Harvest Moon And The Witch Hunters

The Catbird Seat

Can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis


Heads Up: Harvest time is here, a time to rejoice, but the Federal spectre looms, a shadow on the golden moon. Lately the menus at various dispensaries have gotten sparse, a sign that they're selling off inventory rather than restocking. So why the Federal witch hunt? It's still not clear, perhaps because the entire exercise is absurd. The only sensible reason is that it's a DEA "fundraiser" a ploy to inflate their budget--at the expense of medical patients, and a social program that works. Usually if you follow the money it leads to the real lies. state senator Mark Leno and assemblyman Tom Ammianno are drafting legislation to protect the clubs as nonprofits. Where's Obama? Doesn't he know that smokers vote?
So to all ye growers, trimmers and tenders out there, this bud's for you...


SPARC on Mission Street between 9th and 8th is at the forefront of gathering resources to fight this ominous trend. Check out their website and join the battle to protect our right to natural herbal medicine... sparcsf.org


The Catbird Seat

Once back on the street there were questions. Who had set me up and why so long to make bail? Obviously Bobby S had set me up ( along with a few others ) but i let the second question hang. i had more immediate, and deadly serious, problems. I had no income, and I was not about to go back to jail. You can't get good coffee in the slam. I needed to find a job and leave my wild and free ways behind.
Interestingly enough, my free ways left me behind. Few people want to talk to you after you take a bust. You definitely find out who your friends are. i needed bread for a lawyer and the rent. Bruce E. was one of those who was there for me. We met in a park on Bleeker Street, where Bruce took his son Derek. Bruce agreed to lend me $400 and i took a photograph of Derek, face smeared with chocolate and ice cream that is still clear in my memory.
Another friend was Rich who let me use his office as a base of operations while job hunting.

An advertising writer named Ned, arranged for me to meet another, highly respected copy man, Jerry Della Femina. Jerry went on to a brilliant career as #1 Mad Avenue marketing maven, and stylish restaurateur. Out meeting was short and his advice to me was this : "get emotional". It was the best writing lesson i ever received.
i put together a mock portfolio of advertising campaigns and copy including an anti-war spot and presented it to HB, then head copywriter for Bantam Books, and a minor legend for her headline for a mystery thriller...The Hardest of the Hard Boiled Dicks.
HB liked my samples and hired me.
It was like entering the gates of a major movie studio. Paperback books had stepped into the publishing mainstream after years as a poor relation living on Tobacco Road. Suddenly paperbacks were out earning and out performing their more staid brethren. Long known as a gentleman's business, the paperback trade had embraced glamour and hype to sell its wares.
At the same time the Summer of Love had arrived and very few people knew what was happening to America's culture. i happened to be one of them.
Bantam Books was a hotbed of creativity. Guided by Mark Jaffe and Oscar Dystal it grew in profitability and influence. One could pitch an idea to Editor in Chief Mark Jaffe and within the year the book would be on the shelves. i couldn't believe i was actually getting paid to read--and to write. Even better, my voice was being heard on a professional level. The better to inform the growing misinformation about the burgeoning youth culture
Through all the sexual euphoria, outrageous fashion and public outcry, i realized that the hippy movement wasn't social--it was spiritual...

Next: The Work Ethic

Recommended Reading: Tobacco Road by Erskine Caldwell

What's Up With the Feds?

From The Crucible To Daylight


Can * Nois * Seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis

"The most amazing property of cannabis is its ability to fog the minds of those who do not use it."

Heads Up: After a long hiatus spent on finishing a novel i'm back on the case, with a caveat. i'll be focusing more on the overview of the cannabis industry ( soon to be a farcical drama ) and less on daily touts of good strains in town. That having been said let's light up. Just today in Aurora Colorado a man who had ordered pizza received a visit from the police. fortunately he had a medical card. It seems the delivery boy smelled pot and was afraid the man was "smoking pot in front of his nine year old son". Like this is a reason for alarm? Suppose the man was drinking a beer in front of his son, or a glass of wine? Would the delivery boy have cause to call the law? It's just another result of Reefer Madness--the hysterically absurd demonization of a benign herb that has been peacefully comforting mankind for millennia. And what's up with the Feds? Why on earth do they want to shut down a thriving, tax producing industry in the middle of a recession? Not only that, but why on earth turn the herb trade back to the cartels? The Feds rationale is that some clubs are less that 1,000feet from schools. Here in North Beach, San Francisco, we have a grammar school on Broadway located directly in front of Centerfolds Strip Club and bar. If you follow the money perhaps the Pharmaceutical and Private Prison Corporations are looking for victims. Only way it makes sense. It wouldn't hurt to write a note to Obama who might be too busy trying to create jobs to notice.
Next month this farce could morph into a tragedy.
Props to Re-Leaf @ 9th and Mission...and to Divinity Tree on Geary Street between Larkin and Polk for proving quality herb at righteous prices.

