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


Curiosity brought us to Divinity Tree, 958 Geary Street, San Francisco having passed it many times on our way to Tommy's Joint. At that hour parking was available and the small downstairs club had an easy, intimate feel with a couch for those waiting and a wide range of herb behind the glass counter. Staff is knowledgeable and waited while i studied their varied menu. Although a Sativa man i chose an Indica called Sugar Daddy at $55 an eighth.
The strain is well named. Lush and sweet with sticky buds, it comes on boldly, billowing like a large, multi-colored parachute. An offshoot of Grandaddy it is energetic as well as contemplative with an arc that hits a rarefied altitude.
Divinity Tree is definitely worth a return visit.

It occurred to me that as herb becomes more accepted for its medicinal and spiritual value, the ritual sharing and traditional courtesies that evolved during its exile might fall by the wayside. No doubt some will. Still i have faith the herb has the power to clear minds and touch souls on our common journey through eternity.
(whew! Divinity Tree indeed )


Well now, still savoring Sugar Daddy's aftertaste, we'll try to sort out the events that led to

Bob Dylan Sleeps On My Floor

I was honorably ( if grudgingly ) discharged from the U.S. Army one day late, in October 1960.
After spending the requisite two weeks with my parents I packed up and headed for Boston, where my old pal Ralph Pine had a pad. He was attending Emerson College and the place was jumping with young actresses looking for drama.
The people on the scene were mildly impressed by my New York poet creds but the romantic heroes of the moment were now Folk Singers. Everything had changed while i was busy saving America.
Boston was quite a weird scene. The intersection of Emerson, Boston University, Harvard, Radcliffe, Brandeis, the Museum School of Art, Boston Latin, Beacon Hill Brahmins, Roxbury brothers and Mission Hill bangers made for a manic mix. Add the LSD, Peyote, Mescaline
and Methadrine seeping into the soup and things began to bubble. At the time speed was more readily available than marijuana.
After a couple of weeks of crashing at Ralph's I landed a job at Filenes department store and found a studio on Charles Street that had the feel of a Parisian garret. Most every night people would gather at various pads, drinking wine and singing folk songs.
I was laid off after the Christmas season and applied for unemployment. My reward for two years Army time. I moved into a large apartment on Symphony Road with new friends Jerry Cole and Don West. From the very first night we moved in, it became party central.
As i recall the records we played went from Ray Charles to Joan Baez. Don West was a good-looking black dude who played guitar. Jerry Cole was an acting student at Emerson who might have been a cowboy star (another friend David Potter actually did become a TV cowboy)
and myself, the poet. It was a glorious period.
Unlike today where College grads seek a good, secure job, students then wanted to go to Paris or Mexico or India. They sought to find themselves and you know what, many of them did.
And a big part of this seeking was sex, drugs and rock and roll.
Okay then, long story short, some months later our Symphony Road apartment was gutted by fire. I was left with the clothes on my back and a leather pig.
Now behind Symphony Road was a place we called Coffee Corner, namely a Bick's All Night Cafeteria that was headquarters to the strange and the insomniac. At three A.M. one might find a trio of professional wrestlers, Billy Barnum the clown, Lionel Phelps the Harvard pundit, snarling Bobby Neuwirth (later named the superstar's superstar by Esquire) the poet Dale Landers, Paul Shapiro the painter, Rick Lloyd, a bicoastel ex-carney turned Pied Piper to well-born rebels, Jim Strahlee a local actor who introduced me to BU student Faye Dunaway, Dino Valente, later of Quicksilver Messenger Service, Jim Kweskin and David Simon who formed the Jug Band, Dave Van Ronk, Robert Gilman, Sonny Daly...and a host of others, including the painter Arthur Yanoff who had a spare room i was able to rent.
It was an interesting summer. Everyone was talking about the LSD experiments conducted by Leary and Alpert ( later Baba Ram Dass ) at Harvard. i took my first trip on mescaline supplied by a Brandeis student. Days were spent on the banks of the the Charles River hanging, singing chilling.
One night in Harvard square I saw a local guitar player, Perry Lederman, sitting on a curb with another picker, both of them playing Freight Train as fast as they could, trying to outdo each other.
The picker was a guy called Bob Dylan.
Anyway another night a lady i met invited me to come along on a ride to the beach. In the car was Dylan, another cat, and two other girls. The cat was a folk buff as were the ladies and they all worshipped this guy Dylan who i had never heard of before.
I did know one thing. There was a heavy aura around him. It was real quiet in the car as if no one wanted to say something square. And in Dylan's world everybody was square.
We partied on the beach, Dylan played some standard folk songs, nothing brilliant. Afterwards he said he didn't know where he was staying that night. i invited him to sleep on the mattress in Arthur's painting studio. Which he did.
In the morning Arthur threw a hissy fit at finding a stranger in his studio ( which at the time featured a slab of rotting meat, Arthur being in his Soutine period ). Dylan left.
Shortly thereafter i drew my last unemployment check and went to Province town with a Radcliffe hottie called Sunni Finklestein who majored in Sanskrit and drove a Ford with the first retractable metal top (the name escapes me). We hooked up with actor Jim Strahlee at the Provincetown Playhouse where I crashed. The weekend was fraught with high drama and when i returned to Boston my fire insurance settlement check was waiting for me.
It was time for my next phase.

Suggested Listening: What I Say by Ray Charles