can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis.


We visited Medithrive, 1933 Mission Street, between 15th & 16th, in search of better boo and were rewarded with a fine version of Jack Herer. Named after the well-known local grower, this sativa has the signature slow JH trajectory to high altitude, where it levels off for a long, active flight to the new world. Mr. Herer, obviously a visionary, is branding his well-tended herb in much the same manner as Mondavi and Rothschild label their superior nectar. Our compliments on a smart move.

The Year of Fast Living

By August of '64 the scene was accelerating. Pop art was emerging right along with rock, redefining fashion and philosophy. Don Defina had finished his work on Lilith and was already in London, hanging with Ben Carruthers. Lady Catherine had finished her run with her gangster lover and turned her light my way. Rick Lloyd was back from San Francisco with tales of something he called "the trips festivals", where large numbers of hippies would ingest acid and enjoy nights of music, dancing and light shows--the forerunners of Raves. Rick was hanging out with an intense blond lady named Diana Dew, who later invented the first "disco belt" featuring flashing lights. i also bumped into Suni, the Radcliffe beauty from Boston, on Lexington Avenue one day, while shopping.
Suni was blue. She was haggard, unkempt and unfocused. Turns out she'd been abusing her doctor dad's prescription pills back home in Pennsylvania, had gotten busted and was awaiting the outcome of her court case. Actually Suni had never experimented with pot or psychedelics back in Boston, high on her own legend. So in a way she was an amateur. From queen of Cambridge, in a white, retractable-top Ford Skyliner, studying Sanskrit at Radcliffe, while driving the boys mad--to matted hair, rambling speech and no direction home. Like a rolling stone...
There were other casualties. Earlier that year i had met a dancer named Fred Herko, an outrageous trans-artist from the Andy Warhol scene. He was wearing feathers at the time. We discussed his doing a stage performance, setting some of my poems to dance, combining jazz and psychedelic lighting. An advanced idea back then. A month or so passed and i was crossing Third Avenue, smoking a J, when i ran into Fred and a friend of his. The friend looked very familiar. He was introduced as Billy. As i passed him the joint i realized it was Billy Grey, the dutiful son on the long running TV show Father Knows Best. Two months later i heard Fred had jumped out of a window while on speed.
Thankfully, the news wasn't all bad. One of my clients, a British call girl named April, rang me up and referred me to what i thought was a new client. However he turned out to be a supplier. And this cat had some bad boo. He was holding significant weight of black African grass that to this day stands as memorable. It was expensive but the profit margin was better. No one minded paying extra for this extra-terrestial herb. It also did wonders for my rep.
Meanwhile Rick Llloyd met Niki, and the two of them connected. Rick was versed in Native American Shamanism, and Niki was into her Cuban voodoo. In fact there was an altar room in her Park Avenue bordello. Some time later, Rick confided that he had introduced Dylan to Niki. Afterwards, Rick asked Niki what happened. "What do you think happened?" she snapped. "I tied him to the bed and spanked his white ass."
Speaking of Dylan, while Don Defina and Ben were in France, hanging out at Nico's pad-Nico was a model, and founding member of The Velvet Underground-Dylan was also there, in the process of writing Hey Mr. Tambourine Man. Ever the film maker, Don grabbed his trusty Bolex and began shooting as Dylan continued to work on his song. A magic moment. Unfortunately, Nico's infant son managed to pull out the sound tape and destroy it. Then Ben borrowed the original-and only-print, and never returned it. Still, Don was out there in adventureland, and i wasn't. A primal urge to sail the ocean wide was gnawing. i started putting money aside.
My flirtation with Lady Catherine flared into a full-fledged, be all that you can burn, affair. At the same time civil disobedience, and Vietnam, were at the boiling point.
On November 4th of 1964, exactly one year after JFK's still unresolved assassination, Lyndon Baines Johnson used a phantom skirmish at the Gulf of Tonkin, to escalate the war in Asia. ("There's no such thing as coincidence"- William Burroughs)
America suddenly realized it had been had.

Next: The Road to Damascus

Suggested Viewing: The Hurt Locker

can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis



In 1965, half the population of America was under the age of 25

We're still in early '64 but that stat was looming large as American youth was embracing pot, rock and roll, macrobiotic food, pacifism, Zen Buddhism and more relaxed sexual attitudes.In New York various scenes were congealing. Richy and Luigi threw some parties at Penthouse B that included Ray's advertising associates along with Luigi's director and photographer friends, Joe Bologna, who went on to star on Broadway and in film, Rudy DeLuca who later wrote films with Mel Brooks, (Joe and Rudy used to play a parlor game called Hide Ivan, where they would hide friend Ivan in plain sight, disguised as a record rack, or a plant). Rudy also wrote and directed Transylvania 6-5000. Joe B, wrote and starred in Lovers and Other Strangers. Also on the set was Don Defina's friend Ben Carruthers, who had just starred in the John Cassevetes' film Shadows, Hugh Masekela, who was recording Grazin' in the Grass,The Twins, various Jazz musicians, and some of my downtown bohemian cohorts, including Jerry Cole. Then there was Niki, the flamboyant madam, and anyone else who was on the grapevine, or in town at the moment.
Hair was inching longer, skirts were definitely shorter and a new thing had arrived from Paris called Le Discotheque, where a club played records and people danced...oh yeah. Meanwhile psychedelics had morphed the previously rigid (practically Calvinistic) folk scene into a new breed of frizzy haired, color spattered, rockers. America was getting rhythm.
And it was only February.
Downtown, the fabled Duke was getting ready to open his own place. All he needed was a bit of cash. Uptown a new scene sprang up, a dance club called Ondine's on the east side. It was sort of a predecessor to Studio 54, and featured live music and dancing. In fact The Doors played there. It became a Jerry Cole favorite, and i dropped in often during my rounds, just to check it out. There was also a small, pocket scene of early Eurotrash doing a dance, disco thing.
One night Jerry came over with his latest girlfriend Susan, and her friend Carol. Harvey and Carol hit it off and soon he moved in with her. Friend Don was making plans to go to Europe once Lilith wrapped. Jerry also introduced me to Princess Francesca, and her raving partner Richie Berlin. Francesca claimed Italian royal blood ( don't we all?) and Richy's father was CEO of the Hearst Corporation. Francesca's sister Luciana, was the first lady to bare her breasts for Vogue. These girls were a smarter, more deranged, version of Paris and Nicole. Both got to Dr Jacob's office before breakfast ( at noon ) and lined up for their Jake Shot of B12 and Amphetamine, then zoomed off in search of newer, more decadent pursuits. ( There was also Dr. Robert Fryman, who could cure hepatitis with such shots, and was rumoured to have treated JFK ).
One spring weekend i set out for Provincetown with this fun pair. Richy was driving and somewhere along the turnpike she lost control of the car, which spun across the highway. i held on, just waiting for that final big bang, but fortunately it didn't come. We came to a stop untouched. From there on i did the driving.
In Provincetown there occurred a perfect convergence that typified the Sixties. I ran into a trio of young ladies who hung out in the Village cafes called Muffy, Jan and Heidi. barely twenty one, these girls had come hoping to find a job. A few hours later I bumped into Robert Gilman's friend and mentor, Charlie, who was opening a waterfront cafe. i hooked the girls up, and they had their job. A hippie mitzvah. Of course i warned them to be careful. Charlie, a dude of Armenian descent, nicknamed "the rug maker", had turned part of his family junkyard into a kind of Plato's Retreat. He was obsessed with sex and had a reputation as a cunnilingus expert. Women would come from miles around for his services. His girlfriend did not share his enthusiasm for oral sex, so to entice her he would put jam on his penis. But what the hell, casual lust was the order of the day.
i left the ladies to their various dramas and hit the beach, always grateful to be near the ocean.
When i returned to the city, things were shaky. Harvey was no longer living at his apartment and the lease was due for renewal. The landlord wanted his apartment. i was what is known as a statutory tenant but these dudes were playing hardball. i managed to avert two strange attempts. One morning at five a.m. i awoke to find the landlord tinkering with my lock. My ladyfriend screamed and he ran off.
However i had to go out sometime Some days later i returned to find the lock on my pad had been changed. Enraged, (the rent was paid) i dashed next door to the Plaza Hotel to try to find some tools to break down the door. Standing there in the lobby was Mal Evans. The tall Englishman was most sympathetic and accompanied me back to my building for a talk with the doorman, who was denying everything. Mal opened with, "I happen to be very rich and I'd like to buy this building." After some cajoling the doorman opened the apartment for me. we immediately called a locksmith and had a new lock installed. But it was clearly time to move on.

