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