From the Crucible To Daylight: 1967. The Tombs is well named. A holding pen located two floors underground, beneath the court building, the only source of natural light or air comes from a series of windows along the ceiling. After being presented at night court i was taken down a steel elevator to a cell block behind a thick iron gate. The first thing that struck me was the noise; a cacophony of human pain and the electric hum of need. Then the smell: sweat, fear, hostility, in a dense mix at close quarters. Inside the steel door were two tiers of cells, one above the other. A series of picnic tables on the ground floor occupied the remaining space outside the cells. The guards took me to a cell on the ground floor. Six by six, it had a topless toilet and two bunk beds. On the top bunk was a young African American with red hair. i was carrying a small pillow and a blanket. There were no mattresses on the bunks, only bare, sagging springs. The door slammed shut. i tossed the bundle on the springs and sat down on the bunk. Outside the raucous jabber and occasional shrieks continued. I wondered if my phone call would ever be "processed".
My cell mate turned out to be a heroin dealer from Harlem who had never been to Greenwich Village. Fortunately he was not prone to violence. Now in the Tombs there was lock in time, and lock out, when you were literally locked out of your cell. The door opens and you walk into the common area divided by rows of picnic tables. Loose factions ruled various tables. There was a table for card players, a black Muslim table strewn with pamphlets, a Latino table, an all white table and a few multi ethnic tables marked by their New York neighborhoods. i had been studying Karate and hopped onto the exercise bench for a few fast push ups on my knuckles. It was my only trick, and it seemed to work. Busted on Friday means nothing really happens until Monday. And it wasn't until the following Monday that i made the ridiculously high bail that had been set. Until then i had to survive a very iffy environment. Interestingly, jail is very much like being in the Army, give or take a few freedoms. One morning at breakfast i remarked that you can't get good coffee in jail, which cracked up the dude next to me. Turned out he was from the Lower East Side and my having lived there qualified me for the Lower East Side Table. Ramon, my sponsor, was a heroin addict who only smoked weed when he was tying up for his morning shot. The main man at the table was Kevin, a rangy nineteen year old, who was up for murder. i didn't ask him the particulars. Kevin carried himself with a swagger reminiscent of a ghetto Errol Flynn with a sense of humor. Between the connected table and my Karate push ups i was left to my own devices. On the day i made bail i had drawn a portrait of Ramon and written a night club act for an African baritone called Baron, who had been in Italy with the road company of Porgy and Bess. Later it occurred to me that i was doing the same things inside as outside. And i realized it was time to put my creative side to work.
"A thousand dollar lawyer", was the word in jail. Anything less and you were screwed. for the first time in my life i was in debt. An unacceptable position. Every day i hit the streets looking for a job as a copywriter, something i knew i'd be good at. i used Rich's office at MPO as my midtown base, and one day i went upstairs to the art department, where Ken Schneider held sway. Ken was a fine painter, 8mm filmmaker, and was doing an animation by painting directly on the film. He was and still is, an extraordinary artist. Ken had a friend, HB, who he had saved from a suicide attempt. HB worked at Bantam Books... and was looking for a copywriter.
It was the break i needed.

