Back in the Bigs '72

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."

Cruisin' With Chem Dawg: Upon my return to SF after two weeks in Sonoma where the nearest dispensary is well over an hour's drive away, i repaired to Grass Roots on Post Street between Polk and Larkin in San Francisco, a mere ten minutes from home. It was there i found an outdoor Chem Dawg priced at 10 dollars a gram that celebrates the joy of cannabis. Bright, energetic, and a tonic to the body, it is an early sign of a good harvest. Speaking of harvest and Sonoma, the drive on highway 12 to Santa Rosa winds through miles and miles of well tended vineyards. The entire landscape devoted to alcohol while the cannabis farmers still must lurk in the wooded area beyond.  (Very soon we'll see strains labeled Sour Diesel '14 or
Jack Herer '09 as well as auctions of top crop years and men in tuxedos showing off their cannabis cellars in Vanity Fair.)
The absurd disconnect in our nation's attitude continues with the Supreme Court's refusal to hear a challenge by Americans for Safe Access to the federal government's (DEA) refusal to allow medical doctors to prescribe marijuana to cancer patients and victims of other maladies. See: Americans for Safe Access vs DEA 13-84
Is Michele Leonhart director of the DEA a physician, a nurse, a paramedic, a psychologist, a therapist, or even a PhD? Is she on the side of truth? Or is she just another political hack protecting an over inflated budget?

Back In The Bigs: '72
We stayed with my mother for a few months after my dad's death. Then i flew to New York alone on a reconnaissance trip, trying to find an apartment and a job. Also in my kick was a third Orient novel Lady Sativa, that i had written while living in Umbria with my Mom,  but Bantam wasn't interested in a third book at the moment, already invested in the first two. Which left me holding the literary bag. However i ran into old Boston pal Barry Hoernig then a student at various colleges, now a manager of several properties and married to an Italian princess.Barry had a two room duplex on east 72nd available at 300 a month and it was a done deal. Particularly since i had just accepted a job offer from Bruce Gilmour (HB's husband) as an account executive on a new magazine called Ms. It was good to be back.
However New York was different. Not so much changed but shifted gears into a faster, more hedonistic rhythm. Everyone was hip to the lick. And almost everyone had discovered cocaine. Fortunately i had discovered an old school tailor back in Rome and had some suits made since account executives are basically suits.Wunderman, Ricotta and Klein had prospered by making a science of selling stuff you don't really want by mail, using a technique known as negative response.
Basically, unless you make it known you don't want their featured item of the month, be it a book, magazine or cassette, it will be sent to you and billed to your account. They also specialized in magazine subscriptions, hence they were hired by Ms to launch them into contention. And as a representative of America's new youth culture i was there to deal with these female upstarts.
H.B's novel The Trade, which i had commissioned while at Paperback Library had enjoyed critical success and some notoriety. HB was never one to mince words.
Husband Bruce was a poet in the manner of Rod McKuen, an enormously popular paperback hero. McKuen's success was due in great part to the romantic photos of the bard in various poses of contemplation. Like an ad for a men's cologne. As it happened i had snapped a great shot of Bruce, backlit among the leaves. and his work was a lot fresher than Rod's. From experience i knew the picture and poems could be "packaged". So when i visited  Curtis Books, a new publisher on the scene,  to pitch Lady Sativa, i took Bruce's photo and manuscript with me as well as a novel by Joel S, a friend of the Gilmours. Pat O'Connor one of the last of the great editors took on all three projects.
Lady Sativa had found a home and i turned my attention to my next book. While in Tangier John Hohnsbeen had told me about a most intriguing
character-- a New Yorker of wealth and taste who was the world's foremost practitioner of SM...
Next: The Hucksters

Recommended Reading: Force of Nature by C. J. Box

Edited by Robert Gilman

The Roman Spring

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."

