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