KIDS AND MARIJUANA

Keep Your Offspring From Smoking By Being A Pothead Yourself

It's not easy keeping kids off ganja these days. The world, it seems,
has gone to pot. President Obama admits to having "inhaled frequently"
in his youth. Hollywood Dudes-of-the-Hour Seth Rogen and James Franco
shared a joint (or an authentic-looking prop) onstage at the MTV Movie
Awards last summer. Regular moms can get hash prescriptions for
anxiety and pick up a dimebag from a clinic on their way to yoga.

Even when photos surfaced this year of Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps
taking a bong hit, the nation sort of shrugged with disinterest. Most
of his endorsement deals failed to flinch. Last week, Subway launched
a new TV commercial featuring Phelps (does he always look that
stoned?) and the Sly Stone anthem "Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf
Agin)." Can't you just see Subway's board meeting after the bong photo
broke? "Fellas! We sell snack food! Tell me again why this is bad news?"

If a guy can suck skunkweed recreationally and still win 14 gold
medals, what's to dissuade teens from taking their first curious puff?
In my experience, there's only one way to keep your kids from becoming
potheads.

You've got to become one yourself. That's right. Light up for the sake
of sobriety. Inhale in the name of clean living. Take a hit for the
temperance team.

My parents, you see, were big tokers. They smoked dope. They talked
dope. They may have even sold dope. In fifth-grade health class, I
raised my hand and informed the teacher that THC, the psychoactive
ingredient in cannabis, is short for tetrahydrocannabinol. And when I
came home from class spouting the potential health risks of smoking
it, my parents shouted "Lies!" and stormed the campus the next day to
shame my teacher for preaching the ridiculous propaganda of the
establishment.

Sigh.

But in fact the school didn't need to convince me not to smoke "Mary
Jane," "grass," or "rope," as it was reportedly called "on the
street." (Have you ever heard someone refer to reefer as "rope?" I've
been listening closely since fifth grade: never.) Getting high was
something my parents did; and as such, it was the single lamest thing
a human being could do.

I viewed their Sunday-afternoon pastime through the hipper-than-thou
lens of youth—and, of course, through a cloud of smoke. Their ritual
was predictable, pointless, and passe, the stuff of a has-been
generation: Pulling out the stinky wooden stash box. Sliding off the
lid. Licking the Zig Zags and rolling up a fatty. Lighting up, sucking
too loudly on the soggy end, and talking through clenched throats.

Then their giggles would start. Bursts of baked laughter sent smoke
spurting through their nostrils. I never could figure out what was so
funny. When friends began proffering spliffs at high school parties, I
tried to hide my distaste, but the occasional "Ew! Seriously?" would
slip out. Why would I fill my lungs with old-people herb?

I'm not saying I never puffed a blunt. But I didn't do it early, and I
didn't do it much. It just didn't hold mystery to me.

Now an "old person" myself, I should probably buy a dub sack (Mom? Can
you hook me up?) and take up the habit just to keep my kids on the
straight-and-narrow. Then again, with all the inhalants, prescription
opiods, and meth being abused out there, perhaps the best we parents
can hope for is that our kids do grasp onto good, old-fashioned
"rope." At least we'd always know where they were on Sunday
afternoons: giggling inappropriately on the sofa.

Or on their way to Subway.