Ninety Seven Need Not Be Boring

Took the day off of blogging and other projects yesterday, this bum back is a pain in all the wrong places! But I'm back now, somewhat rested and smelling like deep heating muscle rub...time to journey inside my head and figure out what Fifty Five means to me today.

Having not personally experienced the age of ninety seven, I don't really know how that will be. But I have hopes that it will be interesting, like it was for me in 1997...minus the federal incursion!

In January 1997, California's Compassionate Use Act (Prop 215) was first implemented in San Francisco officially at Dennis Peron's Cannabis Buyer's Club on 1444 Market Street. Dubbed the "Five Floor Felony" by the feds (there were actually six if you counted the basement), the club opened with lots of patients, press and potentates.

Having been involved in the Prop 215 campaign, the 1000 crane project and medical cannabis music, we were also at some of the meetings leading up to the event so Jack and I decided to go over to the club to see if we could help out.

Jack ended up helping at the front door. Dennis took me upstairs to the third floor bud bar, along with several of Dennis' regular staff.

See, even prior to Prop 215 passing, Dennis was helping qualified medical cannabis patients first (for a long time) at his apartment, then 194 Church Street, then finally 1444 Market Street. He'd also operated the Island Restaurant back in the mid '70s. This had been a cannabis friendly place where "regular folk" could rub shoulders with city officials and everyone could share ideas.

Anyway, there we were, knee deep in the hooplah! I'm sure the front door was just as crazy, but I can only speak from where I was standing...behind the bud bar along with three others, watching the line form as we waited on the medicine to come out from the back. It didn't take long, but nonetheless the line was about six deep by the time we started checking I.D.s and waiting on patients.

The press was a ton thick, too. I could hear the famous Nikon advancing motor as the reporters cameras flashed at our bud-tending every move. Some of us raised our arms and made false moves a couple of times just to take note that the press was, indeed, capturing our every move. Weird.

As simple dumb luck and location would have it, I served the first official patient that day...I was scared as hell, hoping my weighing skills (honed more in kitchens than on cannabis) were up to the challenge. Apparently they were.

The whole day was incredible...an endless stream of people, many in wheel chairs or on crutches, some with I.V. pics on their arms, some blind with caregiver assistants, senior citizens, people my age and some who, upon first glance may not have seemed disabled; but one look at their doctor's notes showed things like HIV/Aids, Wasting Syndrome, PTSD, fibromialgia, migrane headaches, etc. They'd been previously screened by our intake department (doctors called and verified) prior to being let up onto the floor so we knew they were legit.

That first day was only the beginning. Throughout the year, we helped thousands of patients, not only with access to their medicine but with things like food, shelter, mental health referrals and volunteer opportunities. During the holidays we served special meals and parties, on Friday nights we hosted the Third Floor Lounge where patients played music, we had Open Mic on Saturday nights.

I went from working at the Bud Bar to working at the Intake Department. While there, we transformed the department from a little crowded room to a comfortable "Intake Cafe" where potential patients could sit comfortably while filling out their paperwork or waiting for their approval. Then they moved me up to Dennis' office to be one of two secretaries. This is where I really learned about the Medical Cannabis Movement...in the front office, surrounded by incredible activists putting their own lives on the line for the sick and dying of California.

Geo, who had been Dennis' secretary already for quite some time, showed me the ropes and soon we were steaming ahead with press releases, articles, legislative proposals, archiving and scheduling. And believe me, at 115 to 150 people per week for staff that was a lot of scheduling!

One of my favorite memories of that first year was our Christmas Caroling at the Bureau of Narcotics Enforcement. We were sitting in the office one evening after a long 9 am to 9 pm day, and John Entwhistle came forth with a project. Let's write Cannabis Christmas songs, make a card and go sing in front of the BNE. Of course we were going to bring a gift as well...and what else? Cannabis Plants!

It was great fun, but also a very serious action. If there's one thing this group learned from the '60s it was that not everything has to be yelling and head bashing in a revolution. Personally I believe we made more headway and gained more public support by being simple and sincere.

That's not to say there were no hyjinks! While we were singing, the BNE folk barred the door. They wouldn't answer it when we knocked, wouldn't even accept our card and gifts! So we continued singing. John disappeared for a while, only to reappear on the roof of the BNE! We all looked up and applauded! It was great!

He managed to get back down, there must have been a fire escape in the back or something, and we left the card and gifts behind. We headed back to the Club and Dennis told everyone how things went.

Naturally there was some news coverage. Some of the staff watched it in Dennis' office, others on t.v.s scattered throughout the club. Everyone left that evening, singing bits from the Cannabis Christmas Carols...with titles like "It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Justice," "Oh Cannabis Tree," and "The Twelve Days of Hempmass" to warm the cockles of the patients' hearts (along with some medicine for over the holiday).

When I hit ninety seven, I'm hoping for some excitement, maybe it doesn't have to be on the level of constant federal scrutiny, living/working/breathing in a fishbowl atmosphere, but I sure wouldn't mind a little fire under my feet to keep me dancing!

