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 don't use it."
The 1st Annual Cannoisseur Awards 2017
As legalization looms, some of San Francisco's 28 odd dispensaries seem to have dispensed with their medical mission in favor of commercial success. It's not easy to resist temptation. There's an army of entrepreneurs at the gates, salivating at the idea of making big bucks in the weed biz. And at the moment licensed dispensaries are pulling in the lion's share. Think elephant-sized lion.
No one is denying their right to make a profit. It's a noble undertaking. So rather than rail against the inevitable we would like to honor those establishments that provide high-quality product, compassionate service and reasonable prices on their high CBD medicines. These are rapidly growing in popularity due to their effectiveness--even being ingested by people who used to call a cop if you offered them a joint. Slowly cannabis is crossing social lines.
This year we have two first-place winners in the category of Best San Francisco Dispensary.
1. The Bloom Room
Located on Jessie Street between 6th and 5th streets a few doors from the Hampton Hotel this compact, well-run dispensary offers high-level cannabis as well as a variety of Alt-Herb products
including edibles, concentrates and oils. All prices are reasonable with discounts available. An outstanding feature are their $25 eights (on weekends there are a number of fine strains to choose from). The staff is friendly, knowledgeable and sensitive to patient needs.
1. Purple Star MD
Located at 2520 Mission Street and operating under the banner "Healing Is Our Mission" Purple Star MD is partnered with four non-profits: the Shanti Project, AGUILAS, The LGBT Community Center, and The Breast Cancer Emergency Fund, who all share in the proceeds. Their menu includes a wide variety of quality herb and a vast array of healing tinctures, oils, topicals and sprays-all affordably priced and highly effective. The staff makes you feel right at home in their parlor-like atmosphere. It's well worth a visit if only for their new patient goody bag.
Best Delivery Service in San Francisco
JAHnetics.com
A San Francisco grow with a mission, JAHnetics is dedicated to producing the finest weed at the most reasonable prices. They feature discounts and sales on many of their top shelf strains, and they're mostly all top shelf. Their menu is lovely to behold and their phone reps are both helpful and well schooled in the nuances of cannabis. A major resource for bud that heals body and spirit.
1974: The Secret Of The Great Pyramid
Since childhood i had dreamed of visiting The Great Pyramid at Giza in Egypt. In the Sixties I had trekked to the Temple of Solomon in Baalbek Lebanon in search of illumination and hash, and came away with a bit of both. Back then I made the trip by bus now i could affor plane tickets and a decent hotel. The Great Pyramid was the focal point of my new novel. Through the summer in Morocco I took the plot to the point where it moves to Egypt. And i was ready to move with it.
Suddenly The Israeli/Arab War broke out and all flights to Egypt were grounded.
Undaunted we visited with my mom it Italy while waiting out the war. A month or so later the Cairo airport opened. The next day we booked a plane and that night we landed in Cairo.
It was night, and the road to the city was lined with sandbags. i had decided to stay at Shepheard's Hotel, long renowned at the domicile of the early British and Italian explorers who had made so many major discoveries that revealed the art, astronomy, architecture, mathematics, medicine--and magic-- of the great civilization of Ancient Egypt. More advanced 5,000 years ago than Europe in the middle ages.
Of course the original Shepheard's had burned down in 1962 but that didn't mar the romance. When we arrived the windows were blacked out and the building was lined with sandbags. I mentioned this to the desk clerk while checking in to which he replied, "You're in a war zone sir."
'Sir' meaning dummy. The fact that the airport was open didn't mean the fighting had stopped. For me however, it was all grist for my research mill.
The main perc of being in a war zone is that there are few other tourists crazy enough to visit, which meant we were the only two people going into the Pyramid that morning. The outside of the massive structure is imposing as is the magnificent Sphinx, but inside is a whole other dimension.
One ducks through a small entrance and goes down, not up, at first. Then a right turn, you climb a few feet and emerge. My first sight of the Grand Gallery stopped my heart. There in the center of the Great Pyramid is a perfectly engineered, artistically spectacular, stairway leading to the King's chamber above. i immediately recognized the source of Art Deco. Going slowly up the stairs I noticed the notches cut into the stairs on either side to the telescoping walls. These notches, our guide explained, were for rods placed as rollers, presumably to bring the Pharaoh's sarcophagus to it's resting place. However no mummy was found in the Great Pyramid. In fact in all the 90 odd lesser pyramids in Egypt no mummy has ever been found. A big crack in the theory that they are giant tombstones. Our guides holding flashlights we headed into the darkness above.
At the first landing to the left, is the Queen's chamber. A fifteen by fifteen room in the center of the great granite structure. Empty and perfect. Going up further you come to the King's Chamber, slightly larger than the the lower, and dominated by a granite sarcophagus carved from the same stone as the pyramid. One edge of the sarcophagus has been chipped away by tourists seeking a souvenir. Otherwise the chamber is another impressive facet of the pyramid's incredible interior. We lingered (no photos allowed) and slowly descended the magical, stairway, finally blinking as we exited into sunlight, as if waking from a dream.
Little did i know of the adventures yet to come.
Next: Life, Death, and Imhotep
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
Wednesday, July 12, 2017
THE DAWN OF CANNABIS CHIC
Can' nois' seur, (kan' us sur') n. One competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis
We are witnessing a new baby step in America's consciousness. The slow but steady acceptance of weed as a benign herb.
To be sure the accompanying economic boom has perked up the unbelievers. Colorado made so much in taxes they gave some back. Shortly after this post predicted marijuana infused vodka, wine savant Marc Capobianco reported sipping pot infused wine at a tasting. High end chefs are coming up with any number of pot drizzled appetizers. A week after Nevada went legal Las Vegas ran out of weed.
And just this past week in San Francisco, an LA based start up called Beboe threw a launch party in a Pacific Heights mansion. Beboe bills itself as "a cannabis brand targeting the luxury market." The founders Clement Kwan and celebrity tattoo artist Scott Campbell are described as "inhaling from a rose gold vaporizer and nibbling apple spice pastilles" from a beautifully decorated container. The party was hosted by Zak Williams--son of the late, beloved Robin Williams--who joked "I'm proud to be here as an investor in Beboe at the first cannabis cotillion."
The party was attended by a host of social notables including ex-mayor Willie Brown. And in the grand Hollywood tradition Goodie Bags were distributed.
Cool. My only question is, does paying luxury prices deliver a luxury high?
Until now cannabis has been nurtured by true believers, growers who lived outside the law and who, by experimentation, education and inspiration developed the finest weed on the planet.
And the price until now was dependent on quality.
Unless the rose gold vaporizer and that lovely pastille dispenser can amplify the cannabis experience and transport me to a better place than my hand-rolled joint...what's the point?
Be that as it may, the future of pot has become very clear. No doubt Big Alcohol and Big Tobacco are salivating. Red Bull and Coca Cola are probably already in line.
I recall when a local New York cream cheese called Breakstone's was bought up by Kraft Foods. It went from a fine creamy treat to bland and mediocre.
Just sayin'.
DOLCE VITA 1973
I had left the ad agency in a blaze of glory and set about learning how to be a bestselling author. Qui Magazine, a subsidiary of Playboy commissioned me to do a piece on the world's leading sadist. I was stoked and delivered a blazing interview. Unfortunately Qui was queasy about an article featuring a homosexual. I got paid but my work had no home. No matter, I was off to Tangier to write ta new Doctor Orient novel using the material I'd gleaned from the interview as background. I had already written a sequel to Raga Six but Bantam balked, since the sales of Doctor Orient had been tepid. Undaunted I sold Lady Sativa to a small, new publisher Curtis Books, run by legendary editor Pat O'Connor. I took a small advance by yesterday's standards (a huge advance by today's standards.) and resigned myself to the world of advertising. So when Raga Six went big Lady Sativa went unnoticed. However I did get a healthy advance for Baron Orgaz and booked a cabin on the Cristoforo Colombo, an old school luxury liner. After years of freighter travel I decided to go legit.
In a word the eight day trip across the Atlantic was a disappointment. Compared to my Yugo freighter the cabin was cramped and cheerless. Outside it had the tawdry veneer of a Vegas casino. Lots of food, lots of people I normally avoided, lots of consumption, very little glamour except for the ship steward in a beautifully tailored tux trolling the bars for a rich widow to betray.
When the ship reached Seville Spain it was to large to dock at the tiny port so we debarked, luggage and all, into a small boat far below, which took us to shore.
We were in Seville a beautiful, gracious city. Later in the year I planned to go to Egypt and the Pyramids. The weather was perfect and I was living the dream.
Next: The Writer at Work
RECOMMENDED READING: CHINATOWN BLUES by Frank Lauria
The NEW SMOKER.COM (Issue #7)
Edited by Robert Gilman
With special thanks to Carolyne Zinko
Wednesday, January 11, 2017
INTERESTING TIMES
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."
Future Shock
With the dawn of the Post-Truth Era on January 20th one of the many items on the table is the legalization and decriminalization of Cannabis. Certainly the economic realities are there. But zealous conservatives have never been above cutting their own throat--and ours--to make some self-righteous point.
Or--they may very well say, let the degenerates have their evil weed while we drink martinis, collect those cannabis taxes and steal democracy from those dumb passive stoners.
As you know an old Chinese curse states "may you live in interesting times". Well we have gone from Interesting to Swiftian to downright Orwellian times.
We all know what's happening. The freedom of the press, other basic constitutional rights are all up for grabs by the most dangerous political gang in the USA.
Hey baby--that's the way it is.
Rather than lament hard-assed reality right thinking Cannoisseurs (and the limp Democratic Party) need to get off the damn couch and start beating the drums for 2018 elections like the Tea Party did after Obama's first win.
We've all had it good until now but in the immortal words of the Beastie Boys: "You got to fight for your right to party"
Do not go gently into the new Dark Ages.
Pot Shots:
At the moment both the Bloom Room, 471 Jessie Street SF at Mint Plaza and Medithrive (415 562 6334) have several fine strains at decent prices. My current fav is Medithrive's Hazy Train Littles at $35 the eighth.
1974: The Trophy Year
Is anybody ready for a dream come true?
With the appearance of Raga Six on various bestseller lists, life shifted into a higher gear. Suddenly i was invited to hip parties which was a big change from no parties at all. My circle of friends expanded exponentially. Doors opened. My phone kept ringing with good news. An editor from Playboy's new magazine Qui contacted me about doing a piece for them.