i had recently made an uneasy acquaintance with a character named Joe Goldberg. He was a blond, muscular, Andy Williams look-a-like, who worked in his dad's building supply business, drove around town in an MG, and was unusually adept at scooping up women. For some reason Joe had decided i was extremely cool, and attached himself to me as an acolyte. Joe was a nice guy but a bit square, and i had to explain half of my cultural references, be it literary or jazz.
However he had a great sense of adventure. When he heard of my plight he immediately invited me to stay at his place. i was reluctant but changed my mind when i saw his pad. Joe lived in an art-deco, terraced penthouse on the upper west side that had a dropped living room, a shower with 8 built in nozzles, and a view of the Guggenheim museum across Central Park. My room had a terrace with southern exposure, and it's own bathroom. What could be bad? A few days after i moved in Joe invited me to take a drive. Cruising through New York in an open sports car on a spring day, is definitely a gift from heaven. Abruptly Joe pulled the MG over. "Watch this," he said, leaving the car and approaching a pretty young lady. I cringed, sank low in my seat, half-expecting the girl to call a cop. Smiling and talking, Joe invited the girl for coffee. She refused. Joe kept smiling and talking right past the rejection. Again she said no. Joe just kept talking, telling the girl how great she looked, getting her name, etc. "Just a coffee," he repeated, "please." After the third "no", the girl agreed to have coffee. A little caffeine later, she was sitting in the MG on our way back to the pad. Joe gave her a tour and i discreetly departed. When i returned the girl was still in Joe's room.
Another day Joe challenged me to try his technique. The trick was, he explained, to not shrink off when the lady said no. "You have to hang in" he explained, "no matter what." We went out one day, spotted a lovely lady, Joe pulled over and challenged me. Believe me i was reluctant. It went against everything i had learned about cool. But it was a challenge.
i left the car, approached the lady and asked, "excuse me what's your name?" She stopped and told me. i invited her for coffee, she said no. We talked about art, movies, anything to keep her engaged. i invited her again. Again she said no. To my complete surprise, the next time i suggested coffee she agreed. Eventually we ended up at my room that day, and i had learned a valuable lesson that has stood me in good stead ever since. In fact it came just in time for the invasion of the Sarah Lawrence debs. Right after graduation, a bevy of Sarah Lawrence ladies descended on Greenwich Village for their summer of real experience . Later in the decade they would turn to each other. They had names like Grey Henry, Helen Whitney, Catherine Love Drew and Julianne McBill. Catherine Drew had an affair with Duke, and she introduced me to Helen. We had a brief flirtation but Ms Whitney was wrapped too tight for me, a professional virgin. Meanwhile Drew had left Duke and taken up with a local gangster called Nick. The interesting thing about these girls was their sense of entitlement, and the illusion that they actually knew how to handle things that were beyond their grasp. The sweetest of them was Julianne, a fledgling actress from Texas, who was a friend of Saeed Jaffrey, one of the actors in A Passage To India. We shared a lovely moment then, as was the flow of the day, moved on. After a few months i felt the need for my own place. As it happened i visited one of the strange new dance clubs, where a French dude name Jean Paul told me he had just landed an apartment in the Century building, and was leaving his present flat. From that chance meet i inherited a fully furnished apartment, complete with a phone in the bathroom, for $100 a month. For the first time since Boston, i would be living alone. It was like taking a deep breath after a long run. Having been influenced by Siddhartha, various texts on Buddhism, enlightened discussions with friends, references in Beat poetry, and J.D. Salinger's unforgettable koan (the sound of one hand clapping), i began a practice of stretching and meditation in the morning. Also in there was Paul Bowles' translation of an old Moroccan saying, "a pipe of kif before breakfast gives a man the strength of a hundred camels in the courtyard".
By this time Duke had opened Duke's3 (cube) on Sullivan Street, with money borrowed from the boys right next door, at the Ravenite Social Club. He was backed by a promise of additional funding when Lady Catherine's trust fund kicked in. Meanwhile Helen W's trust turned over and she immediately bought a Porsche. So much for Academia. i usually dropped into Duke's place for lunch and was well aware of the heat up the street. Still, Duke played the best music in town ( Sidewinder by Lee Morgan was a big fav ) and the food was excellent. The model Lauren Hutton was often there with her boyfriend/guru Bob Williamson. One day Duke gave me two passes for the advance screening of a new movie about the Beatles. "You don't have to go," he drawled, both of us understanding that a British rock group was fare for teenyboppers, not New York hipsters. But i was running around with Julianne and thought it might be fun, especially after my experience with Mal. The film was of course, A Hard Day's Night, and i left the theater with a whole new respect for British Rock, Richard Lester and the Fab Four. Suddenly they were on the same level as Lenny Bruce or Thelonious Monk. And you could dance to it.
So it was happening. The Stones, The Beatles, The Animals, all were blowing Paul Anka, Vic Damone, and Patti Page off the stage. People were buzzing about them in the same tones they might discuss a new abstract painter, or film actor. Rock was making its artistic bones.