Next: The Catbird Seat

Recommended Reading: The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan

Trouble in Paradise

Can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis. Heads Up: Despite being madly busy, we feel it's our civic duty to report that Grass Roots, @ 1077 Post Street, off Polk is currently holding Fire O.G. This big, booming sativa comes on like an old school bud, who shows up with an enthusiastic howdy and a pizza-then sticks around until the end of a great party to help out. Although short on discounts, Grass Roots has come down a bit on prices, and their selection is mostly first-rate. At $15 a gram this strain makes a fine addition to your friends list. Trouble in Paradise One nice note in a notable year, was my reconnection with Bruce E, and his new wife Arlene. Both had been my friends since high school, where Bruce was a basketball star. He was extremely smart, ballsy, outspoken, well dressed and well read. And he played basketball with dynamic intelligence. So much so that he received a scholarship to Colgate, where he broke the school's freshman scoring records. He was subsequently thrown out, supposedly for an illicit romance with an Asian beauty. He went on to Mississippi State ( or U ) where he left because they wouldn't let him read, or study, past 10 p. m. curfew. Sick of basketball politics he went to Farleigh Dickinson as a full time student. There the school promptly fucked up his records and he was drafted into the Army. i ran into Bruce at Fort Dix. He was coming in, and i was getting out. i mentioned the basketball team as a good alternative to mud and KP, but he was intent on avoiding that aspect of his former life. However, when we ran into each other in 1966, on Bleeker Street, where he now lived, he confessed he finally did his time playing ball. His wife Arlene was younger, an accomplished dancer, and a new mother. Bruce was totally committed to providing for his family. By nature an enlightened hipster, who hated moronic authority, or lack of style, he told me earnestly, "If I have to be a jerk off to make it, I'll be a jerk off." And make it he did. Bruce had chosen the wine business, and his natural style and smarts, moved him up quickly. He spent three months at a chateau in France learning the arts d'vin, ( here its three weeks in a motel in Humboldt ) and the company's French owner took him under his wing. He and Arlene were living in a comfortable pad in the West Village, and had become my favorite clients. Meanwhile the anti-war demonstrations had ratcheted up a few notches, with the movement gaining more and more support as it rolled through the USA, including Manhattan. With all that came a spike in law enforcement, including the FBI, and CIA lite. The latter had a special interest, due to their mind control experiments involving LSD. ( At one point, mistaking micrograms for grams, they bought the entire world's supply. ) Anyway the streets were crowded with young people, wearing ever more unique clothes, ever longer hair, and ever evolving opinions about the people running their lives. Underground newspapers were popping up, unfettered by obscenity laws, there were free concerts, street theatre, impromptu rallies, but most importantly Vietnam was being debated by young people across America, usually over a J. Literary and academic celebrities were among the first to get into the act. The overground journalists were still conservative. Many were rabid, hippy hating hawks. Cracks were beginning to appear in my relationship with Lady M, but like most men, i wouldn't notice until the whole house fell down. In August '66 the Beatles blew through New York for the Shea Stadium concert. As it happened one of my clients, an older Jewish bookie named Sandy, was one of their road mangers. He asked me if i knew any beautiful brunettes. George Harrison had a preference for long black hair. Another of my clients, was an exotic brunette courtesan named Orion, who had a bod like a Stealth fighter. i called Orion and got her consent to give Sandy her number ( NY protocol ) and moved on. The next morning Orion called. Yes she had spent the night with George. But she expected a tip. Of course i had never mentioned money, and neither would have any other young female in the city. But Orion was a tad intense. Among other things she was a practitioner of Cuban voodoo, and always kept an altar in her apartment. At any rate i told her to take it up with Sandy and went back to sleep. ( all of this will prove significant later in this journey ). When I woke up Lady M was in a snit about the phone call, which had become her MO. Nothing new there. To change the atmosphere i suggested a trip to Miami after the holidays. Fine. In January '67 a serendipitous phone call put me in touch with a newly arrived grower, selling righteous weed for a righteous price. i stocked up, and informed my clients i'd be on vacation. As had become my MO, i took a driveaway to Miami. It was a dreamy Ford Thunderbird, the only caveat being we couldn't open the trunk. So we threw our bags in the back seat and headed south. Along the way we ate grits and bought fireworks like every good tourist from New York. But i was careful to avoid the authorities, since i was carrying a small assortment of medication. Upon our arrival with the TBird, the owner came right out to take possession and immediately checked the unopened trunk. No body, but inside was a roulette wheel, and some other gambling equipment. He paid me on the spot and drove us to a rental car lot. Miami was in decline then, so after a week we flew to Jamaica on a whim. Some months before, Bruce had returned from a business trip there and raved about the boo. And oh yeah mon, he was right. The water was smooth, the sun bright and the mood relaxed. On returning to New York i discovered there was a drought. Fortunately i had put some aside. i had purchased a Nikon while in Montego Bay and was taking pictures of various scenes in the city, including the huge peace demonstration in May. Feelings were running strong. One old woman on Sutton Place ran from the safety of her doorway, and pulled at my camera strap as i was photographing some costumed demonstrators. In my role a journalist i was confused, but some of her neighbors apologized for the old woman. Probably the former mistress of an arms tycoon. Still, that's the way it went, tempers flaring, cops driving folk singers out of Tomkins Square, hippy communes giving food and clothes to the poor. The establishment tried to sandbag the rising tide of protest by turning up the heat. Paranoia was heavy in the mix among the hip and the liberated. Busts were occurring with uncomfortable regularity. As a result, the regular flow ( a trickle compared to today's tonnage ) of herb, dried up like waterfront property on the moon. My small stockpile carried me a couple of months but no new connections appeared on the horizon. Other brokers like myself, were calling each other for a supply line but every one was lying low. One of those was Bobby S. who came from the Miami U scene. He was an eager hustler, more interested in money, than enlightenment. He told me his friend was sending packages from California, would i like in? i refused. For one thing i didn't like partners. It opened up a whole can of worms. But as weeks went by, and the offer was repeated-and sweetened-and the scene out there remained Sahara City, i finally relented. But the packages were weeks, then over a month, late in arriving. Finally Bobby S called to tell me the pachages were due. i sent Lady M to visit her girlfriend and waited. When the bell rang i was ready. i checked through the peephole and everything seemed alright. One UPS guy, standing there. i opened the door and suddenly the UPS guy morphed intp three detectives, one of whom had a gun. Someone yelled, "Stay away from that knife!"...