I pitched an unusual premise: while in Tangier i had heard about a man who was one of world's leading sadists. This title by dint of his powerful position in New York's art world. Mind you this was '74 when the sexual revolution was just beginning to emerge from the relative innocence of the'60s to major experimentation but S/M was still underground and somewhat frowned upon even by The Happy Hooker. THH had a column in Hustler where she answered letters and disapproved of queries that concerned spanking and such. Later when she realized there were a lot of kinks out there in the Bible Belt she retracted her statement and was born again into the joys of SMBD.
So my decision to interview this man (i had a mutual friend connection) was considered both far out...and suspicious.
Me? I was fascinated by the subculture, the secretive nature of the SM network.
Six years later Al Pacino would star in Cruising, a film set in the those underground gay bars scattered around the meat district (now a most posh hood).
But in '74 i was ready to explore this new world and perhaps use it as background for my next Doctor Orient novel.
And i intended to write the interview in a new journalistic style, as championed by Norman Mailer and Tom Wolfe. This rookie was primed for the big time.
Or so i thought...
Next: Reality Sandwich
Highly Recommended: La LaLand
Edited by Robert Gilman
Saturday, October 8, 2016
HELLO AGAIN
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 BILLION DOLLAR BUD BIZ
Hello Dear Readers, after a hiatus of 3 years during which i wrote 4 novels i'm back at the same old stand surveying the booming present and wide-open future of legal cannabis. The states that legalized completely are enjoying a tax windfall that benefits everyone. Here in San Francisco where the sale and distribution is limited to Medical cannabis it's clear the all dispensaries are thriving and awaiting the vote in November. Right now the dispensaries have a semi-monopoly on the market. Legalization will change that. How is not yet clear. As of yet there is no equitable plan in place.
At the moment however my favorite dispensary is The Bloom Room at 471 Jessie Street SF at Mint Plaza. Consistently high grade buds and righteous deals on their "littles". Check their well presented home page, click on Menu then click on Cannabis for their sale days.
THE HUCKSTERS 1972
Being an account executive was frustrating. My first instinct was to dream up a campaign and write it up. Unfortunately that was the creative department's job. My job was to deal with the client. The ladies at Ms. were a gracious bunch but extremely wary of male influence.
Still one day, when the agency's art director, a strapping dude who resembled Tom Selleck, visited the Ms. offices, our wary feminists reverted to blushing high school girls. Can't fight Mother Nature.
Everything seemed to be in a holding pattern. Cocaine was sweeping the city and i was scooping up my share. Certainly there was more money than the bohemian days in Rome the previous year. There were parties with friends, dinners, perks (free magazines). i had found a two room duplex on the upper east side which was both cheap and cool, My novel Raga Six was due to be published in December a month considered certain death for books. Having already died my first time out with Doctor Orient i was bracing for extinction. (During that period i began writing song lyrics.) The art Director at Bantam books Len Leoni was the best in the business. we had maintained a friendship since my early days at Bantam based in part on our mutual admiration of Alex Raymond the extraordinary comic artist who drew Flash Gordon. i asked Len if he could get the artist Szafran to do the cover to Raga Six. He had done a brilliant cover for Bradbury's I Sing The Body Electric.
Len hired Szafran and H.B. Gilmour wrote the copy. The "package" when finished was striking with a deep blue cover and the same typeface Len used for The Exorcist. When I showed a proof to Gloria Steinem she thought Raga was a beautiful name. Future author Letty Cotton Pegrobin accused the cover illustration ( a voluptuous semi-nude female) of being sexist. i thought it looked good for a doomed novel.
Meanwhile my relationship with my other client Saturday Review was deteriorating. The publishers who were fresh from a huge success with their first venture Psychology Today had the bright idea to split the venerable Saturday Review into 4 fucking magazines. As the recipient of a shit load of free magazines each month, most of which remained unread, i knew along with everyone else at the agency the world did not need four new magazines to do the job of one. Underlying this brilliant idea was the fact they managed to quadruple the stock--if not its value.
The more the magazines faltered the more abrasive the publishers became.. Finally December rolled around and New York was in all its holiday glory. It became clear that my days in advertising were numbered and i had vague plans of getting back into publishing. One Saturday night the phone rang. It was Basel Winston new husband of dear friend Arlene Erb.
"Have you seen tonight's New York Post?"
"No why?"
"Raga Six is on the bestseller list."
My brain blew right through the top of my skull. And stayed up there for weeks.
NEXT: HIGH SOCIETY
Edited by Robert Gilman
"The most amazing property of cannabis is its ability to fog the minds of those who do not use it."
THE BILLION DOLLAR BUD BIZ
Hello Dear Readers, after a hiatus of 3 years during which i wrote 4 novels i'm back at the same old stand surveying the booming present and wide-open future of legal cannabis. The states that legalized completely are enjoying a tax windfall that benefits everyone. Here in San Francisco where the sale and distribution is limited to Medical cannabis it's clear the all dispensaries are thriving and awaiting the vote in November. Right now the dispensaries have a semi-monopoly on the market. Legalization will change that. How is not yet clear. As of yet there is no equitable plan in place.
At the moment however my favorite dispensary is The Bloom Room at 471 Jessie Street SF at Mint Plaza. Consistently high grade buds and righteous deals on their "littles". Check their well presented home page, click on Menu then click on Cannabis for their sale days.
THE HUCKSTERS 1972
Being an account executive was frustrating. My first instinct was to dream up a campaign and write it up. Unfortunately that was the creative department's job. My job was to deal with the client. The ladies at Ms. were a gracious bunch but extremely wary of male influence.
Still one day, when the agency's art director, a strapping dude who resembled Tom Selleck, visited the Ms. offices, our wary feminists reverted to blushing high school girls. Can't fight Mother Nature.
Everything seemed to be in a holding pattern. Cocaine was sweeping the city and i was scooping up my share. Certainly there was more money than the bohemian days in Rome the previous year. There were parties with friends, dinners, perks (free magazines). i had found a two room duplex on the upper east side which was both cheap and cool, My novel Raga Six was due to be published in December a month considered certain death for books. Having already died my first time out with Doctor Orient i was bracing for extinction. (During that period i began writing song lyrics.) The art Director at Bantam books Len Leoni was the best in the business. we had maintained a friendship since my early days at Bantam based in part on our mutual admiration of Alex Raymond the extraordinary comic artist who drew Flash Gordon. i asked Len if he could get the artist Szafran to do the cover to Raga Six. He had done a brilliant cover for Bradbury's I Sing The Body Electric.
Len hired Szafran and H.B. Gilmour wrote the copy. The "package" when finished was striking with a deep blue cover and the same typeface Len used for The Exorcist. When I showed a proof to Gloria Steinem she thought Raga was a beautiful name. Future author Letty Cotton Pegrobin accused the cover illustration ( a voluptuous semi-nude female) of being sexist. i thought it looked good for a doomed novel.
Meanwhile my relationship with my other client Saturday Review was deteriorating. The publishers who were fresh from a huge success with their first venture Psychology Today had the bright idea to split the venerable Saturday Review into 4 fucking magazines. As the recipient of a shit load of free magazines each month, most of which remained unread, i knew along with everyone else at the agency the world did not need four new magazines to do the job of one. Underlying this brilliant idea was the fact they managed to quadruple the stock--if not its value.
The more the magazines faltered the more abrasive the publishers became.. Finally December rolled around and New York was in all its holiday glory. It became clear that my days in advertising were numbered and i had vague plans of getting back into publishing. One Saturday night the phone rang. It was Basel Winston new husband of dear friend Arlene Erb.
"Have you seen tonight's New York Post?"
"No why?"
"Raga Six is on the bestseller list."
My brain blew right through the top of my skull. And stayed up there for weeks.
NEXT: HIGH SOCIETY
Edited by Robert Gilman
HELLO AGAIN
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 no't use it."
THE BILLION DOLLAR BUD BIZ
Hello Dear Readers, after a hiatus of 3 years during which i wrote 4 novels i'm back at the same old stand surveying the booming present and wide-open future of legal cannabis. The states that legalized completely are enjoying a tax windfall that benefits everyone. Here in San Francisco where the sale and distribution is limited to Medical cannabis it's clear the all dispensaries are thriving and awaiting the vote in November. Right now the dispensaries have a semi-monopoly on the market. Legalization will change that. How is not yet clear. As of yet there is no equitable plan in place.
At the moment however my favorite dispensary is The Bloom Room at 471 Jessie Street SF at Mint Plaza. Consistently high grade buds and righteous deals on their "littles". Check their well presented home page, click on Menu then click on Cannabis for their sale days.
THE HUCKSTERS 1972
Being an account executive was frustrating. My first instinct was to dream up a campaign and write it up. Unfortunately that was the creative department's job. My job was to deal with the client. The ladies at Ms. were a gracious bunch but extremely wary of male influence.
Still one day, when the agency's art director, a strapping dude who resembled Tom Selleck, visited the Ms. offices, our wary feminists reverted to blushing high school girls. Can't fight Mother Nature.
Everything seemed to be in a holding pattern. Cocaine was sweeping the city and i was scooping up my share. Certainly there was more money than the bohemian days in Rome the previous year. There were parties with friends, dinners, perks (free magazines). i had found a two room duplex on the upper east side which was both cheap and cool, My novel Raga Six was due to be published in December a month considered certain death for books. Having already died my first time out with Doctor Orient i was bracing for extinction. (During that period i began writing song lyrics.) The art Director at Bantam books Len Leoni was the best in the business. we had maintained a friendship since my early days at Bantam based in part on our mutual admiration of Alex Raymond the extraordinary comic artist who drew Flash Gordon. i asked Len if he could get the artist Szafran to do the cover to Raga Six. He had done a brilliant cover for Bradbury's I Sing The Body Electric.
Len hired Szafran and H.B. Gilmour wrote the copy. The "package" when finished was striking with a deep blue cover and the same typeface Len used for The Exorcist. When I showed a proof to Gloria Steinem she thought Raga was a beautiful name. Future author Letty Cotton Pegrobin accused the cover illustration ( a voluptuous semi-nude female) of being sexist. i thought it looked good for a doomed novel.
