Author Archives: Alan O’Hashi, Whole Brain Thinker

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About Alan O’Hashi, Whole Brain Thinker

I’ve been involved with community journalism since 1968 when I wrote for my junior school paper, the "Tumbleweed," through high school and college and then wrote for the "Wyoming State Journal." I put aside my newspaper pen and began Boulder Community Media in 2005. There wasn’t much community journalism opportunity, so I resurrected my writing career as a screenwriter. My first short screenplay, “Stardust”, won an award in the 2005 Denver Screenwriting Center contest. I've made a number of movies over the years. Filmmaking is time-consuming, labor and equipment intensive. I recently changed my workflow to first write a book and make a movie based on that content. - Electric Vehicle Anxiety and Advice - This is a memoir travelogue of three trips covering 2,600 EV miles around Wyoming (2022) - Beyond Heart Mountain - Winter Goose Publishers released my memoir in February (2022) - The Zen of Writing with Confidence and Imperfection - This is a book recounting how luck planed into my signing a book deal after a 15-minute pitch meeting. (2020) - True Stories of an Aging Baby Boomer - War stories about living in a cohousing and lessons others can learn when starting their communities (2021) - Beyond Sand Creek - About Arapaho tribal efforts to repatriate land in Colorado (PBS - TBA) - Beyond Heart Mountain - Based on my memoir about my childhood in Cheyenne facing overt and subtle racism toward the Japanese following World War II (PBS - 2021) - New Deal Artist Public Art Legacy - About artists who created work in Wyoming during the Great Depression (PBS - 2018) - Mahjong and the West - SAG indie feature which premiered at the semi-important Woodstock Film Festival (2014) Over the years, I’ve produced directed, filmed and/or edited several short movies, “Running Horses” (Runner Up – Wyoming Short Film Contest), “On the Trail: Jack Kerouac in Cheyenne” (Lowell Celebrates Kerouac Festival, Top 10 Wyoming Short Film Contest), “Gold Digger” (Boulder Asian Film Festival), “Adobo” (Boulder International Film Festival), “A Little Bit of Discipline” (Rosebud Film Series), and two feature length documentaries “Your Neighbor’s Child” (Wyoming PBS and Rocky Mountain PBS), and “Serotonin Rising” (American Film Market, Vail Film Festival). He also directed and produced the award winning stage play “Webster Street Blues” by my childhood friend Warren Kubota. Boulder Community Media is a non-profit production company dedicated to democratzing media in all their forms - large and small screens, printed page and stage by providing sustainable and community-based content. I mostly work with community-based media producers, organizations, and socially-responsible businesses to develop their content via – the written word, electronic and new media, the visual and performing arts in a culturally competent manner – I’m what’s commonly called a niche TV and movie producer. Along with all this is plying my forte’ – fund development through grant writing, sponsorship nurturing and event planning.

Born on the 1st Saturday in May

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I didn’t just show up on May 2nd. I arrived with hooves thundering in the background.

The 79th running of the Kentucky Derby at Churchill Downs provided a dramatic soundtrack for my birthday. Between the starting gate and the finish line, I made my entrance into the world. Timing, as I would later learn, is everything, especially if you’re betting on it.

My dad, meanwhile, had money riding on the favorite, Native Dancer. This wasn’t the polished, app-based gambling world we know today. No sleek interfaces or “deposit bonus” nonsense. 

This was Cheyenne, Wyoming, where a guy would stroll into local businesses like he was delivering office supplies, except he was taking bets. Completely illegal but completely trusted.

Dad also dabbled in Irish Sweepstakes tickets, which were as legal as robbing a bank but with better branding. I don’t recall him ever hitting it big, but that never seemed to matter. He was a gambling man in the purest sense, not chasing riches, but the action and the thrill.

Then came the race. On the left is a photo taken on May 2, 1953, of Dark Star in the winner’s circle.

Native Dancer looked like a sure thing. If there’s one thing horse racing stories have, it’s a good plot twist. Dark Star, a longshot with a name that sounds like a rejected Batman villain, surged at the wire and won by a neck.

