THE SLOW-MO WORLD OF MARIJUANA

It's a commonly held belief all writers are on drugs. For many, there's no
other explanation for being a writer.

In fact, most think a writer's life runs something like this: Sleep until
noon, clear the wine bottles off the bed, crunch across a living room
filled with pizza boxes, scratch yourself, then fire up a joint while you
fire up the computer.

How else could someone come up with all those ideas, all that inspiration?
Writers must use drugs. Besides, you'd have to be stoned to think you could
make a living at it.

So it's probably no surprise that I, being a writer, support the
legalization of marijuana. What may surprise you is why I support it.

First, set aside all your preconceptions about writers, Allan Rock and
other shady practitioners of the arts and examine the problems of marijuana
in the first place.

It's natural. It just kind of grows, as much a part of creation as
hummingbirds and ocelots. The fact smoking marijuana makes you suddenly
like progressive rock shouldn't make it illegal. It's common knowledge
Australians lick toads to get high, but we don't see the full weight of the
Australian judiciary criminalizing amphibians.

What should be criminalized is progressive rock, but no, our laws target an
innocent weed and not Dave Matthews.

Secondly, there are misconceptions about the effects of marijuana. The
general populace, courtesy of governments and mothers worldwide, think one
inhalation of a joint will cause men to become axe murderers or find Monica
Lewinsky attractive. All sorts of horrible things will occur and, if enough
people partake, chaos will ensue, society will fall. In truth, anyone who
has attended any party since 1954 can attest the most violent disturbances
are courtesy of alcohol -- pot smokers are too busy giggling over the word
purple.

The biggest problem with marijuana is simply its name: marijuana. It just
sounds illicit. It evokes images of dusty bordellos on the Mexican border,
cheap tattoos and waking up with more than a hangover.

It's a word that has no place in suburbia, with neatly cut lawns and Little
League. It belongs to another world where people don't floss or even vacuum
on a regular basis.

It's scary. It's enticing. It's . . . too natural.

Imagine the world if this inconspicious plant wasn't tagged with a name
that sounds like the last cut on an Eagles album.

If some myopic British botanist had called it, say, "parson's delight,"
we'd now probably be handing it out to children on Halloween.

"Oh, here you go Johnny, take some parson's delight. And take these potato
chips, you'll be wanting them later."

But back to my original point: marijuana should be legalized. And not
because of the reasons relatively daring politicians float when they talk
to anyone with a ponytail: the cost of prosecution, it's a soft drug, blah
blah blah, beer's worse, and with pot you don't have to take back the empties.

No, I think marijuana should be legalized because it makes people stupid.

Once upon a time, in my wild youth, when I used to never return library
books on time, I tried it. I imbibed the smoke that launched a thousand
reggae songs. And to my complete disillusionment, I discovered . . . I
didn't like it. It slowed my mind down.

I'm used to a consciousness that flickers from idea to image with the speed
of a hundred television screens with ADD. Now, I felt like my neurons were
trapped in molasses.

This, I thought, must be what being a football fan is like.

And so I never touched it again. But as I look around an ever more
competitive job market and with younger and brighter writers coming up
behind me, I need an edge -- a stumbling block to make the sweet, young
things miss deadlines or decide to study Feng Shui instead. I need the
competition stupid and lazy, and marijuana's the answer.

So legalize pot. Perpetuate the myth that writing isn't about work and
determination, but puffin' a doob and listening to the Doors. That way,
I'll still have a job.