The Gentrification of Weed: The February 24th, 2013 edition of the Sunday Styles section of The New York Times, featured a cover story by one Henry Alford on Marijuana Etiquette. Not only does it reveal a whole new social order by this most prestigious publication, it signals a rational level of acceptance into domestic life. Interestingly, Mr. Alford's article centered on whether or not it was socially acceptable to toke up at a party. Now in polite New York/Brooklyn literary circles, the local soccer moms may well consider this a crucially PC issue. However in more bohemian gatherings this is a minor consideration. Of course there are certain protocols.
A gentleman should attend a party with no less than 3 Js on his person. The first is consumed upon arrival, just before one's finger hits the bell. The second after a bit of food and wine, smoked discreetly in a quiet corner. If others drift closer, naturally the sacrament is passed. The third J is reserved in the event one gets lucky.
But with all due respect to Mr. Alford's touching story of how he was bounced from boarding school, a few days from performing in the school play, the real issue remains...what is proper Cannabis Etiquette?
The First Commandment of course is, Thou shalt not Bogart that joint. For those too young to recall Bogie's manly way with a cigarette, there is Snoop Lion (ne Doggy Dog), whose simple formula of Puff, Puff, Pass,  is the essence of herbal courtesy.
After that, common sense should be the prevailing ethic. When you share, and  who with, is a sliding equation only you can define. In these days of easy access the battlefied regulations no longer apply. Still, let's remember that sharing always has been the ritual cornerstone among cannabis smokers in every part of our planet.
Which brings us to one of the more important aspects of Cannabis Etiquette namely:  Turning on the neophyte for the first time. The experience should be positive and reverent, stressing the mind enhancing aspects of the burning bush. Good music and strong support go a long way toward steadying the insecure novice. Try not to overinflate the mild psychedelic properties of Cannabis. .
Referring to weed as "dope" is a gross misnomer.
Bear in mind cannabis is a benign herb, having both medicinal and spiritual elements. Coke, meth, H, valium, Nyquil, alcohol... are all properly classified as drugs with severe side effects.
There is a universe of difference.
Yet another example of the social acceptace of pot was cited in the March 2nd edition of the San Francisco Chronicle's business section.
Alison Velshin reports that cannabis use amomg Silicone Valley's tech workers is "extremely common" according to CEO Mark Johnson. "Pot is  extremely functional," Johnson goes on, "coders can code on it, writers can write on it. I see good days ahead for pot."
Anyone still yearning for the outlaw days can move to Mississippi.

The Roman Spring: 1971

Yes it had been a cold winter and liras were in short supply, but there were trattorias where two could eat for five bucks, dinners with friends including Nancy DeMare's famous honey fried chicken, and Bob Brennan's wife Victoria's down home pasta. Occassionaly John Hohnsbeen would takes us out to dine with his more affluent crowd. There were after-hours wine bars for those so inclined but i was intent on polishing the novel and content with the fine hash i copped in Campo di Fiori.
Sometime in March i recieved a nice letter from Alan Ravage, my editor. Turns out he had spent some happy years in Rome and returned to New York with an Italian wife. He suggested  substantial revisions which irritated me at first, hoping for a shorter turnaround on my advance.  After a day of fuming i realized that i was a professional writer and professionals hone their craft. So i smoked a J, walked around the ancient city, studied the magnifiicent carved statues, and resolved to get back to work with an open heart. Considering my position it was the only logical choice.
i inserted some new scenes and during the course of the rewrite discovered Sybelle Lean, a character who remains Orient's friend, accomplice and rebelious pupil through seven of his adventures. Again i packed the newly recut novel off to my editor and waited. By then it was late May and spring was dawning like a Botticelli Venus.
John Hohnsbeen rented a villa in Positano on the Amalfi coast and invited us to spend a few weeks.  Now the Italian resort is practically cut out of the seaside cliffs, like a Hopi village with beach umbrellas and outdoor cafes. What is laughingly called a beach is a rocky strip of sand.
But early in the season it is one of the most beautiful and unique spots in
Italy. Needless to say the next few weeks were idyllic. As it happened Shawn Phillips owned a small house in Positiano, and to hear the down home country boy speak fluent Italian was a revelation. Vali, the striking bohemian heroine of Love On The Left Bank was also living nearby, her face and arms covered with self etched tattooes. The locals feared her as a witch. Today she'd be a fashion icon.
Back in Rome there was no word from my editor. i treaded water for the next four weeks watching the mail. In August John invited us back to his villa. Since it was hot and crowded in Rome we took the train to Naples and a bus to Positano, where it was hot and crowded. In August every Italian in the country goes on a three week vacation. Which means a serious slowdown in all services during the height of the tourist season. That's the way they like it.
The water was also crowded with rowboats, motorboats and rubber rafts, making it risky to swim. Motorized vessels would cruise along the shoreline guided by blank faced vacationers, narrowly avoiding waders and children. However, a few inconveniences aside, including a glimpse into the dark side of the local community, i was grateful for the interlude.
When we returned to Rome, there were two letters in the box. One from Alan Ravage accepting the changes to Raga Six. The other from my mother saying my father had died.
That night Piazza Navona was illuminated by kleig lights while camera booms leaned over the fountains like metal giraffes as Federico Fellini shot the final scenes for his biographical film Roma. A full moon floated overhead.
The next day we left for Terni, in Umbria, to see my mother.