Meanwhile my relationship with my other client Saturday Review was deteriorating. The publishers who were fresh from a huge success with their first venture Psychology Today had the bright idea to split the venerable Saturday Review into 4 fucking magazines. As the recipient of a shit load of free magazines each month, most of which remained unread, i knew along with everyone else at the agency the world did not need four new magazines to do the job of one. Underlying this brilliant idea was the fact they managed to quadruple the stock--if not its value.
The more the magazines faltered the more abrasive the publishers became.. Finally December rolled around and New York was in all its holiday glory. It became clear that my days in advertising were numbered and i had vague plans of getting back into publishing. One Saturday night the phone rang. It was Basel Winston new husband of dear friend Arlene Erb.
"Have you seen tonight's New York Post?"
"No why?"
"Raga Six is on the bestseller list."
My brain blew right through the top of my skull. And stayed up there for weeks.
NEXT: HIGH SOCIETY
Edited by Robert Gilman
"The most amazing property of cannabis is its ability to fog the minds of those who do no't use it."
THE BILLION DOLLAR BUD BIZ
Hello Dear Readers, after a hiatus of 3 years during which i wrote 4 novels i'm back at the same old stand surveying the booming present and wide-open future of legal cannabis. The states that legalized completely are enjoying a tax windfall that benefits everyone. Here in San Francisco where the sale and distribution is limited to Medical cannabis it's clear the all dispensaries are thriving and awaiting the vote in November. Right now the dispensaries have a semi-monopoly on the market. Legalization will change that. How is not yet clear. As of yet there is no equitable plan in place.
At the moment however my favorite dispensary is The Bloom Room at 471 Jessie Street SF at Mint Plaza. Consistently high grade buds and righteous deals on their "littles". Check their well presented home page, click on Menu then click on Cannabis for their sale days.
THE HUCKSTERS 1972
Being an account executive was frustrating. My first instinct was to dream up a campaign and write it up. Unfortunately that was the creative department's job. My job was to deal with the client. The ladies at Ms. were a gracious bunch but extremely wary of male influence.
Still one day, when the agency's art director, a strapping dude who resembled Tom Selleck, visited the Ms. offices, our wary feminists reverted to blushing high school girls. Can't fight Mother Nature.
Everything seemed to be in a holding pattern. Cocaine was sweeping the city and i was scooping up my share. Certainly there was more money than the bohemian days in Rome the previous year. There were parties with friends, dinners, perks (free magazines). i had found a two room duplex on the upper east side which was both cheap and cool, My novel Raga Six was due to be published in December a month considered certain death for books. Having already died my first time out with Doctor Orient i was bracing for extinction. (During that period i began writing song lyrics.) The art Director at Bantam books Len Leoni was the best in the business. we had maintained a friendship since my early days at Bantam based in part on our mutual admiration of Alex Raymond the extraordinary comic artist who drew Flash Gordon. i asked Len if he could get the artist Szafran to do the cover to Raga Six. He had done a brilliant cover for Bradbury's I Sing The Body Electric.
Len hired Szafran and H.B. Gilmour wrote the copy. The "package" when finished was striking with a deep blue cover and the same typeface Len used for The Exorcist. When I showed a proof to Gloria Steinem she thought Raga was a beautiful name. Future author Letty Cotton Pegrobin accused the cover illustration ( a voluptuous semi-nude female) of being sexist. i thought it looked good for a doomed novel.
Meanwhile my relationship with my other client Saturday Review was deteriorating. The publishers who were fresh from a huge success with their first venture Psychology Today had the bright idea to split the venerable Saturday Review into 4 fucking magazines. As the recipient of a shit load of free magazines each month, most of which remained unread, i knew along with everyone else at the agency the world did not need four new magazines to do the job of one. Underlying this brilliant idea was the fact they managed to quadruple the stock--if not its value.
The more the magazines faltered the more abrasive the publishers became.. Finally December rolled around and New York was in all its holiday glory. It became clear that my days in advertising were numbered and i had vague plans of getting back into publishing. One Saturday night the phone rang. It was Basel Winston new husband of dear friend Arlene Erb.
"Have you seen tonight's New York Post?"
"No why?"
"Raga Six is on the bestseller list."
My brain blew right through the top of my skull. And stayed up there for weeks.
NEXT: HIGH SOCIETY
Edited by Robert Gilman
HELLO AGAIN
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 no't use it."
THE BILLION DOLLAR BUD BIZ
Hello Dear Readers, after a hiatus of 3 years during which i wrote 4 novels i'm back at the same old stand surveying the booming present and wide-open future of legal cannabis. The states that legalized completely are enjoying a tax windfall that benefits everyone. Here in San Francisco where the sale and distribution is limited to Medical cannabis it's clear the all dispensaries are thriving and awaiting the vote in November. Right now the dispensaries have a semi-monopoly on the market. Legalization will change that. How is not yet clear. As of yet there is no equitable plan in place.
At the moment however my favorite dispensary is The Bloom Room at 471 Jessie Street SF at Mint Plaza. Consistently high grade buds and righteous deals on their "littles". Check their well presented home page, click on Menu then click on Cannabis for their sale days.
THE HUCKSTERS 1972
Being an account executive was frustrating. My first instinct was to dream up a campaign and write it up. Unfortunately that was the creative department's job. My job was to deal with the client. The ladies at Ms. were a gracious bunch but extremely wary of male influence.
Still one day, when the agency's art director, a strapping dude who resembled Tom Selleck, visited the Ms. offices, our wary feminists reverted to blushing high school girls. Can't fight Mother Nature.
Everything seemed to be in a holding pattern. Cocaine was sweeping the city and i was scooping up my share. Certainly there was more money than the bohemian days in Rome the previous year. There were parties with friends, dinners, perks (free magazines). i had found a two room duplex on the upper east side which was both cheap and cool, My novel Raga Six was due to be published in December a month considered certain death for books. Having already died my first time out with Doctor Orient i was bracing for extinction. (During that period i began writing song lyrics.) The art Director at Bantam books Len Leoni was the best in the business. we had maintained a friendship since my early days at Bantam based in part on our mutual admiration of Alex Raymond the extraordinary comic artist who drew Flash Gordon. i asked Len if he could get the artist Szafran to do the cover to Raga Six. He had done a brilliant cover for Bradbury's I Sing The Body Electric.
Len hired Szafran and H.B. Gilmour wrote the copy. The "package" when finished was striking with a deep blue cover and the same typeface Len used for The Exorcist. When I showed a proof to Gloria Steinem she thought Raga was a beautiful name. Future author Letty Cotton Pegrobin accused the cover illustration ( a voluptuous semi-nude female) of being sexist. i thought it looked good for a doomed novel.
Meanwhile my relationship with my other client Saturday Review was deteriorating. The publishers who were fresh from a huge success with their first venture Psychology Today had the bright idea to split the venerable Saturday Review into 4 fucking magazines. As the recipient of a shit load of free magazines each month, most of which remained unread, i knew along with everyone else at the agency the world did not need four new magazines to do the job of one. Underlying this brilliant idea was the fact they managed to quadruple the stock--if not its value.
The more the magazines faltered the more abrasive the publishers became.. Finally December rolled around and New York was in all its holiday glory. It became clear that my days in advertising were numbered and i had vague plans of getting back into publishing. One Saturday night the phone rang. It was Basel Winston new husband of dear friend Arlene Erb.
"Have you seen tonight's New York Post?"
"No why?"
"Raga Six is on the bestseller list."
My brain blew right through the top of my skull. And stayed up there for weeks.
NEXT: HIGH SOCIETY
Edited by Robert Gilman
"The most amazing property of cannabis is its ability to fog the minds of those who do no't use it."
THE BILLION DOLLAR BUD BIZ
Hello Dear Readers, after a hiatus of 3 years during which i wrote 4 novels i'm back at the same old stand surveying the booming present and wide-open future of legal cannabis. The states that legalized completely are enjoying a tax windfall that benefits everyone. Here in San Francisco where the sale and distribution is limited to Medical cannabis it's clear the all dispensaries are thriving and awaiting the vote in November. Right now the dispensaries have a semi-monopoly on the market. Legalization will change that. How is not yet clear. As of yet there is no equitable plan in place.
At the moment however my favorite dispensary is The Bloom Room at 471 Jessie Street SF at Mint Plaza. Consistently high grade buds and righteous deals on their "littles". Check their well presented home page, click on Menu then click on Cannabis for their sale days.
THE HUCKSTERS 1972
Being an account executive was frustrating. My first instinct was to dream up a campaign and write it up. Unfortunately that was the creative department's job. My job was to deal with the client. The ladies at Ms. were a gracious bunch but extremely wary of male influence.
Still one day, when the agency's art director, a strapping dude who resembled Tom Selleck, visited the Ms. offices, our wary feminists reverted to blushing high school girls. Can't fight Mother Nature.
Everything seemed to be in a holding pattern. Cocaine was sweeping the city and i was scooping up my share. Certainly there was more money than the bohemian days in Rome the previous year. There were parties with friends, dinners, perks (free magazines). i had found a two room duplex on the upper east side which was both cheap and cool, My novel Raga Six was due to be published in December a month considered certain death for books. Having already died my first time out with Doctor Orient i was bracing for extinction. (During that period i began writing song lyrics.) The art Director at Bantam books Len Leoni was the best in the business. we had maintained a friendship since my early days at Bantam based in part on our mutual admiration of Alex Raymond the extraordinary comic artist who drew Flash Gordon. i asked Len if he could get the artist Szafran to do the cover to Raga Six. He had done a brilliant cover for Bradbury's I Sing The Body Electric.
Len hired Szafran and H.B. Gilmour wrote the copy. The "package" when finished was striking with a deep blue cover and the same typeface Len used for The Exorcist. When I showed a proof to Gloria Steinem she thought Raga was a beautiful name. Future author Letty Cotton Pegrobin accused the cover illustration ( a voluptuous semi-nude female) of being sexist. i thought it looked good for a doomed novel.
Meanwhile my relationship with my other client Saturday Review was deteriorating. The publishers who were fresh from a huge success with their first venture Psychology Today had the bright idea to split the venerable Saturday Review into 4 fucking magazines. As the recipient of a shit load of free magazines each month, most of which remained unread, i knew along with everyone else at the agency the world did not need four new magazines to do the job of one. Underlying this brilliant idea was the fact they managed to quadruple the stock--if not its value.