So that's what Fifty-Five feels like for me today...let Fifty five be the new Ninety Seven, and let ninety seven be full of things to keep me busy and I wouldn't mind a few surprises!

Eight is Enough....or is it?

Today I had an MRI to see how arthritis is effecting my back. Anyone who has experienced one of these things knows the "joy" of laying perfectly still in a gigantic magnetic doughnut for 30 minutes while the gizzmo banged, whistled, whirred and tweeted. UGH!

But it did give me a chance to think about things, including the blog...and I ended up wandering back in time to 1963, when I was eight years old.

A lot went on that year...it started out very "up," very positive. All the cars looked cool, teenage girls wore their hair high and their skirts below the knee, teenage boys looked and acted a lot like Wally Cleever.

For the most part, childhood was childhood with winter and Christmas, summer and the 4th of July parade...everything seemed great, and we were heading for an equally great 1964.

November began with my brother Bob's birthday, followed in rapid succession with my mother's....we celebrated both events in true family style. We went to school and church and started getting ready for the holiday season.

November 22nd started off like any other day. It was a Friday, so we kids were in school. I remember being in the classroom, sitting at my desk near the back of a long, long aisle. This was back in the day when there were about 50 to 60 pupils, boys sat up front and girls in the back.

It was hard to see the black board. I had coke-bottle type glasses so you'd think somebody would relocate me to the front, or at least a little nearer. But no.
At least I had a window for daydreaming.

I was in the middle of this day dream when the principal's voice came over the room's loud speaker. I think it was toward the end of the day. Suddenly everyone was upset. I wasn't sure what I'd heard, other than something about President Kennedy.

The nuns made us say several prayers before dismissing us. Everyone was quiet
as the older kids started shepherding us younger kids down the halls and out onto the street. I wanted to ask for sure what happened. I forget who finally stopped and told me, it sent shivers up and down my (then non-arthritic) spine. The President had been hurt or shot or killed.

I remember stopping and just standing there for a moment. When I found my legs again, I just ran and ran and ran until I was home. I didn't want to be out in the world, didn't want to be anywhere. I went inside and saw my mother, eyes red with tears, hands grasping her rosary.

My parents have been staunch Republicans since anybody can remember, but they voted for Kennedy, and were planning on doing so again. Until a hale of bullets ended it all. They would never vote Democratic again.

By the end of the day, we had a new President. Mrs. Kennedy was pictured, still wearing her blood stained suit, standing near LBJ as he took the oath of office on the airplane.

After that day, nothing felt quite the same. Although only eight years old, I sensed the tide turning. The innocence and good times we'd experience up to that point were overshadowed by boogie men, conspiracies and violence.

JFK's funeral, days later, saw all eyes glued to the television set. Mother fell to her knees when she saw little John-John saluting his father's flag draped casket. My heart ached for her, for Mrs. Kennedy and for the country.

I wondered why this memory should break to the surface today. Maybe it had something to do with the MRI, all that magnetic force buzzing 'round my spine and cranium. But then, after thinking about it, I guess it does make sense.

I've been trying to understand what's going on politically these days...go figure. There was so much hope, so much positive energy as President Obama began his term. It didn't take long for the crapola to hit the oscillator, though. And look at where we are now.

The government, on both sides of the aisle, is a travesty. A circus. A political free-for-all. The press feeds this, again on both sides of the aisle. Pollsters say we Americans either do or don't want health care. It depends on which news station you watch. Well, my teeth are falling out and there is no more dental coverage for us legally disabled people. The choices we make aren't what do we want to eat tonight, but if we're going to eat or buy our prescriptions?

Looking at where we are today, I feel just about as insecure as I did back then when JFK was shot. The rug, floor boards and foundation are being dragged out from under us no matter which way we turn. It is nauseating.

So for today, Fifty Five, to me, feels like the new Eight because I've got the same vibe now as I did back then.....HUH?

Seventy Still Swings

Fifty Five the new Seventy...
or-
Is seventy the new fifty? Somebody said that to me recently, and they are probably right. Folks these days don't look like the ages posted on their drivers' licenses.

I remember as a kid I used to think that fifty was old and that seventy must be ancient. Little did I know I'd actually live long enough to get past the former and head toward the latter.

Aging is something you really don't think about until you wake up in the middle of it. You go to bed one night feeling, looking and acting like a 25 year old, then wake up next morning...older. Some folks are lucky, they don't get the gravitational shift on chin, boobs, arms, tummy and butt. Hmmmm...which planet do they call home?

Folks like me never were beauty queens, and in my case, aging hasn't exactly been complimentary. Oh well.

Maybe when I am seventy I'll have tucked a few things in, pushed a few other things up and moved several more things just plain off. Then again, probably not.

The seventy year olds I know are lively, and for the most part satisfied with who they are as people. They are concerned about things like health care, housing, what they are leaving their family. Some of them live full time in rvs, traveling around the country, always seeing something new.