Just like that, my dad lost his bet, and just like that, I was born into a world where the favorite doesn’t always win.

That’s a fitting origin story.

By the time I turned 19, the legal drinking age at the time, Kentucky Derby Day had officially leapfrogged Christmas as my favorite holiday. Mint juleps replaced the tree and presents.

Back in the day, before gambling went respectable and crossed state lines, I had to work for it. I tracked down off-track betting joints, like the Stampede in Aurora, Colorado,  like a guy following a treasure map. I walked in, placed a bet, grabbed a drink, and for two minutes I was a part of the race action.

These days, I’ve scaled it back. On my birthday this year, the bookie and my upstairs neighbor, Lindy, organized a casual race pool. This year I drew the 22 horse, Ocialia, that showed and won $3. The ritual hits the same. 73 years later. The call to the post, the crowd, the faint hope that I drew the winning horse.

If my Kentucky Derby birthday taught me anything, it’s that favorites are comforting, and longshots are interesting. Life has a funny way of siding with the Dark Stars of the world.

Elvis, Belly Dancers, F-15s, and the Bolder Boulder

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How the 10K road race turned a reluctant walking jogger into an annual participant.

Every Memorial Day, thousands of people from around the world flood the streets of Boulder for an event that’s bigger than a 10K road race. It’s not too late to register. I don’t know if there’s enough space left if all 5,000 of you sign up, but check out more information by clicking on the obligatory Folsom Hill shot.

The Bolder Boulder turns an ordinary Monday morning into a citywide festival where Olympians, walkers, musicians, families, veterans, and people like me all move together toward the same finish line.

I’ve never considered myself a runner.

Back at Carey Junior High, I spent a couple of years on the cross-country team. “Running” might have been too generous a description for what I did.

I survived more than I competed. Between the wheezing and side cramps, I learned, as a 14-year-old, that distance running requires a mindset I didn’t naturally possess.

Regardless, in 2002, I lined up at the Bolder Boulder starting line, soon after 9/11. Here’s a video I shot in 2008 with Elvis. Click on the mugshot from 2025.

I’ve returned every year since then and participated as a walking jogger, a determined and survivor.

I don’t train. The last time I tried to prepare for a race, I twisted my ankle and forfeited my entry fee.

I also carry a media credential, which gives me a different perspective on the event. Instead of focusing only on my own exhaustion, I pay attention to the thousands of stories unfolding around me.

That’s the real race.

Every year, I shoot short video clips along the route and stitch them together into a movie. The Bolder Boulder is a running event from Point A to Point B, combined with a street festival spread across six miles of Boulder neighborhoods. Click on the picture of the Howling Commandos to watch the 2025 non-race highlights.

Recording entertainment is part of my ritual.

The belly dancers on Folsom Hill always draw a crowd. By the time runners reach the top of the incline, many of us need spiritual encouragement.

The music and dancing deliver it.

A little farther along, Elvis appears near the 7-Eleven like a rhinestone-covered guardian angel watching over exhausted runners. You can hear laughter before you even see him.

Then the bagpipes drone before runners enter the stadium. That sound changes everything.

After grinding through the course, hearing those pipes echo in the distance feels cinematic, like a Mel Gibson movie.

The finish is near. The crowd noise swells. Your tired legs suddenly muster up a little extra energy.

Then you enter Folsom Field, where the Buffaloes play football.

Nothing prepares you for that moment the first time you experience it.

Forty thousand cheering fans fill the bleachers. Even if you had walked half the course, even if your knees hurt, even if you questioned your life choices around mile four, entering that stadium makes you feel like an Olympian.

The roar rolls down from the stands and wraps around you. Well-wishers along the rail share “high fives” with the runners passing by.

Everyone’s a champion.

The Bolder Boulder has something for everyone.

World-class elite runners and wheelchair racers from across the globe chase prize money and prestige.

Serious local athletes try to beat personal records. Costumed runners shuffle along in superhero capes. 

Walkers treat the race like a social event. Spectators camp in their front yards, grilling burgers before nine in the morning.