The more the magazines faltered the more abrasive the publishers became.. Finally December rolled around and New York was in all its holiday glory. It became clear that my days in advertising were numbered and i had vague plans of getting back into publishing. One Saturday night the phone rang. It was Basel Winston new husband of dear friend Arlene Erb.
"Have you seen tonight's New York Post?"
"No why?"
"Raga Six is on the bestseller list."
My brain blew right through the top of my skull. And stayed up there for weeks.
NEXT: HIGH SOCIETY
Edited by Robert Gilman
HELLO AGAIN
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 no't use it."
THE BILLION DOLLAR BUD BIZ
Hello Dear Readers, after a hiatus of 3 years during which i wrote 4 novels i'm back at the same old stand surveying the booming present and wide-open future of legal cannabis. The states that legalized completely are enjoying a tax windfall that benefits everyone. Here in San Francisco where the sale and distribution is limited to Medical cannabis it's clear the all dispensaries are thriving and awaiting the vote in November. Right now the dispensaries have a semi-monopoly on the market. Legalization will change that. How is not yet clear. As of yet there is no equitable plan in place.
At the moment however my favorite dispensary is The Bloom Room at 471 Jessie Street SF at Mint Plaza. Consistently high grade buds and righteous deals on their "littles". Check their well presented home page, click on Menu then click on Cannabis for their sale days.
THE HUCKSTERS 1972
Being an account executive was frustrating. My first instinct was to dream up a campaign and write it up. Unfortunately that was the creative department's job. My job was to deal with the client. The ladies at Ms. were a gracious bunch but extremely wary of male influence.
Still one day, when the agency's art director, a strapping dude who resembled Tom Selleck, visited the Ms. offices, our wary feminists reverted to blushing high school girls. Can't fight Mother Nature.
Everything seemed to be in a holding pattern. Cocaine was sweeping the city and i was scooping up my share. Certainly there was more money than the bohemian days in Rome the previous year. There were parties with friends, dinners, perks (free magazines). i had found a two room duplex on the upper east side which was both cheap and cool, My novel Raga Six was due to be published in December a month considered certain death for books. Having already died my first time out with Doctor Orient i was bracing for extinction. (During that period i began writing song lyrics.) The art Director at Bantam books Len Leoni was the best in the business. we had maintained a friendship since my early days at Bantam based in part on our mutual admiration of Alex Raymond the extraordinary comic artist who drew Flash Gordon. i asked Len if he could get the artist Szafran to do the cover to Raga Six. He had done a brilliant cover for Bradbury's I Sing The Body Electric.
Len hired Szafran and H.B. Gilmour wrote the copy. The "package" when finished was striking with a deep blue cover and the same typeface Len used for The Exorcist. When I showed a proof to Gloria Steinem she thought Raga was a beautiful name. Future author Letty Cotton Pegrobin accused the cover illustration ( a voluptuous semi-nude female) of being sexist. i thought it looked good for a doomed novel.
Meanwhile my relationship with my other client Saturday Review was deteriorating. The publishers who were fresh from a huge success with their first venture Psychology Today had the bright idea to split the venerable Saturday Review into 4 fucking magazines. As the recipient of a shit load of free magazines each month, most of which remained unread, i knew along with everyone else at the agency the world did not need four new magazines to do the job of one. Underlying this brilliant idea was the fact they managed to quadruple the stock--if not its value.
The more the magazines faltered the more abrasive the publishers became.. Finally December rolled around and New York was in all its holiday glory. It became clear that my days in advertising were numbered and i had vague plans of getting back into publishing. One Saturday night the phone rang. It was Basel Winston new husband of dancer and dear friend Arlene Erb (widow of Bruce Erb).
"Have you seen tonight's New York Post?"
"No why?"
"Raga Six is on the bestseller list."
My brain blew right through the top of my skull. And stayed up there for weeks.
NEXT: HIGH SOCIETY
Edited by Robert Gilman
"The most amazing property of cannabis is its ability to fog the minds of those who do no't use it."
THE BILLION DOLLAR BUD BIZ
Hello Dear Readers, after a hiatus of 3 years during which i wrote 4 novels i'm back at the same old stand surveying the booming present and wide-open future of legal cannabis. The states that legalized completely are enjoying a tax windfall that benefits everyone. Here in San Francisco where the sale and distribution is limited to Medical cannabis it's clear the all dispensaries are thriving and awaiting the vote in November. Right now the dispensaries have a semi-monopoly on the market. Legalization will change that. How is not yet clear. As of yet there is no equitable plan in place.
At the moment however my favorite dispensary is The Bloom Room at 471 Jessie Street SF at Mint Plaza. Consistently high grade buds and righteous deals on their "littles". Check their well presented home page, click on Menu then click on Cannabis for their sale days.
THE HUCKSTERS 1972
Being an account executive was frustrating. My first instinct was to dream up a campaign and write it up. Unfortunately that was the creative department's job. My job was to deal with the client. The ladies at Ms. were a gracious bunch but extremely wary of male influence.
Still one day, when the agency's art director, a strapping dude who resembled Tom Selleck, visited the Ms. offices, our wary feminists reverted to blushing high school girls. Can't fight Mother Nature.
Everything seemed to be in a holding pattern. Cocaine was sweeping the city and i was scooping up my share. Certainly there was more money than the bohemian days in Rome the previous year. There were parties with friends, dinners, perks (free magazines). i had found a two room duplex on the upper east side which was both cheap and cool, My novel Raga Six was due to be published in December a month considered certain death for books. Having already died my first time out with Doctor Orient i was bracing for extinction. (During that period i began writing song lyrics.) The art Director at Bantam books Len Leoni was the best in the business. we had maintained a friendship since my early days at Bantam based in part on our mutual admiration of Alex Raymond the extraordinary comic artist who drew Flash Gordon. i asked Len if he could get the artist Szafran to do the cover to Raga Six. He had done a brilliant cover for Bradbury's I Sing The Body Electric.
Len hired Szafran and H.B. Gilmour wrote the copy. The "package" when finished was striking with a deep blue cover and the same typeface Len used for The Exorcist. When I showed a proof to Gloria Steinem she thought Raga was a beautiful name. Future author Letty Cotton Pegrobin accused the cover illustration ( a voluptuous semi-nude female) of being sexist. i thought it looked good for a doomed novel.
Meanwhile my relationship with my other client Saturday Review was deteriorating. The publishers who were fresh from a huge success with their first venture Psychology Today had the bright idea to split the venerable Saturday Review into 4 fucking magazines. As the recipient of a shit load of free magazines each month, most of which remained unread, i knew along with everyone else at the agency the world did not need four new magazines to do the job of one. Underlying this brilliant idea was the fact they managed to quadruple the stock--if not its value.
The more the magazines faltered the more abrasive the publishers became.. Finally December rolled around and New York was in all its holiday glory. It became clear that my days in advertising were numbered and i had vague plans of getting back into publishing. One Saturday night the phone rang. It was Basel Winston new husband of dancer and dear friend Arlene Erb (widow of Bruce Erb).
"Have you seen tonight's New York Post?"
"No why?"
"Raga Six is on the bestseller list."
My brain blew right through the top of my skull. And stayed up there for weeks.
NEXT: HIGH SOCIETY
Edited by Robert Gilman
Sunday, October 13, 2013
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 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
Monday, March 4, 2013
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
"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
Thursday, February 21, 2013
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
Thursday, February 7, 2013
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
Friday, November 30, 2012
A Long, Edgy Summer
Can * nois * seur (kan' us sur') n, one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis
"The most amazing quality of cannabis is its ability to fog the minds of those who do not use it."
Heads Up: The recent vote to legalize marijuana in the states of Washington and Colorado has legislators, lawyers and law enforcement scrambling for new guidelines. After all, the feds have cannabis scheduled as a class A drug, right up there with heroin, as certified by no less an authority than the Supreme Court. The DEA is urging Mexico to eradicate their marijuana fields, meanwhile Washington D.C. just okayed medical cannabis, any number of reality shows give us fully armored swat teams saving us from the evils of weed...in short--reefer madness. Absurdity begetting tragedy and perverting reason by imprisoning a million young people for a non-crime.
Oh yeah, American citizens have spoken clearly but still there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth by the conservatives-who have yet to come to grips with contraception, the fundamendalists-who can't dance, and the alcohol industry*...(Big tobacco may yet find this a boon.)
The victims at this Mad Hatter tea party are those unfortunate souls who happened to smoke a joint in the wrong state. Fodder for the corporate prison industry. Isn't it time we move move to set them free? And while we're at it, corporate prisons? Faceless financial entities whose profits come from broken lives?
If we legalize they might diversify into an honest, more humane business, like cultivating weed.
*in the future there will be cannabis infused vodka
A Long, Edgy Summer: 1970
The short voyage from Tangier to Naples was uneventful. The passengers were older, conservative, and confided in shocked whispers that one of the freighters had been overrun by anarchists and long haired hippies. The parent companyYugolinia had instituted a number of new rules that included overlong hair, dress codes and dogs.
We made sure to keep low key considering the square of black hash i had secured from Achmed's antique shop in Tangier. Located on a stairway leading down to Socco Chico, Achmed's shop was a serene, silk curtained cavern, light years away from the bustling outside traffic. Inside it was cool and silent with brass trays, mint tea, candlight, floor pillows and Achmed's wizened face, his smile ecstatic, as listed his famous clients... from the Rolling Stones to James Coburn. The ecstatic energy would intensify as he passed the pipe and expanded on the metaphysical connections between kif and Allah. Achmed had a natural cross on the palm of his right hand and claimed the cross was like a dowsing rod that guided him to the heart of the hash powder. When Achmed felt one had sufficient character of soul he would bestow a small slab of his black hash. This was the slab i had with me in hopes of finding inspiration for my second novel which, until then, was not on the horizon.
After docking in Naples, we immediately piled our bags onto a ferry bound for the island of Ischia. On arrival I stored the bags and took a bus to Lacco Ammeno, the place where we'd stayed five years before. Fortunately our haste paid off and we were able to rent our old room and bath, a week ahead of some prospective Italian tenants.