Suggested Listening: Sidewinder by Lee Morgan

can * nois * seur ( kan' us' sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of Cannabis.



Chem Dawg In New York

Kicking it behind a working J of Chem Dawg i think back to my return to New York from San Francisco. First off, it was cold. The apartment i shared an apartment with Harvey was located right behind the Plaza Hotel. For someone used to the Village, midtown life was like going to an exotic country. Harvey had grown up in Miami and attended the U of M. He was a young agent at the firm founded by Joe Glazer, the man who championed black jazz artists from Louie Armstrong to Billie Holiday to Billy Eckstine, as well as guiding Dave Brubeck to fame. With Harvey's crowd came the uptown, night-club girls, who were quite different from the art girls, the folk girls, the jazz girls, and the hippie girls. They weren't even like the young career girls. These babies had grown up in cabanas from Miami to Long Island and they lived in apartments funded by daddy, while they shopped and trolled for a husband. One such lady, an upstairs neighbor by the name of Maxine, told me, "I just want to be a show business wife..." Okay, better than some who spent their days getting their bee-hives waxed and evenings playing Pokerino on 42nd street, where such parlors proliferated like fluorescent algae. Sure, i realized they were toxic but to me it was just another facet in the philosophical jewel. ( Maxine later married Richard Pryor )
Harvey and myself had a great time eating in the local Delis, going to see artists Harvey repped, dating the local wildlife, getting high and watching Charlie Chan movies.
i had secured a day job as a Social Worker in the Bronx. My territory included Fox avenue which was as far from the Plaza Hotel as it was from the Taj Mahal. The gritty tenements were permanently in the shadow of elevated subway stations, and the grimy thunder of trains passing overhead, blotted out sound and sky. The streets were grim and dangerous. My clients were huddled in damaged apartments that made Los Angeles look like a ghetto vacation spa. At least in California you could see the sun, clouds and hills. Otherwise it was bureaucratic business as usual.
At night we would hang with Richy, or the Twins. Ray Lofaro had married a lady named Nancy, and had a son. He had also gone into the advertising/commercial biz with a vengeance.
Don Defina was busy editing a feature film called Lilith, starring Warren Beatty and Jean Seberg. Jerry Cole had jetted to London and had returned with the latest word in style. He was still dabbling heavily in heroin and hookers. He was also hanging with some of the more criminal elements in Greenwich Village, while at the same time making inroads into the underside of High Society. He was into the "Jake Shots", Dr Jacobs' mix of amphetamine and B12 that JFK reputedly took. The Twins were still The Twins, at the hub of a constant whirl of drugs, jazz and sex. Their living room was crowded nightly. Jim Butler, my army pal, had already co-written a couple of off-Broadway revues and was hanging with Ralph Pine, actress Maurie Wienstock and a few others in the Emerson/Boston crew, including poet Dale Landers. So all of these separate crowds had begun to clone, as groups were doing everywhere in the country.
The reaction to JFK's assassination and the resistance to the war was stiffening. The Beatles had put out two hit singles, Carnaby Street, London was exploding, New Wave English Cinema was big box office, Bob Dylan was on his way to being a megastar, the Stones were slouching into view, the black communities were starting to organize, everyone seemed to be restless, looking for something that was right around the next corner. And in January of 1964, it was...

The Beatles, Mal Evans and Me

Now along with the night-club girls came the uptown hookers. These ladies were different than the downtown bohemians who became call girls to support their alternate life-style ( a term still uncoined in '64 ). No, these ladies were the real thing. In fact Nikki, a Park Avenue madam, was known for the leopard skin decor of her salon. She was also a devotee of Lucumi, Afro-Cuban Voodoo. Nikki and her co-workers Gloria and Estrella, liked to get high, and hang out with Harvey, Richy and myself. Fine with us. Nikki was into cocaine, which i tried but didn't particularly fancy. Later that would change.

About that time a friend called with an unusual request. A merchant seaman was in town with a big piece of hashish that he was willing to trade for LSD. Fortunately The Twins were holding sealed glass vials of LSD from Sandoz Labs (still legal at the moment ). So the seaman came over, a big Arnold Swartzenegger kind of dude. And he had a six-ounce slice of hash. At the time, an ounce of hash was selling for $100. LSD for ten bucks per sealed vial. Two vials later he traded me a piece of fine, black hash for the acid. Suddenly i was a businessman. i sold the hash i didn't smoke and with the profits bought a pound of good weed. Nikki and some others gave me some solid references and i soon had a cool clientele. One notable was Rodney Dangerfield. Within a few months i left my Bronx Social Work behind and became a boutique pot dealer. Things were chugging right along. About that time the Beatles were due to arrive. A few of their top advance staffers including Mal Evans, were looking to score. Mal came to my place with Diane Agostini, the daughter of noted artist Peter Agostini. She looked like an art deco cameo with white ivory skin. Mal was a tall, affable, enthusiastic chap and we hit it off immediately. During out conversation he let on he was looking for speed. One of my friends had left a couple of vials (things were much purer back then) of Methadrine which i was reluctant to take, knowing it would consume two days and leave me depressed. i gave them to Mal who asked, how much? On the house, i replied and we became fast friends. Soon he would help me in a big way.

Coming Soon: The Summer of Sarah Lawrence and the Disco Girls (Ondine)
Not to mention Princess Francesca and Richie Berlin..

Suggested Viewing: Up In The Air with George Clooney

can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), v. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of Cannabis

Heads Up; Green Xmas in San Francisco
Many of the clubs in town are stocked with superior bud. Among them are:

Hope Net @323 ninth street is still holding Bubba Kush (see last post) and a lush version of Green Crack that comes on warm and sultry, like swimming during an afternoon rain, and taking a long, lazy dive past schools of brightly colored fish.

Over at Divinity Tree, 958 Geary Street, we found a splendid selection, including a major league version of Chem Dawg that unwinds like a Tim Lincecum fast ball, sizzling as it elevates
past the hitter, bullpen, and upper deck, on its way to the hall of fame.
Also on hand is Silver Surfer, a blend of Silver Haze and Skunk, that definitely strikes a mellow note for the holiday festivities, being as laid back as Bing Crosby crooning White Christmas.

Re-Leaf, at 1284 Mission Street @ 9th, is holding its usual fine variety, including a strain called Crescendo, that lives up to its name, building to a melodic, yet contemplative, level.

Please Note: All of these clinics and strains were chosen for their moderate pricing. Too many clubs are inching past the financial reach of their patients.

