs with improved efficiency. But some reductions in state spending on Medicaid, the state-federal health program for the poor, will be required.

"We would need to do some close scrutiny to make sure those cuts had as little impact on our Medicaid clients as possible," Sherard said.

But Medicaid funding is not just for "programs for the poor." Many middle class families need Medicaid assistance during emergencies. And the Dept. of Health's Children's Medicaid Waiver program has helped many families (including ours) with mental health care for children and teens. It would be a travesty to cut those programs when they are just beginning to have an impact.

Support Rep. Gingery in his quest to improve mental health care in Wyoming. Send him an e-mail of support at kgingery@wyoming.com