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

While passing by Mr Nice Guy on lower Valencia we noticed a verdant sign bearing a familiar name. About two blocks down from MNG, at 14 Valencia St, here in San Francisco, we noticed the colorful sign for Ketama, which happens to be the name of the region in Morocco which grows the herb known as Kif. And sure enough it turned out to be an herbal dispensary. The club is quite welcoming, its interior decorated like a Moroccan cafe. i half-expected a belly dancer in attendance. Instead a very proper young lady who was both friendly and helpful took me through the limited menu ( 4 strains, perhaps 5)
the most promising being Purple Urkle. However in the interests of remaining solvent during this endeavor your reporter opted for an edible. At $6 Miss Dorothy's Chocolate Toffee turned out to be a delightful bargain.

Definitely worth a return visit.




Beyond II


During the period immediately following Broadway i found myself living in parallel universes.

One was my friendship with The Twins, Richie and Mike. Another was the ongoing dialogue with my Boston crowd. A third was my reconnection with some key friends from my college days. And the fourth dimension was my discovery of Greenwich Village.
Oh sure i knew the Village as a habitue', but now i was a citizen. ( some might say denizen )

Let's begin with the fourth dimension, always a favorite. It was an invigorating walk from Avenue C down Ninth, through Tompkins Square bustling with hustlers, past St. Marks Place, cross third and there you were in the West Village. There was a lively, jazzy, hole-in-the-wall on McDougal, just below Bleeker called The Hip Bagel. One nightly customer was comic Hugh Romney, now Wavy Gravy. Another was Milt Kamen, now deceased, who uttered the line, "Los Angeles is the only city that doesn't cast a shadow".The chief cook and host was Duke Figliuzzi, a bald ex-con who had more charisma than Toots Shor on Absinthe. While hanging at the Bagel we encountered an equally charismatic dude with the unlikely name of Chip Monk. Now Chip would later achieve fame as lighting and stage manager for The Woodstock Festival and his work as "the Voice of Woodstock" calming and informing the wet hungry crowd, warning them about 'bad acid' circulating. But at that time he was living in the basement of the Greenwich Hotel, doing lighting for The Village Gate nightclub right next door.
He had yet to grow a beard and with his lanky blond hair and upscale demeanor he might have been an English student at Oxford. ( i had gotten used to this while hanging at Harvard Square ) When he learned of our common interest in the herb we retired to his pad and got high. After that night we would meet often. Chip had affixed a pipe to an old gas mask and it did much to enhance the boo we were smoking at the time.
One night Chip told me he and a friend had been taping this folk singer called Bob Dylan. Chip explained that Dylan would come to The Village Gate after his gig at Gerde's Folk City. There Chip and his pal would give Dylan whatever food, drink or herb requested and tape record the new songs he was writing using the club's system. He was stoked and anxious for me to hear Dylan's new stuff.
i was less enthusiastic, having heard Dylan do folk songs at a WinthropiBeach party, Cambridge street corner and my Back Bay apartment. If anything i had gotten deeper into Jazz in NY.

Fortunately i had learned to be a good listener. When i heard the lyrics Dylan was laying down on this demo version of "A Hard Rain Is Gonna Fall" it was clear the Boston folkie was a fucking Major Poet. ( it's interesting that Dylan doesn't include that Boston period in his bio ) Whatever,"Subterranean Homesick Blues" blew us away as we listened to one brilliant lyric after another. When i later heard " A Hard Rain..." on The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan it was much shorter (obviously edited) than those original night time, basement tapes...but not a note less powerful.
Meanwhile i was making auditions, taking acting lessons and trying to get my "book" together. (acting photos ). Not only that, i had found gainful employment with the City's Parks Department. Having taken a civil service test i was officially a Recreation Leader-still my favorite job title.
They assigned me to a beautiful track and field on fourth street, right on the East River. The projects loomed across the drive but except for the occasional conga player, my only customers were a handful of Black and Latino kids training for their track team. It was there i developed my life-long love of running. ( four laps around the cinder track equalled a whole mile )
The man who shared my duties was a burly, genial dude named Tom Boutillier. He resembled a Flemish rogue in one of those old Dutch brothel paintings. And he had the personality to match; florid, gregarious. His lovely wife Joy was a dancer at the Alvin Nickolai Studio. Through her i was introduced to Nickolai's fearless genius as a choreographer and stage director. His performances were at least seven years ahead of the psychedelic era.
Tom, who was a precise, forward thinking cat, devised a work schedule that gave us seven days on and five days off. Plenty of time to get into trouble.

Next: The Third Dimension

Suggested Reading: Siddhartha by Herman Hesse