PROSECUTOR BOY LACKS CREDIBILITY IN LOCAL DEBATE OVER PROPOSITION

Prosecutor Boy has a lot to learn about the Show Me State.

The tall, sweet-talking former county prosecutor from Utah left his adopted
Beltway home long enough this week to straighten out us poor, uneducated
Columbians about um, er, shhhh: marijuana.

Assistant drug czar Scott Burns wasn't sent to Mid-Missouri on the White
House tab to campaign against Proposition 1.

"I'm not here to tell anybody how to vote," Prosecutor Boy told me Thursday.

He repeated the same mantra all day while he was making it clear that
Proposition 1, the proposal that would lower penalties for local pot
possession, was bad - very bad.

But Prosecutor Boy - his phrase by the way, not mine - doesn't tell people
how to vote. No sir. He's just the Minister of Information.

Me? I'm Reporter Boy. And apparently I don't know much.

That's what I found out after a meeting among Tribune editor types and
Burns and his entourage. Burns, White House staffer Kevin Sabet and David
Barton, dubbed Cop Boy by Burns, joined their Missouri hosts, Peggy Quigg
and Ed Moses of ACT Missouri, in speaking Thursday throughout Columbia
about the dangers of marijuana.

From the get-go, Burns is a charmer. Washington insider or not, he evokes
a certain Western rural charm. How can you not like a guy who's a fan of
Utah basketball coach Rick Majerus, the poster child for fat, beer-swilling
middle-aged guys?

But Burns knew he was walking into a hornet's nest when he ducked his head
into the Tribune conference room. The paper had already editorialized in
favor of Proposition 1. And critics were all over Burns for being a
big-city carpetbagger telling us how to vote - not that he would ever do that.

What Burns didn't know is that he had an ally in the room.

Me.

I've never been a fan of drug legalization. I tend to think that there are
some things worth taking a moral stand on, and drug use is one of them. I'm
a dad. Iim going to tell my kids to stay away from drugs, pot or otherwise.
End of story.

I'm also a journalist. And as such, I'm going to ask tough questions of
folks whether or not I agree with them. For those who weren't watching the
sham of a news conference before the war in Iraq started, apparently,
that's a no-no in the Bush White House.

Here in Columbia, we like to ask questions. We like to debate. We
appreciate a little give and take.

Ask Burns about the costs of flying to Columbia, and he laughs it off.

Ask him about campaigning for a local initiative, and he says it's a moot
point.

Ask about the costs of the drug war, and he'll tell you itis not a war.

Ask him to stop avoiding the questions and engage in a legitimate
intellectual discussion, and he'll call you Reporter Boy. Seriously. I
wouldn't joke about the White House.

Not to go Prosecutor Boy and Cop Boy on you, Burns told us Tribune types,
but they have seen the realities of the danger of drug use, you see.
They've seen the death, the violence, the abuse. No offense to Reporter
Boy, Burns continued, but you couldn't possibly understand.

If White House Boy hadn't cut off the questions right as it was getting
fun, I might have told Prosecutor Boy about Mike Harder.

Mike was a 21-year-old student at the University of Colorado in 1981. Over
Labor Day weekend that year, Mike, two of his buddies and a 14-year-old
nephew went on a hiking trip. They were going to climb Crystal Peak, one of
the state's 14,000-foot mountains.

Mike and his pals liked to get high. He used to grow pot in a greenhouse on
the deck of his Boulder apartment. His nephew would call when the family
was coming out to see him so he had time to switch the pot with other plants.

On the Saturday before Labor Day, they set out for the top of the mountain.
A few tokes on a joint delayed the start of the day. Several hours later,
they were stranded on a 12,000-foot-high cliff in a freak fall snowstorm.

Three days and two freezing nights later, Mike, a diabetic, died in my arms
on that cliff.

My uncle forgot his insulin at the camp, something he had never done
before. I blamed the pot. Still do.

A few days after the ordeal, my father and another uncle and I hiked back
to retrieve our gear. I asked for some time alone. All I wanted to do was
preserve Mike's memory. I tossed his drug paraphernalia in a creek.

It's where I wanted to toss Prosecutor Boy and his arrogant arguments on
Thursday.

You see, most of us out here in the Show Me State can do a pretty good job
of thinking for ourselves. We can be for or against the war and still talk
nicely to each other. We can disagree with the legalization of drugs but
not assume everybody who is for the concept inhales for breakfast. And we
can understand that no matter how much outside money and influence are
exerted on Tuesday's Proposition 1 vote, it's still up to Columbians to decide.

Reporter Boy has a bit of advice for Prosecutor Boy. If you really care
about furthering the anti-drug cause, next time you feel like swooshing
into some town five days before an election to "clear up misinformation,"
think of my Uncle Mike.

Then, take a deep breath of that wonderful Beltway air, and just say no.