Lacco Ammeno was a sleepy fishing village with a skimpy beach, which had been transformed by the presence of one of the most luxurious hotels on the planet-the Regina Isabella-which has its own yacht basin. i preferred to take the bus to a beach called Citarra, which sits at the mouth of a hollowed out, semi-extinct volcano that churns up thermal water into the crisp green sea.
But as the sunny days and cool nights moved into the August religious festivals and September rains, the novel was not yet in sight.
Money was getting short but i was due a film option check for Doctor Orient which would get us to Rome.
Next: Roma, Fellini, and Cinecitta
edited by Robert Gilman
"The most amazing quality of cannabis is its ability to fog the minds of those who do not use it."
Heads Up: The recent vote to legalize marijuana in the states of Washington and Colorado has legislators, lawyers and law enforcement scrambling for new guidelines. After all, the feds have cannabis scheduled as a class A drug, right up there with heroin, as certified by no less an authority than the Supreme Court. The DEA is urging Mexico to eradicate their marijuana fields, meanwhile Washington D.C. just okayed medical cannabis, any number of reality shows give us fully armored swat teams saving us from the evils of weed...in short--reefer madness. Absurdity begetting tragedy and perverting reason by imprisoning a million young people for a non-crime.
Oh yeah, American citizens have spoken clearly but still there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth by the conservatives-who have yet to come to grips with contraception, the fundamendalists-who can't dance, and the alcohol industry*...(Big tobacco may yet find this a boon.)
The victims at this Mad Hatter tea party are those unfortunate souls who happened to smoke a joint in the wrong state. Fodder for the corporate prison industry. Isn't it time we move move to set them free? And while we're at it, corporate prisons? Faceless financial entities whose profits come from broken lives?
If we legalize they might diversify into an honest, more humane business, like cultivating weed.
*in the future there will be cannabis infused vodka
A Long, Edgy Summer: 1970
The short voyage from Tangier to Naples was uneventful. The passengers were older, conservative, and confided in shocked whispers that one of the freighters had been overrun by anarchists and long haired hippies. The parent companyYugolinia had instituted a number of new rules that included overlong hair, dress codes and dogs.
We made sure to keep low key considering the square of black hash i had secured from Achmed's antique shop in Tangier. Located on a stairway leading down to Socco Chico, Achmed's shop was a serene, silk curtained cavern, light years away from the bustling outside traffic. Inside it was cool and silent with brass trays, mint tea, candlight, floor pillows and Achmed's wizened face, his smile ecstatic, as listed his famous clients... from the Rolling Stones to James Coburn. The ecstatic energy would intensify as he passed the pipe and expanded on the metaphysical connections between kif and Allah. Achmed had a natural cross on the palm of his right hand and claimed the cross was like a dowsing rod that guided him to the heart of the hash powder. When Achmed felt one had sufficient character of soul he would bestow a small slab of his black hash. This was the slab i had with me in hopes of finding inspiration for my second novel which, until then, was not on the horizon.
After docking in Naples, we immediately piled our bags onto a ferry bound for the island of Ischia. On arrival I stored the bags and took a bus to Lacco Ammeno, the place where we'd stayed five years before. Fortunately our haste paid off and we were able to rent our old room and bath, a week ahead of some prospective Italian tenants.
Lacco Ammeno was a sleepy fishing village with a skimpy beach, which had been transformed by the presence of one of the most luxurious hotels on the planet-the Regina Isabella-which has its own yacht basin. i preferred to take the bus to a beach called Citarra, which sits at the mouth of a hollowed out, semi-extinct volcano that churns up thermal water into the crisp green sea.
But as the sunny days and cool nights moved into the August religious festivals and September rains, the novel was not yet in sight.
Money was getting short but i was due a film option check for Doctor Orient which would get us to Rome.
Next: Roma, Fellini, and Cinecitta
edited by Robert Gilman
Friday, November 16, 2012
The Swords of the Desert
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: Medithrive patient delivery @ 415 562 6334 is an outstanding service. Originally one of San Francisco's premiere medical cannabis dispensaries, featuring state of the art ammenities and compassionate community outreach programs including contributions to a nearby school--which ironically led to their closure* by the now infamous U.S. Attorney Melinda Haag--has reinvented itself as a first-class delivery service. Their excellent selection is enhanced by imaginative marketing which ultimately benefits the patient and enables consumers to avail themselves of a variety of high-end strains without going over budget. They have liberal discounts and in my experience have honored all of their many special offers. Their staff is polite, knowledgable and quick to solve problems. Visit their website or give them a call. You'll be glad you did.
*(Speaking of hypocrisy--located directly across a North Beach grammar school on Broadway, is a strip club that serves alcohol, and yet a cannabis dispensary needs to be 1000 feet from any school)
The Swords of the Desert: Morocco1970
The Marrakech Express lived up to its name from Tangier to Casablanca. After that it slowed down considerably, morphing into a milk train that stopped often for six hours or so before arriving at its fabled destination.
The first thing i noticed was the clean, sandlewood air, warm and pure. The second was the low throbbing of the drums.
While faint at first, the sound deepened as we neared town. We took a room in a small hotel in the Euro section, dropped our bags and walked in the direction of the drums. Passing through the large gates we entered a new world.
Djemaa el-Fna means gathering place of of the dead Once a place of public execution, it had evolved into a teeming marketplace of human imagination. A clash of cultures spilled across the stalls and carpets that displayed all manner of goods from dentures to aphrodisiacs. Blue turbaned Tauregs sporting curved daggers, brushed shoulders with tall, impassive Nubians in white robes, Berber women, faces marked with tribal tattoos, water sellers in tasseled hats, their brass cups clanking like cow bells, mules laden with vegetables from the mountain farms...all wandering through a multi-ringed circus of acrobats, magicians, jugglers, fortune tellers, soothsayers, card sharps, pickpockets, food vendors, snake charmers, and trance dancers. Everywhere the smell of kif mingled with the breath of mint tea and musty scent of a hundred spices. Crowds would swirl around the various performers then disintegrate, only to reform somwhere else. The high pitched oboes of the snake charmers rose above the constant drumming.
Beyond the open area were tunnelled souks selling rugs, jewels, cosmetics, robes, dried fruit, musk, antiques, whatever...dusty sunrays slanting through the thatched roofs overhead. Indeed it was magical. Everything seemed edgy, primitive and authentic. On the other hand it was a show biz oasis at the cusp of the vast Sahara. An age old Vegas for merchants fresh off the caravan.
Personally i felt blessed to be there.
At night the market was lit by kerosene lamps and the dancers took over, their feet blurred in the flickering light, barely touching ground, spinning in time to the relentless drums.
Later we spotted Mick Jagger racing across the market.
For eight days i remained dazzled, then headed back to a now tame Tangier. However over the next month i saw that the small town at the mouth of the Mediteranean had layers, and everybody was a player.
The weather had become balmy and we had taken to sunbathing at one of the cabana clubs that had opened early. It was there we met John Hohnsbeen, an art afficianado and collector, who as a younger man had lived with Philip Johnson the architect, in the famous glass house and was a pal of Peggy Guggenheim. He was in Morocco with his current friend Roland, and a brilliant dude to hang with: funny, wise and hip. Another face from America was a character named Alan Strohl who was a friend of Andrew Loog Oldham (of the Stones) and Baby Jane Holzer (night club debutante). Alan had a wild pre-punk look with bleached hair and razor thin features. We met at a hamburger stand run by an ex-Nazi named Eric. Alan ran in extremely fast circles in New York. A few years later he had a fatal heart attack. However at the moment he was traveling with one of my ex clients in the herb biz.
As spring blossomed we decided to sail to the familiar island of Ischia, off Naples, for the summer, where we knew of a good little hut to rent and a great beach.
Now Tangier has two beaches, one on the Atlantic side, another on the Mediterranean bay. But the Atlantic was rough, and the bay too industrial, being within swimming distance to the dock area. So we booked passage on the next passing Yugoslavian
freighter, carted Lady M's many suitcases and trunks aboard, and sailed off to Italy...
Author's Note: This post is dedicated to Keith Deutsch
publisher, editor, poet, friend
Thanks to editor Robert Gilman
"The most amazing property of cannabis is its ability to fog the minds of those who do not use it."
Heads Up: Medithrive patient delivery @ 415 562 6334 is an outstanding service. Originally one of San Francisco's premiere medical cannabis dispensaries, featuring state of the art ammenities and compassionate community outreach programs including contributions to a nearby school--which ironically led to their closure* by the now infamous U.S. Attorney Melinda Haag--has reinvented itself as a first-class delivery service. Their excellent selection is enhanced by imaginative marketing which ultimately benefits the patient and enables consumers to avail themselves of a variety of high-end strains without going over budget. They have liberal discounts and in my experience have honored all of their many special offers. Their staff is polite, knowledgable and quick to solve problems. Visit their website or give them a call. You'll be glad you did.
*(Speaking of hypocrisy--located directly across a North Beach grammar school on Broadway, is a strip club that serves alcohol, and yet a cannabis dispensary needs to be 1000 feet from any school)
The Swords of the Desert: Morocco1970
The Marrakech Express lived up to its name from Tangier to Casablanca. After that it slowed down considerably, morphing into a milk train that stopped often for six hours or so before arriving at its fabled destination.
The first thing i noticed was the clean, sandlewood air, warm and pure. The second was the low throbbing of the drums.
While faint at first, the sound deepened as we neared town. We took a room in a small hotel in the Euro section, dropped our bags and walked in the direction of the drums. Passing through the large gates we entered a new world.
Djemaa el-Fna means gathering place of of the dead Once a place of public execution, it had evolved into a teeming marketplace of human imagination. A clash of cultures spilled across the stalls and carpets that displayed all manner of goods from dentures to aphrodisiacs. Blue turbaned Tauregs sporting curved daggers, brushed shoulders with tall, impassive Nubians in white robes, Berber women, faces marked with tribal tattoos, water sellers in tasseled hats, their brass cups clanking like cow bells, mules laden with vegetables from the mountain farms...all wandering through a multi-ringed circus of acrobats, magicians, jugglers, fortune tellers, soothsayers, card sharps, pickpockets, food vendors, snake charmers, and trance dancers. Everywhere the smell of kif mingled with the breath of mint tea and musty scent of a hundred spices. Crowds would swirl around the various performers then disintegrate, only to reform somwhere else. The high pitched oboes of the snake charmers rose above the constant drumming.