The event belongs equally to the front-of-the-pack Kenyan runner and the guy jogging in a banana costume while carrying a beer.

That’s why I keep coming back.

The race reminds me that participation matters more than perfection.

Memorial Day carries heavy meaning, with F-15s streaking overhead and paratroopers gliding onto the football field carrying flags.

The Bolder Boulder balances remembrance with celebration. It honors sacrifice while celebrating the joy of being alive and moving forward together.

If you’ve ever thought about doing the Bolder Boulder, stop overthinking it. 

You don’t need to be fast. You don’t even need to run much. You just need to show up. I took my mug shot selfie on the right three months after I got up from my deathbed, after six weeks in the hospital, and managed to make my annual Memorial Day rounds.

If I can finish the Bolder Boulder, half-dead and lugging a camera and an oxygen bottle, you can make it!

The course, the crowds, the music, the spectacle, and that unforgettable entrance into Folsom Field will carry you to the finish.

Confessions of an Accidental Environmentalist

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 Turns out reusing microwave popcorn bags now counts as activism.

“Sustainability” is one of those words that started out meaning something specific and useful, then got run through enough marketing departments that it now sounds like a yoga retreat sponsored by a bank.

Back in the 1990s, the term actually had practical roots. I received a grant from the United States Environmental Protection Agency to use the Northern Arapaho Farm as a model for agricultural sustainability. EPA researchers promoted sustainable ag as a way for farmers and ranchers to remain economically viable.

Less fertilizer. Less pesticide. Less diesel. No-till seed drilling. Better water management. The idea was to stop going broke buying chemicals and fuel.

The environmental benefits were incidental. If you used fewer inputs, there was less poisonous and nitrogen runoff into streams and less soil erosion. Farmers got to keep more money. Everybody won.

That made sense to me.

Somewhere along the line, though, “sustainability” became a lifestyle brand.

The word appears on luxury condos, imported bottled water, and pricey organic kale chips shipped across three continents in a refrigerated truck.

Everything’s now “sustainable.”

Meanwhile, I’ve been practicing my own version of sustainability since the 1970s.

I’m not virtuous.

I’m cheap.

I haven’t used a store-bought trash bag since the Carter administration. Why would I? Grocery stores used to hand out perfectly good plastic bags for free.

Now that these bags cost a dime, I’ve adapted.

I now use patient “Personal Belongings” bags. Hospitals send your stuff home in large sturdy plastic sacks with drawstrings. Those things are practically military grade. You could store bowling balls in them. I reuse each one multiple times. Of course, I don’t account for the fact that the hospital probably billed my insurance company $50 for each one.

Every morning, I fill a reusable Keurig cup with coffee. I’m not saving the Earth. I refuse to pay sixty-five cents for a thimbleful of coffee sealed in a tiny plastic chalice engineered by NASA.

Spent Keurig cups aren’t safe from my program. I disassemble them like I’m operating a tiny recycling center in the kitchen.

Plastic and foil in the recycling bin. Coffee grounds in the compost.

By the time I’m done, I’ve spent seven minutes salvaging the components.

Even Moon the cat has become part of the operation.

Cleaning her litter box is now a daily exercise in supply chain management. I save unrecyclable bags from tortilla chips, frozen vegetables, shredded cheese, and microwave popcorn. Commercially available unscented or scented cat poop bags run around fifteen cents each.

The plastic wrap from meat trays gets reused, too. Most people peel that stuff off and throw it away. Not me. I rinse it off and freeze leftovers with it later. Plastic wrap at Safeway costs three bucks for 200 square feet, a penny a square foot. Still, $3 us $3.

My ancestors who lived through the Great Depression are nodding proudly.

Financially, none of this may pencil out, but it feels correct.

That’s why I prefer the word “efficient” over “sustainable.” Efficient means getting the most out of what you have.

I don’t think of myself as “green,” but more as “cheap.”

Somewhere in America, sustainability experts are discussing circular waste streams and post-consumer reuse initiatives.

Being cheap has diverted more stuff from landfills than half the public and private sustainability reports ever printed.