The Road Never Ends: New York State Of Mind

The drive back from California was uneventful, save for a detour to Vegas. When we reached New York everyone parted company, including me and Barbara. It was time, besides which i was couch surfing while Barbara went back to her parents in the Bronx. i was always welcome to stay with The Twins (along with the rest of NY) as well as with Richy, who was sharing a penthouse with Luigi Alfano. They were indeed the Odd Couple. Richy was a Jewish prince, indifferent to things domestic, while Luigi was compulsively neat. i still remember an exasperated Luigi saying over and over, "Richy-it only takes five minutes..." But Richy hooked me up with an old pal Harvey, from his University of Miami days. (Rich did find time to join a fraternity) . At the time Harvey was working as an agent for ABC, founded by the legendary Joe Glazer. Harvey was, as he still is, a great hang, and he needed a roommate, having broken his girlfriend's jaw in a moral dispute.

to be cont.

can * nois * seur (kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of Cannabis.




Heads Up: A chance visit to Hope Net @ 223 ninth off Howard, proved fortuitous. (look it up) Always a haven for the dollar-wise seeker the clinic stocks a wide variety of moderately priced, and lower priced strains, including a choice of shake. This week's featured bud is Bubba Kush. A burly, genial sativa, BK expands as it elevates, like solar panels on a surveillance satellite. It has a generous arc that gently descends to earth landing. At $15 a gram Bubba is San Francisco's finest gourmet bargain.

Black Friday: November 22, 1963

For three days we sat around the black and white TV, stunned by the shocking news coming out of Dallas. Kennedy represented our best hope. Far from the media picture of naive hippies bearing flowers, the real protest against the Vietnam was was coming from people who saw through the propaganda and flag waving. those like myself who had already been through the draft and knew first-hand the senseless waste in blood and resources. ( an unsung generation of Vietnam battle veterans was yet to come). We also had heard, and discussed, the rumours buzzing on the grapevine...

*JFK had smoked weed and was on speed.
*The CIA was conducting mind control experiments involving LSD.
*The CIA was involved in the heroin trade in Vietnam.
*The CIA was involved in a number of flashy assassinations including South Vietnamese
President Diem on Nov 1, 1963 , while his wife was visiting the White House.

The reason hippies became hippies in the first place was because we all knew bullshit when we
heard, or saw it. Bullshit radio music (the Beatles never won a Grammy), bullshit propaganda, bullshit sexual repression, bullshit marijuana hysteria, bullshit perpetrated by those who wished to manipulate a docile mass. "The people is a great beast..." Thomas Jefferson. So of course it was the hippy movement that swept across the nation's campuses and generated the peace movement. The students were greatly motivated by the prospect of being drafted, and dropped by their government into a jungle fire-fight.

Anyway, the point is, we were all highly sceptical of the events that unfolded that weekend.
John Kennedy represented the best and brightest in America. And he had been shot. In Texas. Home state of Vice President Lyndon Johnson who had ascended to Presidency on JFK's death. Less than a month since Diem's assassination, and less than a week since JFK signed the order to begin withdrawal from Vietnam. If you were watching this as a Shakespearean play, what would you think? Rozencranz did it?

Flashback: While i was still living in the Lower East Side, my high school friend Bob Pasolli, who was working as a Theatrical Publicist, gave me two $100 tickets to John F Kennedy's birthday party at Madison Square Garden. i was psyched, thinking they were front-row seats but of course found myself in the upper tier. Still i had a good view of our vibrant prez with his yachtsman tan and global teeth. He was right up there with Cary Grant in my Manly Hall of Fame. Then Marilyn Monroe appeared, silver sequined dress and blond hair shimmering white-hot under the lights as she sang Happy Birthday in a low, smoky voice...i still have the program.

All weekend long we watched the scene unfold with a mixture of horror, disbelief and anger at the hourly insults to our intelligence. Information revealed that defied common sense. Hard facts dismissed for stupid reasons. Evidence lost, the autopsy botched, witnesses disregarded...the beat goes on. We could see that the authorities had recovered from the confusion of the first few hours and were busy constructing The Official Version. In other words, bullshit. During the first few hours we saw eyewitness testimony of shots coming from the Grassy Knoll, the overpass, there was footage of people pointing away from the Book Depository. All vanished by the second day...The police had their man, Lee Harvey Oswald.
We knew it was a set-up even before Oswald announced to reporters as he was being hauled away, "I'm just a patsy." How right he was.
The next day (Sunday Nov 24 ) he was dead. Shot in the basement of the goddamn police station by a low-level strip club owner, an unmade man called Jack Ruby.
Well there you have it, the authorities told us, Oswald shot Kennedy and Ruby shot Oswald. Case closed.
Oh yeah? Let's light up and review this a bit. We had all seen the early witnesses, we had all seen Oswald's black eye, we had all seen how he was hustled away from reporters, we all heard the "patsy' line, and we were all painfully aware of the government's relentless selling of The Lone Gunman Theory and knew it was pure road apples. Common sense dictated you look for, rather than dismiss, a conspiracy when a President is assassinated.
We also all realized something had been stolen from us. And we wanted it back.
A few weeks later Joel, Harvey, Barbara and myself booked a Lincoln Continental and began driving cross-country, back to New York.
i would not reconnect with Robert for the next thirty years...

Recommended Reading: Mexico City Blues by Jack Kerouac

can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of Cannabis.

With much anticipation we set out for Harborside, the legendary Oakland Health Center, often spotlighted by the media as the success model for Medical Marijuana clinics. Armed with Google directions from the club's website (better double-check) we drove east across the Bay Bridge. Two flat tires (don't ask) and three hours later, we found 1840 Embarcadero. Was it worth it? Well for one thing the club has a good parking lot. For another, the address is clearly marked in large black numbers on the side of a large white building. The entrance is manned by two friendly guys who checked our paperwork and ID. Once inside we passed through a metal detector and were checked again. As first time visitors, a sprightly female guide named Kate showed us the various facets of the Health Center. One section offers healing classes in everything from Yoga to Hypnotherapy. There is an Activist section where those interested can make calls and send E mails on behalf of Marijuana legislation, and maintain support for those incarcerated ("prisoners of war", Kate calls them). Beyond that is the promised land, a clean, well-lit pot emporium that resembles a bank. There is a forty-foot long counter with five sets of glass cases, each containing the identical product. A budtender stands behind each case. One waits behind the rope to be called when customers depart. Our budtender was a lovely red-head named Betsy who explained all their product had been tested for toxic substances. Displayed inside the case were at least twenty-five strains at various price levels which were color coded. Figuring it would take another three hours to figure out the code we gravitated to the top-shelf eighths, packaged in small, glass apothecary jars. We chose a Sativa-dominant strain developed by renowned herbalist Jack Herer, labeled Jack Herer (S/1). This pale green and gold bud propels, rather than elevates, one to rarefied altitudes, like a heat-seeking missile looking for a human heart. Clear and cerebral, ( S/1 ) has a romantic streak with a long, trailing arc that leaves a nice afterglow. The same might be said for the Harborside Health Center. Now that we know the way, we'll trek east again.

