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