Beyond the open area were tunnelled souks selling rugs, jewels, cosmetics, robes, dried fruit, musk, antiques, whatever...dusty sunrays slanting through the thatched roofs overhead. Indeed it was magical. Everything seemed edgy, primitive and authentic. On the other hand it was a show biz oasis at the cusp of the vast Sahara. An age old Vegas for merchants fresh off the caravan.
Personally i felt blessed to be there.
At night the market was lit by kerosene lamps and the dancers took over, their feet blurred in the flickering light, barely touching ground, spinning in time to the relentless drums.
Later we spotted Mick Jagger racing across the market.
For eight days i remained dazzled, then headed back to a now tame Tangier. However over the next month i saw that the small town at the mouth of the Mediteranean had layers, and everybody was a player.
The weather had become balmy and we had taken to sunbathing at one of the cabana clubs that had opened early. It was there we met John Hohnsbeen, an art afficianado and collector, who as a younger man had lived with Philip Johnson the architect, in the famous glass house and was a pal of Peggy Guggenheim. He was in Morocco with his current friend Roland, and a brilliant dude to hang with: funny, wise and hip. Another face from America was a character named Alan Strohl who was a friend of Andrew Loog Oldham (of the Stones) and Baby Jane Holzer (night club debutante). Alan had a wild pre-punk look with bleached hair and razor thin features. We met at a hamburger stand run by an ex-Nazi named Eric. Alan ran in extremely fast circles in New York. A few years later he had a fatal heart attack. However at the moment he was traveling with one of my ex clients in the herb biz.
As spring blossomed we decided to sail to the familiar island of Ischia, off Naples, for the summer, where we knew of a good little hut to rent and a great beach.
Now Tangier has two beaches, one on the Atlantic side, another on the Mediterranean bay. But the Atlantic was rough, and the bay too industrial, being within swimming distance to the dock area. So we booked passage on the next passing Yugoslavian
freighter, carted Lady M's many suitcases and trunks aboard, and sailed off to Italy...
Author's Note: This post is dedicated to Keith Deutsch
publisher, editor, poet, friend
Thanks to editor Robert Gilman
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Second Novel Blues
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: Taking my own advice, i phoned Oakland 420 Medical Evaluations and had zero trouble making an appointment. Just over the Bay Bridge from SF at 2633 Telegraph Avenue in Oakland, it was easy to find and parking was available. There were a smattering of patients on line but when i told the receptionist i had an appointment she handed me 3 pages of requisite paperwork, including endless legal disclaimers. From the number of people waiting i speculated the doctor would run overtime but to my surprise my name was called barely five minutes past my appointment. It was a renewal visit but the doctor informed himself of changes in my condition and fifteen minutes later i was standing in front of the camera while Marie, the lovely and intelligent receptionist snapped a picture for my Photo ID card. (Now i can vote in Alabama.)
All in all an efficient, highly professional experience. Best of all they honor all coupons.
Second Novel Blues: Tangier 1970
The Hotel Astoria was located off Boulevard Pasteur, the main drag in town. A short walk took one to the Cafe de Paris, which served the best coffee in North Africa. Expats from all corners of life hung out there: a range of characters that included artists, writers, ex-spies, fugitives,, dealers of every persuasion, smugglers, rich hedonists, poor
hedonists, male prostitutes, gay tourists, and a sprinkling of ex-Nazis on the lam. Most of the clientele was male and favored some variation of European dress, usually accessorized by a red Fez hat and the ubiquitous yellow pointed slippers. Formerly an international zone, without extradition and subject to its own laws, the aura of danger clung to Tangier like cheap perfume.
You could change money at the Cafe de Paris, or buy tax free cigarettes, or booze--but by tacit agreement the cannabis trade was relegated to the souks of the Kasbah. One rarely, if ever, saw a pipe being lit on Boulevard Pasteur.
The passersby however, were more traditional, most males wearing djelabas, while the veiled females sported straw hats from Tetouan or red striped shawls that identified them as coming from the Rif mountains. As the tribal ladies shuffled past the Cafe on their way to market, their kohl blackened eyes stared above blue veils at the strange world lounging on the other side of the plate glass.
If one were to follow the ladies down to the Socco Chico the relative calm of the Euro section gave way to a blur of movement and color. It was there one could see the robed men gathered in cafes or hunched in their vending stalls, lighting endless pipes of kif and drinking sweet mint tea.
It still being the rainy season, the skies were overcast and the beaches empty, leaving the market as the main source of entertainment. And indeed it had circus-like elements with acrobats, jugglers and fortune tellers sharing the stage with hippies, foreign tourists, and bohemian ex-pats. Arab music wafted from invisible radios as the past and the future merged in the square.
With all that i was having trouble gaining traction on the follow up to my first novel, due out in the fall. After an intense eleven days of wrtiting aboard the freighter, the urgency was gone. Nothing to do but dig the world over a pipe and a glass of hot mint tea.
Now Tangier is a small town. After a few weeks the same hustlers and their bizarre acts becames routine. How many times can you go to the dancing boy cafe--where a young lad tarted up as an oriental lady, danced for a crowd of grizzled men in hooded robes in a room thick with smoke from kif pipes? Or the Parrot bar where the proprietess was an ex carnival motorcycle stunt rider? Considering the fact that one saw the same faces in these venues every night, it soon grew constricting.
So after a month, it was decided to take the Marrakech Express.
Next: The Swords of the Desert
"The most amazing property of cannabis is its ability to fog the minds of those who do not use it."
Heads Up: Taking my own advice, i phoned Oakland 420 Medical Evaluations and had zero trouble making an appointment. Just over the Bay Bridge from SF at 2633 Telegraph Avenue in Oakland, it was easy to find and parking was available. There were a smattering of patients on line but when i told the receptionist i had an appointment she handed me 3 pages of requisite paperwork, including endless legal disclaimers. From the number of people waiting i speculated the doctor would run overtime but to my surprise my name was called barely five minutes past my appointment. It was a renewal visit but the doctor informed himself of changes in my condition and fifteen minutes later i was standing in front of the camera while Marie, the lovely and intelligent receptionist snapped a picture for my Photo ID card. (Now i can vote in Alabama.)
All in all an efficient, highly professional experience. Best of all they honor all coupons.
Second Novel Blues: Tangier 1970
The Hotel Astoria was located off Boulevard Pasteur, the main drag in town. A short walk took one to the Cafe de Paris, which served the best coffee in North Africa. Expats from all corners of life hung out there: a range of characters that included artists, writers, ex-spies, fugitives,, dealers of every persuasion, smugglers, rich hedonists, poor
hedonists, male prostitutes, gay tourists, and a sprinkling of ex-Nazis on the lam. Most of the clientele was male and favored some variation of European dress, usually accessorized by a red Fez hat and the ubiquitous yellow pointed slippers. Formerly an international zone, without extradition and subject to its own laws, the aura of danger clung to Tangier like cheap perfume.
You could change money at the Cafe de Paris, or buy tax free cigarettes, or booze--but by tacit agreement the cannabis trade was relegated to the souks of the Kasbah. One rarely, if ever, saw a pipe being lit on Boulevard Pasteur.
The passersby however, were more traditional, most males wearing djelabas, while the veiled females sported straw hats from Tetouan or red striped shawls that identified them as coming from the Rif mountains. As the tribal ladies shuffled past the Cafe on their way to market, their kohl blackened eyes stared above blue veils at the strange world lounging on the other side of the plate glass.
If one were to follow the ladies down to the Socco Chico the relative calm of the Euro section gave way to a blur of movement and color. It was there one could see the robed men gathered in cafes or hunched in their vending stalls, lighting endless pipes of kif and drinking sweet mint tea.
It still being the rainy season, the skies were overcast and the beaches empty, leaving the market as the main source of entertainment. And indeed it had circus-like elements with acrobats, jugglers and fortune tellers sharing the stage with hippies, foreign tourists, and bohemian ex-pats. Arab music wafted from invisible radios as the past and the future merged in the square.
With all that i was having trouble gaining traction on the follow up to my first novel, due out in the fall. After an intense eleven days of wrtiting aboard the freighter, the urgency was gone. Nothing to do but dig the world over a pipe and a glass of hot mint tea.
Now Tangier is a small town. After a few weeks the same hustlers and their bizarre acts becames routine. How many times can you go to the dancing boy cafe--where a young lad tarted up as an oriental lady, danced for a crowd of grizzled men in hooded robes in a room thick with smoke from kif pipes? Or the Parrot bar where the proprietess was an ex carnival motorcycle stunt rider? Considering the fact that one saw the same faces in these venues every night, it soon grew constricting.
So after a month, it was decided to take the Marrakech Express.
Next: The Swords of the Desert
Thursday, September 20, 2012
SHORE LEAVE
can * nois * seur (kan' us sur') n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannibis
"The most amazing property of cannibis is its ability to fog the minds of those who do not use it."
Heads Up; Anyone looking to to renew or qualify for, their Medical Marijuana card at Priceless Evaluations at 20th and Mission (check the San Francisco Guardian or Rolling Stone for discount coupons) should plan very carefully. For some reason, even with an appointment patients are relegated to the starkly bare waiting rooms, where the wait is at least two hours. Not only has their admission system crashed but street construction has limited parking and traffic cops circle like wolves around a chicken coop, so bring plenty of quarters. Oh yeah, don't use the elevator, it's broken, and the security guard downstairs feels it's not his job to warn you--or answer the alarm.
Can you say Oakland?
In Praise of the Rejection Slip: When Jack London decided to pursue a career as a writer, he vowed he would quit only when his rejection slips reached the top of his desk spindle. Now the previous sentence contains three little used words. A 'spindle' being a narrow metal spike which stood upright on the desk where one would skewer bills, letters, news articles and such, until they could be attended to and dispatched. One notable 'and such' was the 'rejection slip'.
