IN MILE HIGH CITY, WEED SPARKS UP A COUNTERCULTURE CLASH

Medical Marijuana Brands Like 'AK-47' Harsh the Mellow of Upscale Potrepreneurs

DENVER - Attorney Warren Edson would like to throttle the anonymous
marijuana breeder who named a potent strain of weed "Green Crack."

He's not too fond, either, of those breeders who have given strains
names like "Jack the Ripper," "White Widow," "AK-47" and "Trainwreck."

"How can I find them and strangle them?" Mr. Edson asks.

His beef: Mr. Edson is in the vanguard of an aggressive movement to
make pot respectable -but decades of stoner culture keep dragging him down.

Medical marijuana is now legal in 15 states for patients suffering
certain conditions, including, in Colorado, chronic pain. More than
60,000 Coloradans have doctor recommendations allowing them to buy
marijuana; physicians are approving about 400 new patients a day. Pot
shops have popped up all over, including at least 230 here in the
Mile High City.

Many of the new dispensaries are dingy and cramped, with bars on the
windows, psychedelic posters on the walls and a generally furtive feel.

But a growing number of potrepreneurs have gone upscale, investing as
much as $100,000 to launch "wellness centers" that look like spas-and
just happen to sell weed. This new breed of marijuana "pharmacist" is
pushing hard to professionalize the industry.

That means promoting a voluntary code of conduct at odds with the
traditional buck-the-system stoner culture. The new pot professionals
look down on neon cannabis-leaf signs, wince at tie-dye Bob Marley
posters, and cringe at the in-your-face swagger of the names
traditionally used to differentiate varieties of marijuana.

The result: a brewing culture clash within the counterculture.

"Some people don't even want to use words like 'stoner' and
'pothead,' " complains Steve Bloom, co-author of "Pot Culture: The
A-Z Guide to Stoner Language and Life." He has no patience for that:
"We should embrace those terms. This is who we are."

In 2000, Colorado voters amended the state constitution to let
patients seek relief from pain, nausea and other symptoms by working
with medical marijuana "caregivers." For years, all was discreet.
Then, last summer, the Board of Health approved a liberal definition
of "caregiver," opening the door to commercial dispensaries. A few
months later, President Barack Obama ordered federal narcotics agents
to respect state medical-marijuana laws.

The green rush was on.

Self-styled pot experts like Nick Paul, an out-of-work handyman,
found that for an investment of a couple thousand dollars, they could
rent a small shop, set out a dozen strains of marijuana in glass jars
and reinvent themselves as bud-tenders, ringing up $80,000 a month in
sales. An industry took root, complete with security consultants,
zoning advisers, even crop insurance. Westword, a Denver weekly
newspaper, hired a medical marijuana reviewer.

Then came the backlash, as communities statewide moved to restrict
dispensaries. The most organized and wealthy of the potrepreneurs
formed trade associations to protect their interests; they hired
lawyers and lobbyists, pollsters and publicists. They also took a
close look at their industry-and, in some cases, recoiled.

Wanda James, a recreational smoker, says some dispensaries have such
a disreputable feel, "they put me on edge."

Determined to show there's a classier way, Ms. James and her husband
run the Apothecary of Colorado in a gentrified building with
exposed-brick walls, airy views and unimpeachable fellow
tenants-architects, software engineers, wind-energy consultants. The
bud bar is lined with live cannabis plants, and a gourmet goodie-shop
stocks medicinal banana-nut bread and organic-vegan-gluten-free granola.

A couple blocks away, Shawna Brown creates a similar mood at Lotus
Medical, an elegant space with muted lighting, antique furniture,
massage tables and a Zen garden. This, she says, is the true face of
medical marijuana: dignified care for patients with AIDS, cancer or
other chronic illnesses.

"People need to wake up and see this in a different light," Ms. Brown
says. "It's not about Pink Floyd posters all over the walls."

But Ms. Brown says it is hard to convey that sober image and stave
off a regulatory crackdown when other dispensaries glory in jaunty
names ("Dr. Reefer"), goofy slogans ("If you got the pain, I got the
strain!") and cut-rate deals ("Free med grab bag for the first 100 patients").

"A doctor wouldn't offer, 'Buy one Vicodin, get one free,'" she says.
"It turns my stomach."

To which her low-rent rivals respond: Mellow out.

"That's very fancy-pantsy," says Angel Macauley, who runs the Little
Green Pharmacy, a tiny pot shop with Christmas lights strung through
the window grate and an enormous cannabis-leaf sign.

"This is a simple business. Get them in and out, like a gas station,"
Ms. Macauley says, nibbling on Doritos. "I just want to make my money."

Across town at the Denver Marijuana Medical Center, a bare-bones shop
with a three-foot-high plastic alien in the window, owner Julian
Sanchez is equally dismissive of attempts to pretty up the industry.

"They're not doctors. They're people selling marijuana," he says.
"It's all a money game."

A customer in a hooded sweatshirt-who calls himself Patrick and says
he needs meds like Purple Urkle and Sour Diesel for chronic
pain-chimes in. "You want us to sugarcoat it?" he asks. "Why?"

Economics may be behind the culture clash, with upscale joints trying
to muscle out the competition, but there's also a real philosophical debate.

Rob Corry, a lawyer and longtime marijuana activist, sympathizes with
those who want a neon pot leaf on every corner. "Part of normalizing
this is putting it in peoples' faces and saying, 'You'll get used to
it,'" he explains.

Yet Mr. Corry thinks the best way to win acceptance is to be
discreet. He'd like to do away with the more violent names for
marijuana strains. "Maybe we could come up with holistic names that
reflect the wellness idea? Like Harmony," he says. "I can tell you,
'Trainwreck' isn't a great name for a medicine."

Mr. Corry considers a moment. "Or maybe it is," he says. "I've heard
75-year-old grandmas say, 'I need more Trainwreck.'"