BELOW THE BELTWAY

I just got back from the office of the Marijuana Policy Project, a
reputable Washington lobbying organization dedicated to bringing about the
repeal of harsh and, um, unfair and harsh, uh, what was I . . . whoa, did
you know that when you hit the "Num Lock" key, a little light goes on?

Ha-ha. That is typical druggie humor of the sort that really cheeses off
the folks at the Marijuana Policy Project.

I decided to visit the folks at the MPP after receiving one of their news
releases and being impressed with its earnestness. This is the modern
American marijuana movement, as distinguished from the American marijuana
movement of my youth, which wasn't much of a movement on account of certain
organizational inefficiencies related to the munchies.

The MPP is, apparently, all business. It supports the decriminalization of
marijuana and an end to restrictions on its use for medicinal purposes. To
achieve credibility, lobbyists for the MPP must present themselves as
clear-eyed representatives of an organization dedicated to fostering a
climate of justice and tolerance, as opposed to an organization dedicated
to fostering a climate where you can stroll the streets sucking on a doobie
the size of a dachshund. The MPP's co-founder and communications director,
Chuck Thomas, is a slim, smart, articulate, scraggle-bearded man who wears
a suit and tie that seem as natural on him as earmuffs on a geranium. He's
trying.

At 31, Chuck is a wizened old geezer compared with most of his staff. And
this gave me an idea: Because of my past, I was not unfamiliar with the
lexicon and protocols of the subject at hand; here was a golden opportunity
to rekindle a spirit of joyful sedition from a bygone time, a chance to
reach warmly across a generational divide and bond with America's youth,
plus ask questions that would make ol' Chuck squirm like a maggot on a rump
roast in a South Florida dumpster.

But right off the bat, Chuck informed me that to avoid trivializing the
issue, he declines to answer irrelevant questions about personal marijuana
consumption.

No problemo, I said.

"So, do you ever get really, really, really hungry for no good reason?"

No, he said. He can pretty much always eat, even after a big meal.

"Did you ever listen to music and hear some extra notes you never noticed
before that sound really good?"

He loves music, he said, and appreciates tonal nuances.

The man was as unflappable as a penguin.

Desperate, I pulled out a tape recorder and played him that old "Dave's not
here" routine from Cheech and Chong, in which a man who has just purchased
some weed and is being pursued by the cops cannot gain entrance to his own
house because his roommate is too stoned to realize who is at the door.

"Perhaps," I said, hopefully, "you might recognize a certain, shall we say,
familiar state of mind . . . ?"

"It is funny," Chuck said, "but I cringe on a sociopolitical level. It
contributes to government propaganda by suggesting that marijuana makes
people permanently stupid instead of affecting their short-term memory, and
only for the period of time they are under the influence."

I was in despair. We were talking about weed all right, but we were not
getting down. We were not grooving. Was there no way of breaching this
wall, of finding common ground?

Prosecutorially, I reached into my briefcase and whipped something out.
"Can you not identify . . . this?" I asked.

Chuck blinked and stared.

"Yes," he said.

Yayyy.

"It is a coat hanger with a knotted plastic dry cleaner bag hanging from it."

Oh, man.

Together we went out into the anteroom, where his youthful, clean-cut staff
was working.

Can anyone, anyone identify this object?

Nope. Nuh-uh. No.

So I hung the coat hanger from a door frame and let the knotted bag dangle
like a rope.

I put a pan under it, then lit it like a fuse.

It flared. It fumed. It dripped down in little hiccups of liquid plastic,
making a weird zzzzip noise. I hadn't seen this in 30 years. I, um, had
never seen it entirely clear-headed. It's something I and half a million
other young collegians used to do in our dorm rooms, around 2 a.m., while
listening to the Moody Blues and squirting Cheez Whiz directly into our mouths.

"Pretty neat, huh?" I said.

Silence.

"It's called a zip candle," I said. "In my day . . . "

Zzzip.

"Uh, it's better at night," I said, wanly.

Zzzip.

"It's sort of interesting," a young woman offered, kindly.

As I slouched away, they were typing press releases and grousing about the
smell of plastic in the air.