I can see why pharmaceutical companies don’t want marijuana legalized. Take a $4 blood pressure pill with a glass of grapefruit juice, and you might get the effects of $1.75 of that medicine. Wow, with a whopping 47% of medicine ineffectiveness, it seems like a giant waste of money for a product that won’t do you any good if you eat certain foods or drink some juices. Continue reading
When a friend asked me to write a post for the launch of MJ Moms, sharing my “mommy POV” on the latest happenings in Washington state and across the country on the subject of marijuana legalization as it relates to our children, I found myself going back in time to when my 8 year old son asked me if I ever smoked pot. What was I to say? To admit at the time I had smoked what was considered an illegal substance was worrisome, as I did not want my son to model my behavior down the road. So I did what any loving mother would do – I denied it.
A few years later at 12 years of age, he popped the question again. This time I thought of President Clinton’s, “I smoked marijuana, but I didn’t inhale “ comment and responded to my son with something I felt was acceptable “I tried it… but didn’t like it.” Now he’s 16, living in the state of Washington where marijuana is legal – and I’m waiting for the inevitable question to be asked again.
But this time things are different. He’s older, more mature and much more exposed to alcohol and drugs through his social circles and the media. Yet admitting to this after so many years of denying it…put’s me in an uncomfortable situation. What’s a mother to do…?
My relationship with MJ has been my little secret for a long time. Just like there are secret eaters (like my mother, who would sit at the dinner table ingesting small portions of leafy greens with a “look at me, I’m eating healthy” smile on her face, only to find her late in the evening face planted in a pint of Ben and Jerry’s). Or the secret shoppers (you know who you are hoarders of shoes, clothing, make up and/or kitchen appliances to name a few… Well, I guess one could say I’m a secret smoker. I’ve been enjoying MJ on and off since the age of 14 and today at 51, I’m living in the state of Washington and indulging once again – but this time it’s legal.
Only a few of my close and personal friends know. It’s not that I’m ashamed, but it’s most certainly NOT something I wear on my sleeve either. I’m convinced there’s still a strong stigma out there about people who partake in MJ – and imagine some of these folks are in my social circles, and are either just too naïve about the subject, or have formed very strong negative opinions about this controversial substance.
That being said, I don’t consider myself a hardcore radical MJ mom. Marijuana doesn’t define who I am. I see it more as a personal indulgence. Like that great pair of shoes you just have to have. I just want to make sure I’m allowed to enjoy it as an adult, and if there comes a day when my son or my stepchildren end up having a relationship with MJ, I want to make sure they are safe as well.
Here’s a snap shot of my relationship with MJ:
- I’ve been a fan since my early teens, and participated recreationally on and off throughout my life.
- I enjoy MJ – it takes the edge off, like a nice glass of Chianti, or perhaps for some…that much needed Xanax or Valium (neither my drug of choice).
- I’m a social marijuana smoker. Rarely have I purchased. Just happy to participate.
- I don’t enjoy the combination of MJ and alcohol. My preference is that the vices are kept separate.
- I don’t feel comfortable driving under the influence of MJ. I just move too slowly.
- Moto – never ever go to work on MJ; only partake in the evenings, weekend and never around the kids.
In the end, I’m just a mom (and business executive) who occasionally enjoys hanging out with Mary Jane. While decriminalization of MJ is kicking in, I’m still not sure if I’m ready to open up Pandora’s box to let my son or certain friends in my close social circles in…just yet
So my question to all you MJ moms out there – at what age did you tell your kids about your relationship with MJ? And do all your friends know?
My name is Michael (Adam) Assenberg, pronounced (ACE-N-BERG).
The year 1985 changed my life forever. I was working as a security guard, saving money so I could afford to go to the L.A. Police Academy. But that was to never be — as I was attacked on the job, as I was guarding a mine in Corona, California.
Some crooks wanted to steal dynamite, and I got in their way. For doing so, I was attacked with a baseball bat, pushed 15 feet off a bridge onto boulders, and left for dead.
It has taken me over 25 years to get back to where I could once more protect the public. During that time, I have been a patient using cannabis. I was run out of public housing for being a legal medical marijuana patient. I took my fight to court, serving as my own lawyer.
I used to run a public access radio show called, “Marijuana Fact or Fiction,” where I had doctors, former law enforcement and many others guest experts on my show. It was during this time that I dug heavily into both state and federal law in my efforts to find a way of fighting a federal government gone crazy.
Over the years, I have found many medical marijuana dispensaries that were doing right by patients, but also many that were selling marijuana with mold, or other issues. I have also witnessed law enforcement gone wild with dispensary raids. In 2011, I decided to open my own dispensary, Compassion 4 Patients, to “set a trap” for the feds.