Next: The Crucible

Suggested Reading: Moonwalking With Einstein by Joshua Foer

Man About Town
( about time )

Can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ) n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis.

"The most amazing property of cannabis is its ability to fog the minds of those who do not use it."

Heads Up: On the advice of a friend we availed ourselves of the services of The Green Cross delivery service, 415 648 4420. Registration is painless, take a photo of your prescription and drivers licence, and Email it. When we visited the TheGreenCross.org web site, we were most impressed with their extensive menu, and friendly prices. An eighth of Love Potion, always a favorite was listed at $35, with a 10% discount for first time patients. The medicine arrived promptly, inside a gift bag which included: a delicious edible, 2 herb tubes and 2 buttons, an information packet, a non medical munchie snack, a lighter, and--dig this--a tiny microscope--the better to check your buds. And oh yes, the herb was outstanding, with a smooth elevation, leveling off to a cool, breezy cruise through the upper levels of consciousness...at $31.50 it is the first-class deal of the week.

Man About Town

Having made my bones abroad, i was greeted with new respect in the Apple. i found an apartment in the Gramercy Park area, and quickly re established my boutique service, which was bolstered by new connections impressed by my credentials. The same held true of my clientele, which included Mitch Miller of TV fame, Bob Crewe of Pepsi Generation fame ( also producer of Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels' hit Devil With a Blue Dress ), the great soul singer Jackie Wilson, all the boys at Buddha Records, and my pal Hugh Masekela, who had just scored a hit with Grazin In The Grass, a

nd was newly married to Miriam Makeba. At the same time i made auditions around town, but my slim Broadway credit and 8/10 glossies weren't making a dent. Lady M was something of a fashion designer, so we were on the cutting edge of sixties style. Problem was, in '66 the establishment had yet to pick up on the style, or the fact that a psychedelically evolved generation was perched just over the hill, waiting to take the culture by storm. And my superior boo was fueling the march to enlightenment. There was a new feeling of solidarity, if not brotherhood, up and down New York City. The social set, the new bohemians, seventh avenue salesmen and models, rockers, folkies, jazz musicians, literary types, advertising men, film directors, editors, secretaries, bartenders, social workers, teachers, shoe salesmen, whatever--all passing the same joint...the sacred herb. However casting agents and producers still saw me as a long-haired alien from Venus. Now i had lost touch with Robert Gilman but Jerry Cole and Rick Lloyd were in and out of town, reporting on the scene in London and the West Coast. Rick Lloyd seemed to know everyone from Janis Joplin to Neal Cassady. Rich had gotten a gig in the TV commercial biz as a PA, and Ray Lofaro was starting to become a hot commercials producer. There was a sense of renewed enthusiasm since JFK's murder, and a certainty that change was here. However it was still the dark ages of enforcement, and the heat was always just outside the door.

NEXT: Trouble in Paradise

Recommended Reading: Breach of Faith by David Ellis