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