That sounds like something I want to do, but I don't want to wait until seventy to do it. I want it now!

So for today, for the itchy feet longing to be on the road, fifty five will be the new seventy....on the road and still swinging!

Thirteen

The thrill of it all, 1968...
the music, art, poetry, fashion...all swirling around the idea of counter-culture, trippiness and doing one's thing. And there I was, thirteen years old, loving it.
Up until then, my strangeness was just that, strange. With the advent of all things Hippie and the Beatles "All You Need Is Love," I felt home at last.

Most days I could be found walking around with a guitar slung across my back or over my shoulder, not popular but not friendless either. I fit in with the nonspecific group of kids; too odd for the jocks and nerds not goofy enough for the avant guards. We made our own way.

I was still in Catholic School then, so were most of the kids I knew, but not all of them. There were a few kids in our neighborhood that went to Public school and even one, the hardware store owner's kid, who went to Jewish school. That was big news to me! I even snuck into a synagog with her a couple of times to see what it was all about and was amazed that, aside from the language and such it was a lot like going ot any other church service. And contrary to popular belief, the roof did not fall in on me, a non-believer, infultrating the ranks.

For the most part, my thirteenth year was not so bad...aside from the continued math problem. I had a sense that the world was my oyster and that someday, some way I was going to do something that mattered. At the time it was all about rock n roll, I was gonna be rich and famous. I played guitar, wrote, sang, did art work, learned anything I could about writing, singing, artwork and music. I did it every day.

I started going to a local "coffee house," held in the basement of a non-Catholic church. The place was great! Lots of rugs on the floor, tables made from electrical wire spools, metal foldng chairs and a few weary worn couches. Friday nights were my opportunity to mix with the older crowd.

I got involved more with the peace movement there. We went on marches, wrote letters, did what we could. We held parties for the guys who were drafted we'd either hold a party for them the night before they left for Vietnam, or Canada.
It was a strange kind of experience, participating in these activities usually reserved for people older than me and being treated as a peer, then going back out into my thirteen year old world-dumbing down as it were-to fit in.

For that entire year I don't recall any major depression episodes, no major breaks in time, nothing...just creativity. Artistically it was a good year

So for today, for steeping onesself in the muses, Fifty-five will be the new Thirteen. Now, back to the drawing board!

Fifty/Fifty for Fifty-Five

Been running late, like the Rabbit in Wonderland....everything seems like it's on slow down, which is a heck of a lot better than rushing around!

Anyway, better late than never....Fifty-Five-ishly figuring how to feel about the whole aging thing. Today, it's been a mixed bag feeling. Some of me is just plain tired physically, some of me wants to get up and shake a tail feather. What is one to do with these contradictions?

Today Fifty-five could be about 50/50, and no one would probably argue with me. Just been one of those days, so much so that it has stretched into the next morning. But would that be cheating? Would it be taking the easy way out? Hmmmm.

Now, I am excited about all the work we're doing on our videos and music. I'm setting up a separate blog or two about that and will add links and such. So there's the up side of the 50/50 equation.

I'd imagine some of the low-level part of the 50/50 business is being just plain tired...lots of physical work, long hours under bright lights....yo, maybe?

If this blog is about my feelings on the subject, then it has to include these so-so days. so For today Fifty-Five feels like 50/50. Some of me feels it some of me just plain doesn't. But as Scarlett O'Harah said in Gone With The Wind, "Tomorrow is another day." (and you thought I'd forgotten about the Oscars!)

Eighty-ish

Was unable to get to the blog until now...what could Fifty Five possibly mean at this hour of the day?

Well, I have been thinking of my mother a lot lately. She's starting to slow down a little at age 81. Her heart is experiencing some irregular beats, so they're putting her on blood thinners and other medications. But other than that, she's doing pretty good and is an inspiration to me.

When I was growing up, let's face it I wasn't the easiest kid to be raising. And my mom had a handful with five of us in that small row home! But she managed, along with dad, to provide for us.

The Generation Gap hit us, along with the Vietnam war, the Civil Rights movement, Modern Math and simple adolescent rebelliousness like a set of rapid-fire 40 footers off Mavericks! And none of us had ever surfed those waters before!

It was a rough crossing to say the least.

The thing that has sustained my mother through everything has been her faith.
Ever since I was knee high to a toadstool, Mom has been trying to teach us all about the power of prayer and everything. Now, we may have different belief systems per se, but I do agree that prayer works and that believing in something bigger than ones'self is a way to keep things in perspective...like, there are more important things in life than just my pet peeves!

I also admire my mother's dogged determination. Through the years she was called The Expediter, because she always managed to get things done. Her and Dad were an unstoppable team at their church...flipping hundreds of flapjacks and eggs for the weekly Sunday brunches, working on various committees...always there when needed.

Yes...we've had our moments while I was growing up, and most likely this blog will be privy to a few details, but not right now. Right now I want to pay tribute to my mother, in her eighties...When I hit that age I hope I can be like her, a little slower perhaps, but still able to bust a move.