The aspiring writer would slip his (or her) manuscript into an envelope and mail it to the publisher. Eventually the manuscript would be returned with a note. Some of these were personal suggestions by the editor, most were form letters, but they all added up to the same thing. The manuscript had been rejected. I personally saved all of these rejection slips intending to open a bar called Rejection, where all my slips would be posted on the wall. (Any writer presenting a bona fide rejection slip would get drinks on the house all night). I still like the idea, except in today's new world the rejection slip has vanished. One sends a manuscript in via Email, never to be heard from again. The work seems to be consumed by some digital black hole that reduces all form of creativity and hope into nothingness. At least in the old days, even a form letter assured the recipient that the work had been touched by human hands, perhaps even skimmed or better yet, actually read, before being tossed aside. Today all it takes is the delete button to destroy any memory of a creative dream. Not even the courtesy of a reach around. I have been told by some editors and agents that in today's litigious society, they are afraid of possible blowback by a disgruntled author with an AK47. And judging from recent events in our NRA sponsered society, they may have a valid point. But in my day publishers were not pussies, and had the courage to treat their literary supplicants with a modicum of respect. The message conveyed was: not this time but you're still in the game, try again. The message today?...oh, there is no message. Your work doesn't exist and neither do you. I'll have that drink now.
Shore Leave: 11th Day of a 1970 Freighter Voyage to Tangier.
(Author's Note: If you have been reading the past five or six posts you have a fair idea of what taking a freighter across the great water was like. So with your indulgence i'll wind up the memoir and cut to the chase.)
"Well what's your conclusion? How is it five years later? Do you still have the radar?" Garfunkel challenged, having read some pertinent pages of Scorpio's log.
Scorpio was satisfied. He was going at the same speed, down the same road--but now he had a set of four-wheel disc brakes. Not for stopping but for cornering. He was thirty and in better shape for the next phase than he had been for the last. He was ready, and age was a state of readiness.
However it had been a long time since he had made a new friend. Garfunkel grinned and counted himself in. Pack the same, filling Scorpio's cup...
About two-thirty in the morning the boat stopped.
About three-thirty, after fifteen people had popped their heads in the door yelling "You've really got to see this," Pack and Scorpio went up on deck for a look at the beaded strings of amber light that hinted at the strange streets in the shadows of 3a.m..
The boat had dropped anchor in the Bay of Tangier. It would pull into dock at 8a.m., disembark passengers, unload cargo, and put in fresh stores. It would leave for Valencia, Spain, that evening. Then on to Tunis, Italy, and Yugoslavia. That settled they came in from the chill into the warm lounge and back to some drowsy talk.
Pack speculated on six more days on the boat with only Tina and Blaine left to carry on. He planned to go to Florence, pick up some money due, accompany Tina to Greece, and then go alone to some other scene.
"Sounds simple but it could get complicated," Scorpio ventured.
"Absolutely cool, " Pack insisted.
Garfunkel knew it was possible for a man and woman to live apart for a while, get tight with someone else, and then resume.
Scorpio well yeahed that, knowing it was rational. But he felt there were some kickers in there, some aces up the sleeve of conditioning.
Pack was still down over being alone on the Boat.
Scorpio suggested he might find the time to pull his health together into a condition presentable enough to check into a Swiss rest home.
Eyes slitted over his moustache Pack looked like a grizzled Pan. True Capricorn goat man piping a party. And he nodded yeah, it was true, he was totally stretched; "Your basic burnt out husk."
About this time the pace of the past 144 hours had ground everyone's energy down fine. At five that morning they decided to skip the sunrise and get some sleep. Garfunkel would be leaving early so he said his so longs there.
Two hours later Scorpio was rousted by the Steward calling for passport award and landing procedures in the lounge. Scorpio ducked out for some fresh air before the rigamarole and there, curving around the green bay, was Tangier, spreading lush over the hills above the white sand beach. Just beyond the dock area was the Kasbah, a low bulge of gold domes, blue towers and whitewash roofs rising up and up above the waterfront cafes and crumbling sea cliff walls.
The original street.
The boat was docked close to the waterfront boulevard and Scorpio could see hooded figures hunched on the curbs or sitting in cafes. There were women wearing veils and kaftans, men in grey suits and yellow slippers shuffling off to work, stevedores in djelabas--full robes that concealed who knows what--hovering around the boat, every so often crouching down to light a pipe. Crates swung overhead. A man in a brown djelaba, hood back to frame his wool skull cap, impassively operated the crane mechanism.
Back inside, a desk had been set up at one end of the lounge giving the room an ominous air that morning. Most of the passengers were standing about impatiently. Silent.
Suspicious of officials in uniform.
The Tribe was something else again.
All were wearing straight clothes--or what they considered straight. The ladies were quite together, neat in suburban tea dresses and tights to cover unshaven legs, fresh and innocent of face. The men were less conservative. With day-glo bell bottoms, flowered shirts, polka dots, striped coats, their waist length hair slicked back, parted in the middle, drawn close to the skull and tucked into their shirt collars, they looked like 1920 lounge lizards, parlor snakes, prohibition dandies--which of course they were.
The men behind the desk; burly, stern, disapproving fellows, had told the tribe that if they disembarked looking like a bunch of Hindu fortune tellers
Big Brother, Tangier Chapter, would shave their hair and deport them.
The Tribe looked morose, considering a crew cut Mecca.
"May I have my passport?" The Holy Man asked finally, after everyone was cleared.
"They sent it to the police," the Steward said, in a c'est le guerre manner.
"Oh yeah." The Holy Man smiled weakly. "Alright then," he conceded, shoving his hands into his day-glo pockets and looking like a dude at the county fair just been hoodwinked.
The Steward suddenly rummaged through a cheesebox. "Wait a moment please--is here." He grinned and handed the Holy Man his passport.
Great joke fellas. Heh, heh.
Paperwork finished Scorpio went to his cabin and lost five bills to the customs inspector whose pockets started watering at the sight of all that luggage Mysterious Traveling Companion was hauling.
Waiting for the bags to be brought down to the taxi, we watched the young travelers float down the gangplank, a solid row of pilgrims, their worldly belongings in the parachute packs strapped to their backs, pioneers of a new passage to the Learning Tree.
Scorpio and MTC got themselves nicely set up in a hotel in the European section--$3.80 bath and breakfast--then went back to the boat to see if Pack and Tina were up for some Tangiering. Pack was there asleep but Tina was gone. The Steward told them she went ashore to do some shopping. Pack hopped up and the three of them went to the waterfront boulevard. They walked a bit then stopped at a cafe for tea.
Pack being newly awake was trying to straighten himself out but was worried about Tina alone in Tangier.
A small boy came up and asked for a cigarette. A little girl shyly extended her hand for money. Kids 2, Scorpio 0.
As they sat there they saw The Tribe, The Holy Man back in tribal clothes, swinging down the street with their dogs and new found friend Hamid.
They took it all in and wondered where to find Tina.
Finally they went back to the entrance to the Socco Chico, the small market in the Kasbah. They were hungry now and looking for salad and shishkabob. Through the blur of color and confusion in the market they spotted a group of faces from the boat. Honest Fred and some others, waving them over. They told Pack that Tina was in the first restaurant down the alley. Sure enough there's Tina eating, and sitting with an old friend she ran into named Jazee, cat from Amsterdam with a full mane of golden hair, been in Tangier a year this time around.
After a good meal Jazee helped everyone get their cannabis needs well taken care of, then took them up to a terrace cafe for a smoke and a glass of delicious mint tea. Up there in the sun, they goofed on heiress Barbara Hutton's tiled patio next door and watched the blue walls and whitewash roofs slope to the sea.
It was there that Pack had to ask for time. He was feeling flutters in his chest, the after effects of his long distance run. "Hold on Willie boy, your heart's gonna give right out on you..."
So then it was a slow walk down the alley to Socco Chico, down around and they were at the entrance to the pier. Pack, Scorpio, MTC and Tina knew what was happening. They had maintained a rare communication for eleven days and now it was time to let it be.
They looked at each other, smiling some, not saying much in the way of keep in touch, knowing they had separate appointments with the Joker Man. Just a handshake, a hug and a kiss. And then there was nothing left to say.
End Log 1970
Cannoisseur head shot
photographed by John Hanford
"The most amazing property of cannibis is its ability to fog the minds of those who do not use it."
Heads Up; Anyone looking to to renew or qualify for, their Medical Marijuana card at Priceless Evaluations at 20th and Mission (check the San Francisco Guardian or Rolling Stone for discount coupons) should plan very carefully. For some reason, even with an appointment patients are relegated to the starkly bare waiting rooms, where the wait is at least two hours. Not only has their admission system crashed but street construction has limited parking and traffic cops circle like wolves around a chicken coop, so bring plenty of quarters. Oh yeah, don't use the elevator, it's broken, and the security guard downstairs feels it's not his job to warn you--or answer the alarm.
Can you say Oakland?
In Praise of the Rejection Slip: When Jack London decided to pursue a career as a writer, he vowed he would quit only when his rejection slips reached the top of his desk spindle. Now the previous sentence contains three little used words. A 'spindle' being a narrow metal spike which stood upright on the desk where one would skewer bills, letters, news articles and such, until they could be attended to and dispatched. One notable 'and such' was the 'rejection slip'.
The aspiring writer would slip his (or her) manuscript into an envelope and mail it to the publisher. Eventually the manuscript would be returned with a note. Some of these were personal suggestions by the editor, most were form letters, but they all added up to the same thing. The manuscript had been rejected. I personally saved all of these rejection slips intending to open a bar called Rejection, where all my slips would be posted on the wall. (Any writer presenting a bona fide rejection slip would get drinks on the house all night). I still like the idea, except in today's new world the rejection slip has vanished. One sends a manuscript in via Email, never to be heard from again. The work seems to be consumed by some digital black hole that reduces all form of creativity and hope into nothingness. At least in the old days, even a form letter assured the recipient that the work had been touched by human hands, perhaps even skimmed or better yet, actually read, before being tossed aside. Today all it takes is the delete button to destroy any memory of a creative dream. Not even the courtesy of a reach around. I have been told by some editors and agents that in today's litigious society, they are afraid of possible blowback by a disgruntled author with an AK47. And judging from recent events in our NRA sponsered society, they may have a valid point. But in my day publishers were not pussies, and had the courage to treat their literary supplicants with a modicum of respect. The message conveyed was: not this time but you're still in the game, try again. The message today?...oh, there is no message. Your work doesn't exist and neither do you. I'll have that drink now.
Shore Leave: 11th Day of a 1970 Freighter Voyage to Tangier.
(Author's Note: If you have been reading the past five or six posts you have a fair idea of what taking a freighter across the great water was like. So with your indulgence i'll wind up the memoir and cut to the chase.)