North Beach Days and Nights

The first order of business upon arriving in San Francisco was hooking up with a reputable pot connection. Now in Los Angeles, one bought weed by the "lid". Technically, this was a Prince Albert tobacco can full of boo, and it cost $20. In San Francisco, where the populace was more sophisticated, one purchased by the ounce, just like New York. My friend Robert, knew a guy who knew a Berkeley student who had just returned from the Yucatan in Mexico with a kilo of prime bud. At $25, the oz was top bread but worth every grain . The cat who made the sale was called Grant and he carried himself with the cool of an explorer returned from a jungle trek. For indeed, it was a true-life adventure, and i was a tad envious. Driving cross-country paled in comparison.
However the boo was first-rate, and Robert and Gail were most gracious hosts. They had a comfortably secluded pad on Leavenworth Street between Jackson and Washington. Some call it Nob Hill, i call it Upper Chinatown. The cable car ran both ways past their corner, and their house was located off the street at the end of a garden path. If it sounds idyllic, it was. Mom and pop stores, light traffic, great public transportation, Italian cafes, Chinese tea houses, great old flats...all affordable. Some days we would buy a dozen chicken and pork buns (Dim Sum) and drive out to Stinson Beach . Some nights we'd go to Playland on The Great Highway. Playland On The Beach ( now long gone) featured a giant slide for life, rolling tunnels, mazes, and various other delights for young hippies.
For by now Beatniks were old news and jazz hip had given way to folk/rock hippies. The Zen ethic had pervaded all of these underground cultures, bending the quest from ambition to enlightenment. Was it the weed, the psychedelics, the music, the common realization that authority was far from sacred, an illusion in fact...? Whatever, it was transmuting into a lifestyle.
Robert had purchased his car for $25 at a local junkyard and it ran just fine. We set out to do the same but i didn't have Robert's luck. About two days after i bought it, the car blew up, engine spewing steam. We all piled out then noticed Gail was missing. She was still inside the hissing vehicle, yelling and trying to kick the folding seat upright. At about one hundred pounds, Gail was as lithe as a cat, and she leaped onto the sidewalk as the car wheezed, sighed and died...
But we didn't mind walking to North Beach and the City Lights Bookstore, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ferlinghetti. The poetry readings had pretty much vanished with the old Beats who were scattered from Tangier to Paris to New York. And despite my recent lit prize, i could feel the vibe wasn't there.
Through the auspices of Robert's friends, Al Lyons and his wife Harriet, i was auditioning for an entry-level job with the San Francisco Examiner. Al lent me a more conservative suit than my own dark blue, double-breasted, narrow trousered, Mod number. He also tutored me on each and every test question i might encounter, having gone through it himself. He had a healthy animosity to the guy who handled the screening/training process, which took an unpaid two weeks. Al himself was an extremely hale, laugh-loving cat who brought profanity to new heights (some might say lows) and i say this as an army veteran.
Another friend of Robert's came to crash. Warren was central casting for an altar boy, with blond hair and angelic features. Later he did a one-year bit for trying to smuggle a pound of weed with a partner who was dying of cancer. A few years after that Warren published a novel called A Free Country.
At night we would hang out in Robert's living room, mostly rapping. Robert has a vast storehouse of film trivia in his brain as do i. A photographer and film maker, Robert worked part time in a camera store and had access to equipment. We would watch films on TV and critique the acting, directing, and cinematography. There were always people hanging out and my jungle weed helped stimulate conversation and open conceptual doors. Robert's favorite breakfast cereal at the time was Rice Chex, and he had the idea of shooting a commercial for the product and selling it to them. The best part was everybody would be in the movie.
The film was made but i was at training class, listening to Victor who was as pompous as he was petty, going on about the art of classified ads. As promised everyone, including the Chinese couple who ran the grocery where Robert filmed, was in the commercial. Did it sell? No one really cared.
Under Al Lyons' tutelage, i passed every test Victor threw at us with flying colors. But still he was suspicious that some radical would invade his precious classified ad department. You see about a year before, a jazz pianist named Dick Conte landed the job, and used the time to sell advertising for his own radio show. Victor was outraged and ever vigilant. True. his suspicions had some basis, since Dick was part of Robert's crowd, and Al's good friend. The day before the final test Victor asked me to wear a different suit. I'd been wearing Al's staid pinstripe for two weeks. Having no choice i wore my blue double-breasted with the most conservative tie i could find. i aced the final test but Victor was adamant. My suit was busted. "We had a guy who wore a suit like that..." Victor said self-righteously, "Dick Conte..."
This changed everything. Money was running low and my job prospects had vanished. Still, there was talk of going into advertising or TV commercials.
Two friends of Barbara's showed up, fresh from a trip to Mexico. Joel and Harvey were nice Jewish boys from the Bronx who had heard on the grapevine that Barbara was in SF. Joel was tempted to stay for a while but Harvey was anxious to get back to hairdressing school. ( a smart move since very soon styling men's long hair would generate serious money )
The war in Vietnam showed no sign of ending and resistance to the draft was growing. Some college students were moving to Canada. But in fall of '63 things were still at the living room rap session level. And of course Robert's living room was always filled with young people. The war, political rumours, job options, plans for trips, ideas for films, news of friends, upcoming music events...all of it was discussed nightly, the pad abuzz with burgeoning energy, just the way it was happening in apartments and dorms everywhere in America. The word was passed hand to hand with each joint.
One afternoon Robert came home early from his job at the camera store. He had just seen the news on the store's TV.
President John Kennedy had been shot...

Recommended Viewing: A Serious Man by The Coen Brothers

can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of Cannabis.

Heads Up: On a recent recon to three dispensaries about San Francisco we came up with a nice surprise at Divinity Tree, 958 Geary Street. White Shark, a well-named offshoot of the popular Sativa, White Widow, is indeed a heavily snow-dusted, dark green bud. Nicely cured, it has a good burn which lifts you steadily to altitude, before settling into a comfortable flight that makes a smooth landing on a tropical island. At $50 the 1/8th it's a holiday vacation treat.

Divinity Tree is small, but has a mighty menu and offers reasonable prices and discounts.

