Obama legalizes marijuana.

As long as you live in Alaska, California, Colorado, Hawaii, Maine, Maryland, Michigan, Montana, Nevada, New Mexico, Oregon, Rhode Island, Vermont or Washington and have a sympathetic doctor and — what? — a headache?

Meanwhile, if you don't live in one of those places and/or you don't want to dissemble about why you want to use marijuana, you'll have to wait longer for the pleasures you assumed would have to be legalized as soon as the people who were young in the 1960s got old enough to fully infiltrate the government.

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Background, from "Dreams From My Father":

I had learned not to care. I blew a few smoke rings, remembering those years. Pot had helped, and booze; maybe a little blow when you could afford it. Not smack, though....

Junkie. Pothead. That's where I'd been headed: the final, fatal role of the young would-be black man. Except the highs hadn't been about that, me trying to prove what a down brother I was. Not by then, anyway. I got high for just the opposite effect, something that could push questions of who I was out of my mind, something that could flatten out the landscape of my heart, blur the edges of my memory. I had discovered that it didn't make any difference whether you smoked reefer in the white classmate's sparkling new van, or in the dorm room of some brother you'd met down at the gym, or on the beach with a couple of Hawaiian kids who had dropped out of school and now spent most of their time looking for an excuse to brawl. ... You might just be bored, or alone. Everybody was welcome into the club of disaffection.

So let's be clear. You can have marijuana for your medical conditions. (It's kind of the "blue pill," isn't it?) But you can't be using it to flatten out the landscape of your heart or to blur the edges of your memory.