Tune In, Turn Off, Drop Out - The Thin Edge of Dignity

I missed it. They sidled by. Those rainbow days of LSD, Mushrooms, Peyote, Psilocybin, PCPs. . . and good old Cannabis. Yes, Tim Leary’s paean to the rebellious, rollicking, rejoicing sixties rumbled past me.

My middle-finger-to-society was alcohol and tobacco. A good thing for the body-politic, for I was helping the Nation’s tax base. A bad thing for me, for I was polluting my lungs and corrupting my liver. The wild stuff that I was too late for would have just made me euphoric.

Now in my 80s, do I dig deep into my bucket, scratch the bottom for my list, and catch up with my 70-year old friends – before it’s too late? Do I lose my pharmaceutical virginity and tip the balance between old age probity and youthful licentiousness? Now that THC is legal, do I smoke a joint? Suck a bong? Chew a brownie? Should I get my first fix?

And should I in my ALF? (Assisted Living Facility)

I remember the halcyon days, when the sweet smell of weed floated about the rear leisure area of our ALF, spread there by residents and staff - make that singular – one of each . . . I think. In those days, such playfulness didn’t have the force of law at its back, and both resident(s) and caregiver(s) are no longer here. To stay with the image, they’ve been blown away.

I admit that when out with my 60-something friends, and they recount their pot (not with pans) experience, I feel a twinge of envy. And when an almost 70 friend shows me a photo of his shoulder-length-hair-of-rebellion and tells me of tripping on LSD at Walden Pond, I feel a loss; I’ve let time pass me by. Then over dinner, my 70-ish year old friend innocuously explains how he spent the day shopping the new and legal head shops in town, I sink in despair. To make matters worse, his wife of 63 recounted her days as a teenager smoking pot. All I could claim was at 17, sneaking Seagram’s seven from a friend’s parent’s liquor cabinet and mixing it with 7-Up. Some profligacy!