SECOND-HAND SMOKE OF THE TOKIN' KIND

Munchies Aside, Thane Burnett Ponders The Medicinal Effects Of Cannabis,
And Ponders And ... Zzz

ANY PARANOIA is gone. But in my mind's eye, I can still see a cat, with the
letters "FBI" spelled out in the colours of her fur. Journalists are often
accused of being detached and unfeeling toward their subjects. But then
there are days -- today for example -- when I think I felt too much. Became
too attached.

For a column in this weekend's Sunday Sun, I have spent hours in a small
rural Ontario home, with a group of medical marijuana exemptees. Questions
and fumes filled the air.

To better understand what happened next, appreciate I'm so straight that I
creak when I bend over to tie my shoes.

While I've long supported marijuana for the sick and dying, I have never
actually smoked pot -- and I don't know whether this is a moral
accomplishment, a failing of life experience or another example of my
social geekiness.

Where was I? Oh, in that dining room. With the pot.

As I write this, Alice, it's been almost 12 hours since I stepped through
the looking glass. And peering back, this is the best I can piece the day
together. Those I interviewed were genuinely nice people. But somewhere
along the way, I felt really close to them. Damn, these were great,
freakin' people.

We connected -- man. They made perfect sense -- man.

The more they talked, and the more they smoked, the more sense they made as
I sat there taking in their wisdom.

Through the house I walked, checking out plants and pretty posters on the
wall and, wow, will you look at that sleeping cat. Its brown and white fur
spelled out "FBI" -- and it made me laugh. Because it was so obvious.

Throughout the afternoon -- as I continually reached across the kitchen
table to eat more of their sea-salt and pepper potato chips -- I made sure
I wasn't showing any ill effects of second-hand smoke. No -- head clear and
handwriting perfectly straight. Super straight. My questions were never so
clear. Answers never so perfect. So very. Relaxed.

All I needed, I realized, was a nap. On their coach.

No. I'm a professional journalist. Gotta go write.

Goodbye. Thank you. Love you guys. Really love you guys.

Did a quick mental test as I walked into the fresh air -- drawing deep.
Mind working fine. Never better. Super good.

Until I paused, for only a second, as I looked beyond the driveway to the
road beyond. And for an instant, I couldn't make up my mind which side of
the road I belonged on.

Silly goose. All in my mind. I began the drive -- watching my reflexes and
speed. All perfect. No danger.

But that smell. On my clothes. The perfume of pot.

'Can He Smell It'

And I was hungry. And had to pee. What would people think as I walked by at
a rest stop? They'd stare at me. I knew that. Maybe make a comment. Call a
cop. I hadn't done anything, damn it, but would they believe that?

Kilometre after kilometre I drove with all the windows of my car rolled
down -- cold wind whipping smelly clothes, and my notes around the front
seat. At one point I passed an OPP cruiser doing radar, and I wondered:
"Can he smell it?"

A service station loomed up ahead.

A submarine sandwich and washroom break. I stared at my reflection in the
rest stop mirror. For a long time.

Then I was once again cruising the 401. Music never seemed so sweet, even
from the tinny speakers in my Chevy, it blasted like Dolby, surround sound,
freakin' stereophonic.

Traffic? Man, what traffic? The roads were mine. Except for a teen in an
old Honda next to me. Loud exhaust. Bad attitude. Bringin' me down. He
wanted to drag me. I knew that.

"You wanna go?" I -- a 42-year-old father of four -- considered, looking
over at a kid half my age. It was a fleeting feeling I hadn't had since I
traded my Mustang for a sedan when my firstborn arrived. God, I missed that
old car, I sighed.

And sloppy joes, like mom made. That's what I needed, I then reasoned,
heading for the nearest supermarket.

A basket, filled with cheese chips and Pepsi, I passed through the produce
section, grooving to the distant instrumental John Cougar Mellencamp music
on the store PA and thought about all the really great words in the world.
Like "agent provocateur." When could I ever use that?

I passed a sign -- "Try our fresh herbs," it read.

And I giggled. Out loud. Then looked around -- sure the guy lingering by
the Granny Smith's was staring at me.

Headed quickly through the checkout -- "Hey, Mars bars!" -- then home. To
think about writing. But instead a nap on the coach in my office. Then
dreams -- rich and colourful. About beautiful people and grilled cheese
and, I recall, the hands of Big Ben spinning fast. Backwards.

Now, much later, near midnight, my head is lucid. The fog I couldn't see
earlier has parted. And I really put it all together as I write this now.
Unlike former U.S. president Bill Clinton, I didn't smoke, but I did
inhale. Too much it appears. Too naively, perhaps stupidly to get behind a
wheel, it now seems.

But as I look back on the day, I'm sure of one important, indisputable
fact, for those who believe journalists don't ever see the bigger picture
or refuse to be drawn into a story.

I am convinced that the cat's fur really did spell out "FBI."