Say Goodbye To Hollywood

i was on my second car in nine months and LA's cheap gloss had long since worn off. Granted the place looked great from a Bentley convertible but for young talent trying to find a door on which to knock, the landscape was pure Dali bad dream. Social work had come down to filling out and filing bureaucratic forms, and my friend Shelby decided to hit on me.
While flattered, i was something of a serial monogamist so i passed. This did not sit well with Shelby. However we remained civil and a month later she had hooked up with an affable Afro-American dude named Hogan who was more suited to Shelby's flamboyant Southern charm. Just about that time Barbara and i attended one of Manny's Sunday pool parties. He and his wife had just returned from Maui where they had vacationed with LA's Fire Commissioner and his wife. Both the ladies were wearing flowery muumuus and all were feeling no pain. Curious, i decided to give the Commish a rundown on the problems in the ghetto. It was drought season and to make my point about the level of desperation i asked, "what's to stop them from spilling some lighter fuel and lighting a match?" The Commish put down his drink, gave me a look of pure loathing and said, "why don't you take a vacation in Hawaii?" A year later Watts was in flames.

Happily, Robert Gilman and his wife Gail came to visit. It was great to see my homies and hook them up with my new pals, including Shelby and Hogan. i missed the quick, educated humor cultivated back East. All they cultivated in Southern California was easy credit. Robert told us that unlike LA, which had a large segment of narrow-eyed John Birchers, San Francisco was full of artists and hippies, and North Beach was the new Village. (In LA at that time, the Birchers, a militant right-wing group whose logo was a rifle target, were leaving anti-John Kennedy pamphlets everywhere.) Thus, when my second car, a canary yellow Dodge convertible, blew its transmission, i decided it was time to move on north, to San Francisco.

Next: The Ghosts of Kerouac and Ginsberg

can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of Cannabis.


Heads Up: Hope Net at 223 Ninth Street off Howard has a version of White Widow, the Sativa Hybrid, at $13 a gram, that outguns many of the more expensive strains in the city. Hope Net has always been a user-friendly club with space to smoke, a wide variety of strains
and helpful budtenders. The Coop's prices are reasonable and their menu usually includes a low-cost shake or mix.

Act 2: The Screen Test Cometh

So there i was in Hollywood with a job, car and female companion named Barbara, a former New York model for the fashion illustrator Antonio Lopez Cepero. We found a tiny apartment that featured a large garden and view perched at the crest of a canyon stairway with at least 1000 steps. Above us the Hollywood Sign listed like an old drunk. Today the area is known as Beechwood Terrace and the sign has been to rehab.
i threw myself into Social Work, intending to heal lives and right injustice, until it became clear the system had other ideas. one of my jobs was to visit welfare clients, mainly single mothers, and make sure the father or husband wasn't on the premises. If he was, the mother didn't qualify for welfare payments. You tell me. Does this make for a stable home, or does it encourage a fractured family with no visible father figure?

Unlike New York there was no place where young actors would gather except for Barney's Beanery. There was a late night scene at a place called Ben Franks but it was more for Vegas hipsters than beat artists. The Purple Onion booked fine musicians including The Jazz Crusaders and The Loser's Club had a billboard out front naming the Loser Of The Week. That was about it. No cafes, hardly any sidewalks and nasty white cops who would stop your car for any reason and "roust you" ( check your ID for outstanding warrants ). If you looked weird your car would be searched, if you happened to be black you were in trouble. Rumour was, most of the cops were failed western actors and indeed many carried pearl handled Colts as sidearms. It was said some had notches.
On the other hand, driving in the balmy weather with the top down and the radio up, LA could be a groove.
Of course LA is the land of surreal illusion. Giant Stucco Hot Dogs dripping with mustard, Huge Top-Hatted Exterminators wielding mallets behind their tail coats, Big Pink Stores with yellow polka-dots; all adorned the landscape on the way to the Ghetto....
The first time i visited a welfare mother and approached the address my first thought was that LA's ghetto was far nicer than New York's slums. My client lived in a neat blue stucco house with a small garden. It looked like a sitcom set in the happy suburbs. As i neared however, it became clear that it was actually a pastel noir. Up close one could see the overgrown grass littered with refuse that seemed like a garden, and the rat holes in the grimy blue stucco walls. The moms were usually young, with more than one child. Oddly, my black co-workers from back east looked down on their western brethren, who had emigrated directly from the south to the cultural wasteland of LA, without benefit of the New York experience. Then again, all Easterners found the place unsophisticated at best.
My co-worker Shelby, a flouncy blond with a southern accent provided me with pot and regaled me with stories of her professional encounters with Cary Grant and David Niven. Shelby had a great flat above Sunset Boulevard and very near Lenny Bruce's home.

Side Story: The Twins had given me the number of a mutual friend, a black musician named Donny, who knew many of the working jazz players in the area. One night while we were out and about Donny took us to Lenny Bruce's Pad, where a friend of his was house-sitting. Sunken living room, grey walls, low lights, jazz...everything except Lenny himself.

About this time Barbara contacted a relative living in Thousand Oaks (at that time the posh new area) who had made a lot of money manufacturing rifles and other arms. His name was Manny and he had connections in the movie business. We visited his poolside home and partook of his gracious hospitality but with all the opulence it just wasn't the American Dream i dreamed about. Mine included a two-story townhouse in Greenwich Village where i could write. However there i was in Hollywood trying to be an actor. So who was i to judge anybody? Manny was a soulful host with a lovely wife and two daughters who enjoyed his success. Mozeltov baby. And, he actually did have a friend at Warner Brothers. A man named Solly Biano.
The word came. Yes, Mr Biano would grant us an audition. Problem was, neither Barbara nor i was prepared for the task. i had some raw talent but no idea of technique. And Lady B had long legs and the brains of most models. We decided to do a scene from Two For the Seesaw, a play totally inappropriate for our limited range. i wanted to do the kitchen scene from Franny and Zooey, not a play, but intense dialogue. But in truth, we could have done a scene from Love Boat and still would have stunk up the joint.
When the big day arrived Manny took us to meet Solly Biano, who was a wiry, handsome, older man, with a great tan, silver white hair and the energy of a youngster. He immediately became my role model. Unfortunately when i got on stage my limbs felt like mozzarella and my voice was full of ham. Inside of four minutes Solly had seen enough. The Warner Brothers movie career was a wrap.
Shelby was sympathetic. She shared my belief in social work and was always up for a good time.
Then, a few weeks later, fortune smiled from another direction. My brother Andrew, had submitted my poems to a literary contest and i had been awarded first prize ( and fourth ) by the Valley Writer's Conference in Cupertino Ca. . First prize for Song For Myself and fourth for Song For My Mother. First was a check for thirty dollars. Fourth was a certificate, which still hangs on my wall.

Suggested Reading: Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer
Suggested Viewing: Fanny by Marcel Pagnol

can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of Cannabis.

