THE INSIDE DOPE ON THE STAFFERS AT THE MARIJUANA POLICY PROJECT

WASHINGTON--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 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
them after receiving one of their news releases and being impressed
with its earnestness.

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, its lobbyists must
present themselves as cleareyed 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 is Chuck Thomas.

At 31, Chuck is a wizened old geezer compared with most of his staff.
And this gave me an idea: 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.

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.

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.

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

Oh, man.

We went 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. 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 witnessed this in 30
years. It's something I and half a million other collegians did 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. 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.