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



Tonight, sipping a choice Sativa (Love Potion), seems like a good time to tell a story or two. Have a toke and i'll recount my tale of the day i smoked a J with Jack Kerouac.



Part One: The Score



Back in the day, the day being 1958, finding a bit of pot could take a month.

During my college years i had manged to hunt down the occasional (and treasured) joint but like every other seeker the trail often led to delays, excuses, dead ends and the dread oregano. The latter being the ultimate humiliation for the would-be hipster.

This all changed when I was drafted out of the Beat scene into the Army. (note: most of the poets and artists of the time were heavily into alcohol)

To my surprise I found that unlike the repressed civilian society of the fifties the Army was seething with drinkers smokers and jokers of every stripe. It was there that i came across my first legitimate pot connection.

i ran into a young soldier by the name of Frenchy Laboy. Now Frenchy was with it and for it when it came to the Army. A bouncy Latino cat full of energy and enthusiasm. i once wrote an Army poem that included him, the line being "Frenchy runs to feel his feet".

Anyway Frenchy came from the South Bronx and said we could score some pot from his homeboys. So come Saturday off we went to New York in a car full of other soldiers who had paid two bucks each for the ride.

Sure enough as soon as we reached his hood we ran into an older dude called Raoul who said he would go look for Bunny.

He returned with a young black man who was sporting the first gold ear stud i had ever seen. Now please understand, in 1958 even the most extreme bohemian males did not wear earrings. Most obviously because it wasn't...manly.

However i came to learn that Bunny wore the ring to signify his status as a "diddybop" or neighborhood streetfighter. Which is as manly as you can get considering the fact that he protected his turf with raw fists, perhaps a knife or some highly unreliable zip gun (UZI's and drive-bys have taken the honor out of gang fighting).

Now i had my own issues with it since being a poet was not considered manly by the mainstream. When i was plucked out of the NY reading scene i was nervous about mentioning
poetry to my tough, new Army buddies. It was a pleasant surprise to find that some actually liked my stuff. In fact i was asked to write love letters to girls back home by many of my barrack mates.

Back to the South Bronx.

i purchased a nickle bag from Bunny and we repaired to the room Raoul had in his mother's apartment to listen to Charlie Parker and smoke some boo. One J got the four of us very high and i read some of my poems along with Bird to an enthusiasticly mellow audience. That night, sitting in that dark, cramped apartment with three strangers from another life. the pot, jazz and poetry dissolved all walls, giving me a glimpse of the bright new world to come.


And that's how i scored my first nickle bag of pot.



Part Two: i get high with Jack Kerouac


(see my next post)


Suggested Viewing: Surfer Dude

Suggested Listening: Brilliant Corners by Thelonious Monk.