Edited by Robert Gilman

La Dolce Vita

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."


La Dolce Vita: 1970

Life in Roma settled into a routine. Awakened early by the busy motorcycle repair shop beneath my window i would have a European breakfast of coffee and bread augmented with yogurt. Then i would check the pages i'd written the night before. Soon after i would go out for a walk. Two short blocks away, down an alley, was a courtyard which formerly housed a stable. At the moment it housed an incredible steel and iron sculpture piece of an astronaut which was being welded and shaped by American artist Robert Brennan. Big, bearded, and jovial, the stable was his studio. Bob sculpted in stone but his main passion was metal and he was very serious about his craft. Like everywhere from Paris to Greenwich Village, there were artists who worked at it every day-or those who talked at it. Both Bob and myself were trying to be the former, which basically meant living a simple-if colorful-existence centered around one's work. It also meant missing the  romps and parties in favor of writing three to five pages every night. So i would check out Bob's progress and he mine, exchange gossip and be on my way. After that i might walk anywhere, across town to Piazza del Popolo, or through Campo di Fiori and across the river to Trastevere, or over the Spanish Steps to Via Veneto to see if any movie stars were lounging about. Along the way i would pop into the odd church or palazzo to check out the decor, or browse the local art galleries and antiquities shops, or window shop the wonderfully crafted clothes, shoes, furniture, what have you-and everywhere i turned was a fading fresco, a fragment, a sculpted archway...art. Oh yeah.
i would stop for coffee and a cigarette at selected cafes then wander back to Piazza Navona in time for lunch. During this entire urban hike i was of course mulling over various plot and character options for Raga Six, the novel i was working on.
With the help of friend Don DeMare i hooked up with a solid hash connection and was enjoying the spiritual and creative benefits of some black Afgani. However since it was hard to come by, i didn't smoke until after dinner, when i was sitting down to work. Back then we rolled it with tobacco and the fine black hash exuded that deep Bauderlairian aura with tints of Crowley.
It was cold during that winter which included a light snowfall. i would haul five-gallon jugs of kerosene through the alleys behind Piazza Navona to my apartment. Because of the cold we would basically live in our large bedroom where the kerosene heater was installed. The stove would heat the kitchen and if it was sunny the living room would warm up during the afternoon. Otherwise the marble floors and stone walls of old Rome were as cold as the Catacombs.
There was a small circle of ex-pats on the scene. The willowy African American model Luna lived up the street with an assortment of eurotrash. Kyle, a South African combat reporter and his German girlfriend were close by, Don DeMare's fellow med student and bad drunk Bill, Rory Calhoun a motorcycle buff from New York whose brother lived with Farley Granger, Peter Gonzalez who was lead in Fellini's new film and lived with Orion, a stunning Manhattan party girl and practitioner of Cuban voodoo, i'd encountered in the city years back--were all there in the hood. We'd get together, get high, drink some wine, the usual. Since Lady M and myself were fluent in Italian all the cinemas were available.
Still our liras were rationed and a bleak December was made even worse by rows of wooden stalls selling identical stacks of candy while blocking off the beautiful fountains, not to mention the psychic flow. i managed to pull of an O.Henry Christmas and as January moved towards the solstice, Raga Six began to jell and take possession of my life. That's when you know it's going well. So, i kept turning over pages on my red Olivetti portable typewriter. As Anne Lamott said in her wonderful book on writing, "just take it bird by bird."
As February pushed towards spring i hit the homestretch.
The first draft was finished sometime in March and i immediately went back to page one and began going over every word. As someone said, "There's no good writing only good rewriting."
i do know Hemingway said, "All first drafts are shitty."
By May the novel was ready to be professionally typed (by Nancy DeMare) and mailed off to my new, unknown editor at Bantam Books, Alan Ravage. And then all you can do is cross your fingers, drink plenty of holy water, and hold your breath...

