PUT THAT IN YOUR PIPE AND SMOKE IT

I see that the marijuana debate is back. And in the nick of time. I wasn't
looking forward to the Anglican Church on single-sex marriages, were you?
And the Liberal leadership thing is already getting extremely tedious. I
hear that Allan Rock gave a speech on the subject the other day. Be still
my heart.

Perhaps you've noticed that in the marijuana debate, things have loosened
up considerably since the last time we all got together and did nothing
about our -- how shall I put this? -- barking-mad marijuana laws. Now
everything's much more liberal. Oh yes. I'm amazed how far we've come. Now,
people will tell you quite openly that they know somebody who knows
somebody who smokes pot now and then. Mostly then. Or, more astonishingly
still, people will come right out and say that they themselves smoked it
once in 1973, on a double-dare, but look: You only have to consider what
people wore in those days, to say nothing of the outrages they committed
against their hair, to realize that nobody had the brains they were born
with in 1973, so you can hardly hold a little pot-smoking against, oh,
let's take Martin Cauchon, the federal Minister of Justice, as an example.

The problem as I perceive it -- from a purely journalistic point of view --
is that it's difficult to find anybody who has recently used marijuana. And
who isn't a snowboarder. I must say, this seems at odds with perceived
reality. Our corner grocery store, for instance, is four or five hours from
the nearest chair-lift. And yet it sees fit to stock vast quantities of
rolling papers when, so far as I can ascertain, the last person who rolled
his own cigarettes was Woody Guthrie. As well, I am frequently struck with
the fact that I don't know a soul who smokes tobacco any more, and yet
whenever I go to a party, half the people there seem to feel the need to
step out onto the deck for a few minutes, for some reason. In February.

No doubt these mysteries will be cleared up by an Angus Reid poll someday.
Until then, we are all left a bit in the dark. In terms of reportage, I
mean -- if I could put it that way.

If, that is, you don't mind my parting company with the English language by
doing so.

All of which is why I've decided to take matters into my own hands and
light up what is known in the seething criminal underworld of half the
population of Canada as a reefer, or a joint. It is my intention to smoke
it while writing a column in The Globe and Mail. This could be a first. But
I doubt it.

Procuring the illegal substance turned out to be surprisingly easy. Taking
care to use a land line, I phoned a friend who once mentioned that he knew
somebody who knew somebody who smoked pot now and then.

As it happened, the somebody who was known by the somebody my friend knows
(you with me?) happened to have left some pot by accident at my friend's
house while undergoing a recent stint of palliative care. Short-term memory
loss, don't you know. He always forgets his bifocals, too. Anyway, my
friend, by sheer good luck, was able to oblige me. Did I want Ontario
hydroponic, Quebec biker dope, or some B.C. bud?

So here goes.

Hmm. That's interesting. And all this time I thought what I've been
smelling at night on every street in the Annex was skunk.

The first thing I have to report is that I feel no effects of the banned
substance whatsoever. If you don't count the past five minutes of coughing
as an effect. Some light-headedness perhaps, an extremely dry throat, and
an aching in my lungs -- more or less the same as going outdoors in Toronto
in July, as a matter of fact. But other than that, nothing.

But wait. Wait. I am dimly aware of some kind of sensation. Hang on. It's a
bit vague. A bit difficult to describe. But it's coming into focus. Yes,
there it is. Yes. I have it now.

Having subjected myself to the inherent risks of a controlled substance, I
can report to you that what I feel as a result of smoking an illegally
obtained marijuana cigarette is an irresistible urge to abandon my
children, knock over a Seven-Eleven, and smoke some crack.

I'd appreciate it if you'd explain to any Republican house-guests with whom
you're sharing the paper this morning that I'm just joking.

Okay. So far, so good. No firearms in sight. No briefcases full of unmarked
bills. So now what?

Surprisingly, I feel no urge to listen to old Iron Butterfly albums or to
eat an economy-size feedbag of salt and vinegar potato chips. Nor do I
think I can fly -- although if the air gets any thicker this summer I might
be tempted to give it a try. What I want to do, curiously enough, is read
the newspaper. Weird, huh?

I guess the heroin addiction and prostitution come later.

From The Globe and Mail: " 'We're not talking about making marijuana
legal, we're talking about moving ahead with what we call
decriminalization,' Mr. Cauchon said. . . . 'The question we have to ask is
if the system we have in place is efficient.

'We want to make sure it will still be illegal. But do we have to keep it
criminal?' "

Um. Right.

Give me a sec, will you?

I'm just going to roll another one of these before I read that again. It
might help.