[420 Girl]

The afternoon breeze was snapping, the better to ferry the pungent aroma of a certain recreational herb across the expanse of Denver's Civic Center. It was Sunday in the park with weed, thanks to the annual 420 pro-marijuana rally. Organizers hoped 2,000 people would show up to celebrate pot as medicine, sacrament and just the thing to get one through some of the more interminable Grateful Dead jams.

"This is the first 420 rally the city has ever issued a permit for," said Holly G. Conrad, an organizer who uses pot to bring relief from muscular dystrophy. "We're not promoting its use, we just want to educate the public."

A few feet away, a guy was hacking after taking too big a hit off a joint. Which I supposed counts for getting schooled.

Organizers hoped for a peaceful rally, mainly on the premise that unlike alcohol, pot is a mellowing agent. Think Woodstock versus Cancun at spring break.

As of 1 p.m., there wasn't a cop in sight - at least in uniform. Denver voters recently passed a referendum making marijuana a low priority for law enforcement.

It was an eclectic crowd, a mix of the deeply politicized and the utterly baked.

You had folks such as Larisa Lawrence, a psychology major at Regis University who works with the Colorado Compassion Club.

"We were the first medical marijuana dispensary in Colorado, though we've now evolved into a home health-care model," she said. "We provide people with safe access to medical marijuana and do advocacy work, which is why we're here today."

Then there was Mr. Mike. "You know, like those Ronco Mister Microphones from back in the '80s," he said.

Mr. Mike was taking pulls on a joint just slightly smaller than Castro's cigar. "I'm here for the sun, some bud and to check out the ladies," he said.

A young woman in cutoffs and a spectacularly strained halter top walked by. Mr. Mike shoved off. "Gotta motor," he said.

Pot smoke wafted. It was like being in a dorm room circa 1975, minus the paranoia about whether the term paper would finish itself. I expected Domino's to arrive any minute with 700 pizzas.

One guy tooled around on his bike. It featured a sign: "Spaceship out of fuel." And a black dog perched on the man's back.

An older gent in a golf cap sat in the shade and took it all in. His name was Billy Mackey, and he was skeptical. "I really don't know what to make of this," he said.

Told that it was a marijuana rally, he shook his head. "Oh, geez. I don't really hold with that."

Mackey's was a minority view.

Half the crowd seemed to sport some celebratory clothing, from pro-pot T-shirts to headbands of plastic marijuana leaves.

Entrepreneurs thrived. Artists enjoyed a brisk business painting images of pot leaves on body parts. One booth sold hemp ice cream. I had no idea how it tasted, but it sounded like it had more fiber than a ship's hawser.

No matter where you stand on the legalization issue, whether this bud's for you or not, one thing seems certain: For many people, marijuana isn't going anywhere except up in smoke.


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