Taste Test #1

Earlier this week i dropped in on Grass Roots at 1077 Post Street in San Francisco for a gram of Sativa. i chose a dependable old fav Super Silver Haze at $18 and lit up later. While my first impression was good, but not great, i decided to reserve opinion.

Later that week i was walking through Berkeley and decided to visit the Patient's Care Collective at 2590 Telegraph Avenue and browse their selection. They had a nice variety of hybrids (pure Sativas seem to be dwindling) including Super Silver Haze at $16 the gram.
In the interest of science i took a gram of SSH, intending to hold a taste-off.
Over the course of two days i compared both grams. This is my conclusion based on three solid tests...

The $18 bud from Grass Roots has a pleasant, low-flying ride with the arc of a seaplane from Sausalito to San Francisco. Short and ultimately pedestrian.

On the other side the $16 gram from Patients Care Collective provides good, hefty elevation that has a global sense of purpose and robust arc. Definitely top-shelf at a friendly price.

Usually a first-class dispensary with a great menu Grass Roots might want to rethink their Sativa taster. If i recall Chocoloup was lemonade.
Note: Under a magnifier it's difficult to tell the SSH grams apart. Never judge a bud by its color.

America's Cultural Tsunami: The Continuing Saga

Once in LA i found a place to live, sort of a furnished motel type deal and began looking for a job to support me while i pursued my acting. i had heard on the Boston grapevine (before Blackberry and twitter we had The Grapevine) that Laura, a Radcliffe girl married to a dynamic young black man called Sonny Daley, was in LA. Her husband Sonny had looks, charm and was extremely well spoken. He also gave you the sense he was ready to rumble at any moment.

Now Sonny had been briefly married to Gail who was currently living with my pal Robert Gilman. Sort of a hippy Days Of Our Lives... So i contacted Laura who was then residing in Santa Monica with daughter Rivka (Sonny was away) who told me it was easy to get a job as a Social Worker if you had a College degree. I took her suggestion, applied, and was accepted. This meant i could buy a car, which was required for the job description. i liked the idea of Social Work and bought a huge, old Packard for $50.

Side Story: Robert Gilman met Gail at a Halloween party in 1960. They immediately became inseparable and set up residence in Robert's North End apartment. Fine. True love, everything as it should be. Then it happened that Robert introduced his friend Jody to Ralph Pine. Youth being what it is, Ralph got Jody pregnant. Jody then went to New York for an abortion. Lonely, unhappy, Jody sent Robert a postcard that read, "I'm so depressed, Fuck New York." The Boston Postal Inspector contacted Robert wanting to know who sent the offending card, which wasn't signed.Robert refused so the PI appealed to the local police for help. At the time the word "Fuck" was highly illegal in print. And it gave the local fuzz (as they were known) their opportunity. They had been watching this interracial couple. So on May 31st, the eve of Robert and Gail's wedding day, the police burst into their apartment and began ransacking the place, looking for drugs and pornography. Finding none they arrested the couple on local charges that ranged from "Lewd and Lascivious Cohabitation" and "Open and Gross Lewdness" to my favorite, "Affront to Public Morals". Bail was set at $250 for each and Robert was required to post $25 to secure his bond which Ralph Pine refused to pay so Robert contacted his estranged father for the money. Once free, Robert went out and got a young lawyer he had met at a party named F. Lee Bailey. It was practically F. Lee's first felony case. Yes, Lewd Living and Affront To Public Morals carried felony charges that could bring five years. The Boston Postal Inspector was so dismayed. he actually apologized to Robert for starting all the tsuris. Be that as it may, Bailey got the charges dismissed using the newly passed federal "search and seizure law". It seems the police, in their eagerness to thwart young love, hadn't bothered to get a warrant. Later, Robert named his son, Matthew Lee after F. Lee Bailey.

Back to Hollywood...There i was, reasonably settled, but lacking one important element, a pot dealer. i found a connection right there at my job, an ex-hooker turned Social Worker named Shelby....

Next: The Screen Test

Can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of Cannabis.


Today i saw the future and its name is Medithrive. Located at 1933 Mission Street between 15th and 16th, the dispensary stands like an oasis on a very dicey street. Sporting a pristine facade the anteroom is very much like a medical clinic, with a registration desk and an extremely efficient registrar named Ariel. The process takes a few minutes until one recieves a stamp for future visits and is asked to sign a copy of the house rules. From there one enters a slickly furnished room with a fine selection displayed on-and inside-the glass counter. The menu behind the counter lists favorites such as White Widow, Chem Dog, Bubba Kush, Blue Dream and more. This reviewer chose the elusive Love Potion ( reviewed 7/29/09)and received a 4 gram eighth from Daniel, the head budtender. As a first-timer i qualified for a gift, which turned out to be sample buds of Blue Dream and Chem Dog. Classy. My eighth also came in an elegant package, something like a silver snuff case with a transparent top. Altogether a well-run club with a brilliant vision. Better wear shades...

Hollywood Be Thy Name

i drove from New York to California in the requisite seven days but it wasn't easy. Eschewing maps i would get directions at various gas stations, a method that worked well until i arrived in Denver and found myself negotiating tight, winding roads on each and every one of the fucking Rockie Mountains, gaping at thousand foot drops. The Eldorado was not built for the rugged outdoors.
Finally i made it to movieland. Of course you can't beat the weather and there's the beach, the hills and...actually at the time there wasn't much else. What they labeled as a "Restaurant" was actually a Diner. All the houses were pastel stucco. The old star's homes in the wrong side of the Hollywood Hills (now prime-time real estate baby) which nested below the badly deteriorating "Hollywood" sign, were Disneyesque. Some were built like castles with fake moats, others with impossible spires and turrets. And there was nobody on the streets.
All of this inspired me to start writing a novel titled, Hollywood Looks As If It Was Designed By Thelonious Monk. It was a satire about a movie star with 500 pairs of shoes and a shoe maid, and her screenwriter husband, both of whom loved to smoke pot and pull outrageous stunts.
In the meantime i needed a place to stay, a car and a job--in that order.

Next: The Big Screen Test

can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of Cannabis



Re-Leaf, located at 1284 Mission @ 9th street, is currently holding two saucy Sativas. The first is Mystic Kush, a bright, bouncy strain that lights up the brain like a pinball machine. This breezy bud has an easy, optimistic arc with a drowsy landing. Reminds us of hi-grade Mex from days past.

On the other side Green Crack is powerful and full-bodied, reminiscent of a good Indica but for its more contemplative nature. This strain comes on like a Stealth Fighter, cruising at low altitude through the night sky. Very effective for muscle discomfort and insomnia.