Recommended Reading: Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott

Edited by Robert Gilman

Roma, Fellini, and Cinecitta

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: A week or so past i had occasion to sample variations of Chem Dawg at 3 seperate dispensaries. Sparc at 9th and Mission here in San Francisco had something called Chem 91, while a few doors down Re-Leaf  had (and still has) a strain named Chem Mix. A visit to Grass Roots yielded Chem 1. It was a rare opportunity for a quality comparison.Of the three, the moderately priced Chem Mix at Re-Leaf proved to be a best buy, clear and high with a long smooth arc.
To be sure the Chem 91 at Sparc was most powerful but lacked the clarity.
Grass Roots's Chem 1 was good but a tad mild.
The good news is that Chem Mix is probably still there..

PROPS: Medithrive's delivery service is first-rate and their consistently fine, high-quality herb takes the guesswork out of ordering. Check out their menu online at Medithrive.com and call 415 562 6334


ROMA:1970

The Eternal City is well named. Five years after my first pass, i was back in the place where i met Lady M, and everything i remembered was still there: cafes, the English cinema, outdoor restaurants, nooks, crannies, broken bits of sculpture, patches of frescoes, stone carvings everwhere, the pulse of movement both knowing and laconic...Rome's classic style now leaned in favor of very long hair, neck chains, suits with open shirts.. actually nothing that drastic for the Romans who never quite adopted the  buttoned up Brooks look, and deigned to emulate the Carnaby Street style.  (The London fashion mecca.of the sixties.) At the moment hair was very much a political statement. Class revolution was in the air.The progressive, unionist, non religious, factions were rising, and left leaning workers seemed to prefer...mullets.
Fashion however, was not my problem/ We were ensconced  in a small hotel in the center and my money was running out. Every day we went out looking for the famiar Affiti sign which meant there was a place for rent. In the midst of our daily quest two things happened which were both significant-and typical of the mystical conjunctions that made that era magical.  We had taken to reading the Rome Daily American for possible apartment leads, or even acting work. There were lots of movies being shot in Roma at the time. One column revealed that American performer Shawn Philips had written the music for an Italian film and was in town for the studio recording. Now Shawn was a friend from the early East Village days so i tracked him down. It was a warm reunion and after attending the actual full orchestra recording for the film we went to lunch with Shawn's pals, two Americans living in Rome. Don was a medical student and Nancy his wife was a secretary at at a local film studio. Tall, lanky and muscular, Don shared my enthusiam for the herb and had vague hash connections. He was also a dedicated Zepplin fan. Nancy and Don lived on the periphery and traveled by motorcycle. We became fast friends  but living in a hotel and eating out was nibbling at my funds. i started to consider returning to New York.
Until another of those synchronistic conjuctions popped up. Meandering through Piazza Navona one morning we ran into John Hohnsbeen, our expat beach pal from Tangier. Over coffee i mentioned we'probably couldn't hold out and would be leaving Rome.
"How much do you need?" John asked.
"About a thousand dollars," i estimated.
He shrugged. "I'll lend it to you. Pay me back when you finish the book."
i was astounded. Sure enough we met the next day and he gave me the cash.
"Man," i said, "You fly in from Tangier like Superman..."
John smiled. "Think of me as the Good Fairy."
Things began to click after that.
Operating under the theory that the owners of local pensiones would have apartments available, i checked them one by one. In no time i scored a three room apartment with terrace, around the corner from
Piazza Navona. The place was on Governo Vecchio, the old street leading to the Vatican. There were drawbacks, one of which i knew going in. The only heat was a kerosene heater in the bedroom. And Rome gets cold in winter. The second i didn't know until moving in. We had seen the place at mid-day when everyone in Rome was having their post lunch nap. The first morning i found out
Directly across the narrow street was a motorcycle repair shop and the motors started revving early. No matter, i was where i wanted to be.
Determined to come through i sat down a got to work. i went back to basics: 1) a writer writes every day--one can't wait on fickle inspiration. 2) write about things and places you know.
So i began writing about a man who leaves his cushy New York life behind and goes on the road. Doctor Orient hops a freighter to Tangier, Ischia and Rome in pursuit of enlightenment.
My new hood was quite hip if not upscale. Serious American sculptor Bob Brennan was down the street as was the model Luna and Peter Gonzalez, the star of Roma, Fellini's film in progress. Other expats preferred the party scene to the work ethic but i'd been there done that. i hunkered down and as winter deepened Raga Six began to take shape...

NEXT: La Dolce Vita

Edited by Robert Gilman