Instead of the feds raiding me, the local sheriff (Brett Myers) fell into my “trap,” and on January 4, 2013, I won my case. I went back to court the following week, and got the Judge to order the sheriff to return my cannabis and everything else taken in the raid.
During my fight in court, I discovered that a sheriff has the legal power to arrest DEA agents, but this is not done due to our system of ‘Policing for Profit’.
It is time for the local sheriff to once again be an “oath keeper” to the people that place him/her in office, instead of working for a federal system that is under the control of big business.
As sheriff, I would arrest DEA agents that violated the rights of patients and providers. I will focus on property crimes. People living in apartment buildings tell me that often “landlords” do nothing about troublemakers because those landlords want to keep their units full, so the “all mighty dollar” can be made.
As sheriff, I would push to have these types of apartments listed as “nuisance property”, blocking the landlord from making his money until he took care of the trouble.
I would also see to it that records of your tax moneys were kept, to show where your money was being spent. And, I would hold public meetings once a month to stay on top of any trouble spots.
I am just one man. But if all of us reading this just stand united behind these issues, what a force for change we could make.
Because of my false arrest, I have a case pending in the court system for six million dollars. Only part of the lawsuit is for the raid; the other part of the lawsuit is for violating my right to address my first line of government when my State rights were violated.
Here is the letter telling me that I could NOT ask the county why a state sheriff can use tax money to violate my rights under I-692.
You will note in the letter that the people running my county would not honor my question, and would even use the same sheriff who attacked me to block my right to speak at an open meeting.
Or call me at 509-288-4799.
I just got back from a couple days in Shangri-La. Not that one. This one is in La Jolla, California, a pretty gorgeous place, made even more amazing by members of the community of La Jolla Country Day School.
A series of bizarre and seemingly random events (sparked by our mutual fascination of Bhutan and our love of reading) led us together.
“There may not be much difference, between Chairman Mao and Richard Nixon, if we strip them naked,” Yoko Ono reminds us in this classic cut from the Plastic Ono Band’s Sometime in New York City LP. Chock full of revolutionary protest songs (from Attica State to Angela Davis) and stuffed with a petition to allow John to fight an unjust deportation, SINYC is like a musical time capsule capturing the last rebel yell from the era of the Sixties street-fighting man.
Feeling nostalgic for some Elephant’s Memory Band? It’s only a click away. It’s all free for your listening pleasure on Yoko’s Soundcloud site.
We’re all water from different rivers
That’s why it’s so easy to meet
We’re all water in this vast, vast ocean
Someday we’ll evaporate together
Free Pamphlet is pleased to present a “one word story, mini-collage-a-day 10×14 cm.” piece by artist Anne Miek Bibber. We “discovered” this great new alternative artist on Flickr, and we instantly loved her fresh style and especially her message of affirmation. Reminds us of the famous Yoko Ono piece from the Sixties. Just say “Yes.”
sky high and climbing
petrol padre time to go
we like to fly clean
* * * *
- High Gas Prices Are Turning the United States Into Europe (treehugger.com)
- Make Art Not War Poster (freepamphlet.wordpress.com)
It has been thirty years since John Lennon was gunned down outside his New York City apartment. I’ll never forget the night it happened. I had been out partying for my 21st birthday (December 7th) with my good friend Fred. We got back to my one-room efficiency off-campus in Bloomington late that Sunday night. Still buzzing, we switched on the stereo to hear the news that John Lennon had been shot and killed. We couldn’t believe it. Instant buzz kill, we broke off the party with a mumble — neither one of us in the mood to continue our binge. A hell of a way to matriculate into adulthood.
The next day, in a cold winter rain, I stood beside my fellow IU students and professors who had gathered in the wet fields of Dunn Meadow to pay tribute to John. We stood, some weeped, all sang along to our favorite songs from a memorial radio broadcast over loud speakers. “Imagine,” “War is Over,” “Instant Karma,” “Revolution.”
That morning, I had pinned a “Yippie!” button — one that I had purchased a few summers prior during a trip to Chicago to attend the “Rock Against Racism” festival — onto my vintage black cashmere doorman’s coat. At the end of the day, as I limply marched back to my pad, I looked down to see that my Yippie! button had fallen off. A naked wire semi-circle all that remained on my lapel. I had really loved that button, and held onto it as a token of the sixties revolution that I had just missed by accident of birth. Now, the button, that theater time, and my boyhood hero were never to be seen again. Never to be forgotten. Cosmic Giggle, I mused as I walked back home alone.