We also tasted a new Sativa from Grass Roots' menu. Chocoloupe is a high-end bud that expands nicely but just hovers, going nowhere in particular. It has some of the diffuse, unfocused aspects of the Purple strains. Euphoric but uninspiring. An off-shoot of Choco Thai this one needs to go back to the lab.
But please make no mistake, Grass Roots located at 1077 Post Street is still one of our favorite
dispensaries.


Coming Soon: Hollywood Be Thy Name

can * nois * seur ( Kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of Cannabis.

Finding ourselves in Berkeley we paid a surprise (to us ) visit to Patient's Care Collective at
2590 Telegraph Avenue. The facade has no signage, the windows and doors covered by white curtains. We were told that the original prescription paperwork plus ID is required to enter. Inside the decor is also white. We were met by a pair of smiling desk clerks who took our information, registered us, and explained the house rules. The sterile decor and process reminded us of giving blood. However the staff was never less than enthusiastic and friendly. Afterwards we were directed inside where the budtenders carefully went over the selection which included oils, concentrates, kif and various edibles. First time visitors are given a tasty, caramel treat. We were also shown the top shelf herb and second-shelf ( less expensive ) boo.
We chose a $17 gram of Power Plant which is a combo of two South African strains.
A pale green bud with gold threads dusted with white resin, this easygoing Sativa is buoyant and feathery, like an exotic bird soaring across the lush veldt. More physical than most, PP
is light and bright, with a relatively modest arc that leaves one feeling optimistic. Especially about efficiently handled clinics like Patient's Care Collective.


Travel Note: In my earlier post i mentioned taking a driveaway car to LA. Now back in the day a good, inexpensive way to transport oneself from point to point, was to check the classified ads in the newspaper ( talk about stone age ) for Driver Wanted or Driveway Cars. The listers were firms that delivered cars from New York to La, or Chicago, or Miami, whatever...Their clients were usually professionals who had moved and wanted to keep their ride. The drivers were usually young people looking for a deal. (they received $50 or $60 at the end of the trip). The length of time given to reach LA was seven days. This meant straight driving, no stopping in Vegas along the way. It was definitely hipper than a Greyhound, especially if you were traveling heavy.
And rolling into Hollywood in a new, gold Cadillac Eldorado, was the only way to go.

Suggested Reading: Rain Gods by James Lee Burke

can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. One competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of Cannabis




Today's visit to the coop aptly named Divinity Tree at 558 Geary Street in San Francisco yielded a first grade strain also aptly named Almost Heaven. Dark green laced with purple/ tobacco threads salted with a light frost, this fragrant sativa expands slowly, like a hot-air balloon that rises to the upper atmosphere then floats for hours observing the world below. The buds are well-cured giving them a good burn and the funky aroma of an expensive men's cologne. It is also a nifty deal at $30 the 1/16. ( i bought a gram at 17, then came back for the latter)

Divinity Tree has become one of our favorite coops. The small, carpeted emporium has an exceptionally eclectic and exotic selection. Their menu features at least 15, or perhaps 25, strains in various glass jars displayed behind the back-lit glass counter. Prices range from $10 to $17 a gram and the clerks are knowledgeable. It's also open 11 to 6 on Sunday.



The Road to Hollywood is paved with mistakes. Part 4


This actually happened. In October of '62, myself and two new friends, Jason and Vic, were sitting in my East Village pad, smoking boo and listening to Symphony Sid on the radio when a newscaster broke in with the news that the United States and Russia were in an armed standoff...American ships were blockading delivery of nuclear missiles to Castro's Cuba. At that moment the chances of nuclear war were 50/50.
We looked at each other as the jazz came back. A discussion began. If the Russians sent a nuclear missile our way, Jason reasoned, New York would be a prime target. My brief experience in the military, and in theatre, told me this was just a flaring of feathers between predatory birds.
Perhaps it was the weed but Jason's hysteria kept escalating. He was certain New York was going to be hit. My somewhat nihilistic view was, you can't run from a nuclear bomb. May as well relax and blast off with the Big Apple.
Upon hearing this, both Jason and Vic were horrified to the extent that they got up, went out, and began hitchhiking to California that very moment. Man, talk about paranoid...
Speaking of which, my experiments with psychedelics and telepathy were getting weird.
A few months later, my marriage, and life, collapsing, i piled what i owned into a brand-new drive-away car, a Cadillac Eldorado, and headed for California. Like Kerouac and Cassady i was out to discover America in seven days.
Next stop Hollywood...

Recommended Listening: Back To The Blues by Dinah Washington

Recommended Viewing: The Bad And The Beautiful with Kirk Douglas

can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. One competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of Cannabis.





Heads Up: Nade has returned to Re-Leaf , 1284 Mission Street @ 9th st. in San Francisco. A colorful Sativa previously reviewed here. ( 9 / 8 /09 ). Also in the house are Happy Baked, caramel turtles ( "gourmet goodies with a twist" ) and Moo Cow Butter Cookies, two potently delicious edibles.

The Road To Hollywood Is Paved With Mistakes : Part 3

The Second Dimension

Once we were established in the Lower East Side, our apartment became something of a way station for people coming down from Boston. Some, like Dale Landers, the young poet hooked into heavies such as genius Jack Spicer, John Weiners and Stephen Jonas, came for literary reconnaissance. After all, Allen Ginsberg lived in the hood. Others came down because they heard i knew where to score pot. Their goal was to score a pound, take it back and resell it on campus or whatever. At that time, a pound of pot was a rare item.
My end was usually an ounce off the top. Once however i received one of those shawl-collared, heavy wool, belted Mexican sweaters that gave one the look of an adventurer. It was during the run of the Broadway show and i proudly wore my prize backstage. The great actress Gladys Cooper stopped me on the stairwell and told me her friend, movie star Roddy McDowell had an identical sweater. i wore the thing everywhere after that.
Also living on the Lower East Side were two pals from the Beat days, poet Barbara Moraff and Ray Bremser. Barbara was doing fine but Ray had acquired a nasty Speed habit, shooting amphetamines, and he was emaciated, the once strapping poet down to about a hundred pounds. Shortly thereafter he and his love Bonnie Blue disappeared for good.
Most of the old-line Beats like Kerouac, LeRoi Jones, Joel Oppenheimer and Gil Sorrentino, and Abstract Expressionists like Franz Kline, Larry Rivers and Bob Raushenberg would hold court at the Cedar Tavern on University Place.
While further West a new wave of Actors, Comics, Folkies, Potheads and Jokers were assembling at The Hip Bagel. LSD had arrived in New York, as had a number of new initials including DMT. In the words of Mel Torme "every body's hip, every kind of sound falls from every lip...".
My personal experimentation with Psychedelics and Telepathy was veering into uncharted territory. i became drawn into a book called The Bead Game by Herman Hesse.
Things were reaching critical mass and it was straining our marriage.

Recommended Listening: Smokin' by Miles Davis