"Well what's your conclusion? How is it five years later? Do you still have the radar?" Garfunkel challenged, having read some pertinent pages of Scorpio's log.
Scorpio was satisfied. He was going at the same speed, down the same road--but now he had a set of four-wheel disc brakes. Not for stopping but for cornering. He was thirty and in better shape for the next phase than he had been for the last. He was ready, and age was a state of readiness.
However it had been a long time since he had made a new friend. Garfunkel grinned and counted himself in. Pack the same, filling Scorpio's cup...
About two-thirty in the morning the boat stopped.
About three-thirty, after fifteen people had popped their heads in the door yelling "You've really got to see this," Pack and Scorpio went up on deck for a look at the beaded strings of amber light that hinted at the strange streets in the shadows of 3a.m..
The boat had dropped anchor in the Bay of Tangier. It would pull into dock at 8a.m., disembark passengers, unload cargo, and put in fresh stores. It would leave for Valencia, Spain, that evening. Then on to Tunis, Italy, and Yugoslavia. That settled they came in from the chill into the warm lounge and back to some drowsy talk.
Pack speculated on six more days on the boat with only Tina and Blaine left to carry on. He planned to go to Florence, pick up some money due, accompany Tina to Greece, and then go alone to some other scene.
"Sounds simple but it could get complicated," Scorpio ventured.
"Absolutely cool, " Pack insisted.
Garfunkel knew it was possible for a man and woman to live apart for a while, get tight with someone else, and then resume.
Scorpio well yeahed that, knowing it was rational. But he felt there were some kickers in there, some aces up the sleeve of conditioning.
Pack was still down over being alone on the Boat.
Scorpio suggested he might find the time to pull his health together into a condition presentable enough to check into a Swiss rest home.
Eyes slitted over his moustache Pack looked like a grizzled Pan. True Capricorn goat man piping a party. And he nodded yeah, it was true, he was totally stretched; "Your basic burnt out husk."
About this time the pace of the past 144 hours had ground everyone's energy down fine. At five that morning they decided to skip the sunrise and get some sleep. Garfunkel would be leaving early so he said his so longs there.
Two hours later Scorpio was rousted by the Steward calling for passport award and landing procedures in the lounge. Scorpio ducked out for some fresh air before the rigamarole and there, curving around the green bay, was Tangier, spreading lush over the hills above the white sand beach. Just beyond the dock area was the Kasbah, a low bulge of gold domes, blue towers and whitewash roofs rising up and up above the waterfront cafes and crumbling sea cliff walls.
The original street.
The boat was docked close to the waterfront boulevard and Scorpio could see hooded figures hunched on the curbs or sitting in cafes. There were women wearing veils and kaftans, men in grey suits and yellow slippers shuffling off to work, stevedores in djelabas--full robes that concealed who knows what--hovering around the boat, every so often crouching down to light a pipe. Crates swung overhead. A man in a brown djelaba, hood back to frame his wool skull cap, impassively operated the crane mechanism.
Back inside, a desk had been set up at one end of the lounge giving the room an ominous air that morning. Most of the passengers were standing about impatiently. Silent.
Suspicious of officials in uniform.
The Tribe was something else again.
All were wearing straight clothes--or what they considered straight. The ladies were quite together, neat in suburban tea dresses and tights to cover unshaven legs, fresh and innocent of face. The men were less conservative. With day-glo bell bottoms, flowered shirts, polka dots, striped coats, their waist length hair slicked back, parted in the middle, drawn close to the skull and tucked into their shirt collars, they looked like 1920 lounge lizards, parlor snakes, prohibition dandies--which of course they were.
The men behind the desk; burly, stern, disapproving fellows, had told the tribe that if they disembarked looking like a bunch of Hindu fortune tellers
Big Brother, Tangier Chapter, would shave their hair and deport them.
The Tribe looked morose, considering a crew cut Mecca.
"May I have my passport?" The Holy Man asked finally, after everyone was cleared.
"They sent it to the police," the Steward said, in a c'est le guerre manner.
"Oh yeah." The Holy Man smiled weakly. "Alright then," he conceded, shoving his hands into his day-glo pockets and looking like a dude at the county fair just been hoodwinked.
The Steward suddenly rummaged through a cheesebox. "Wait a moment please--is here." He grinned and handed the Holy Man his passport.
Great joke fellas. Heh, heh.
Paperwork finished Scorpio went to his cabin and lost five bills to the customs inspector whose pockets started watering at the sight of all that luggage Mysterious Traveling Companion was hauling.
Waiting for the bags to be brought down to the taxi, we watched the young travelers float down the gangplank, a solid row of pilgrims, their worldly belongings in the parachute packs strapped to their backs, pioneers of a new passage to the Learning Tree.
Scorpio and MTC got themselves nicely set up in a hotel in the European section--$3.80 bath and breakfast--then went back to the boat to see if Pack and Tina were up for some Tangiering. Pack was there asleep but Tina was gone. The Steward told them she went ashore to do some shopping. Pack hopped up and the three of them went to the waterfront boulevard. They walked a bit then stopped at a cafe for tea.
Pack being newly awake was trying to straighten himself out but was worried about Tina alone in Tangier.
A small boy came up and asked for a cigarette. A little girl shyly extended her hand for money. Kids 2, Scorpio 0.
As they sat there they saw The Tribe, The Holy Man back in tribal clothes, swinging down the street with their dogs and new found friend Hamid.
They took it all in and wondered where to find Tina.
Finally they went back to the entrance to the Socco Chico, the small market in the Kasbah. They were hungry now and looking for salad and shishkabob. Through the blur of color and confusion in the market they spotted a group of faces from the boat. Honest Fred and some others, waving them over. They told Pack that Tina was in the first restaurant down the alley. Sure enough there's Tina eating, and sitting with an old friend she ran into named Jazee, cat from Amsterdam with a full mane of golden hair, been in Tangier a year this time around.
After a good meal Jazee helped everyone get their cannabis needs well taken care of, then took them up to a terrace cafe for a smoke and a glass of delicious mint tea. Up there in the sun, they goofed on heiress Barbara Hutton's tiled patio next door and watched the blue walls and whitewash roofs slope to the sea.
It was there that Pack had to ask for time. He was feeling flutters in his chest, the after effects of his long distance run. "Hold on Willie boy, your heart's gonna give right out on you..."
So then it was a slow walk down the alley to Socco Chico, down around and they were at the entrance to the pier. Pack, Scorpio, MTC and Tina knew what was happening. They had maintained a rare communication for eleven days and now it was time to let it be.
They looked at each other, smiling some, not saying much in the way of keep in touch, knowing they had separate appointments with the Joker Man. Just a handshake, a hug and a kiss. And then there was nothing left to say.
End Log 1970
Cannoisseur head shot
photographed by John Hanford
Friday, September 7, 2012
A Commercial Break
Tooting My Horn
Can * nois * seur (kan' us sur') n, one competent to render critical judement one the qualities and merits of cannabis
"The most amazing property of cannabis is its ability to fog the minds of those who don't use it."
Heads Up: This month Doctor Orient and Lady Sativa, the dark occult novels starring the cannabis inspired Dr Owen Orient, have become available online by e-reads, marking the first time the original 3 books (including Raga Six) are under the banner of a single publisher. On Monday Sept. 10th, you can download Doctor Orient and Lady Sativa FREE from Amazon Kindle.
"A psychic James Bond"
Publisher's Weekly
"Frank Lauria has writter the most believable Vampire and Werewolf novels I have ever read."
William S. Burroughs
Can * nois * seur (kan' us sur') n, one competent to render critical judement one the qualities and merits of cannabis
"The most amazing property of cannabis is its ability to fog the minds of those who don't use it."
Heads Up: This month Doctor Orient and Lady Sativa, the dark occult novels starring the cannabis inspired Dr Owen Orient, have become available online by e-reads, marking the first time the original 3 books (including Raga Six) are under the banner of a single publisher. On Monday Sept. 10th, you can download Doctor Orient and Lady Sativa FREE from Amazon Kindle.
"A psychic James Bond"
Publisher's Weekly
"Frank Lauria has writter the most believable Vampire and Werewolf novels I have ever read."
William S. Burroughs
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
The Big Broadcast
Time Capsule 1970
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: Heavy props to Re-Leaf at 1284 Mission @ 9th St., San Francisco, for dispensing a wide variety of high quality, fair trade herb. While small, they are a major market factor, keeping prices low as other dispensaries raise their rates. They've even been known to throw the occasional barbecue for the neighborhood. Stop by for a taste.
The Big Broadcast
(the continuing day-by-day log of a 1970 freighter voyage to Tangier)
As usual Scorpio went to work after dinner and closed shop just in time to see the bar close. However Pack had taken to buying it by the bottle due to the bar's skimpy hours (4 to 5:30 and 7 to 10), so they settled down to talk it over. They looked for Garfunkel who was across the lounge, playing Scrabble with his collegiate table mates.
A small tribe, consisting of two very long haired cats, two madonna ladies in Rennaisance garb and two dogs, floated by. Scorpio was cornered by an elderly cat from D.C. who was a dedicated fucking racist. After hearing his opening rant earlier, Scorpio had avoided him as best he could--but there he was. Fred Hart was concerned about militant revolution and seemed to think that Scorpio had the answer. Scorpio, taken aback, knew what he could not say.
Pack was huddling with Garfunkel now. As he'd been closely involved with the music business, it gave them more than a few references in common. Again, the room thinned out about midnight, leaving ten or twelve troupers drinking, smoking and listening to Joe Cocker getting by.
Scorpio began talking to a couple of faces, namely Whiting and Mort. Whiting was nineteen and Canadian.He had a passive, shy hip--nice and easy... Scorpio liked his vibration right off. Mort was a little older and harder around the edges, the diamond glint in his eye reminding Scorpio of those types who always seemed to be the proprietors of head shops, or concert halls. He was a former student looking for export/import opportunites.
Both were agog at the adventure they had found On The Boat, reporting outlines of various scenes: the cat who was dealing lids, Whiting's photo of the tribal dogs copulating, the fact that everyone was on an indefinite trip, the fact that everyone was looking for some elusive further truth...Pack came over to Scorpio and asked if he'd like to hang inside. Scorpio excused himself and followed him back to the cabin. Garfunkle was there sipping a scotch. Some smoke magically appeared and Scorpio went next door for some cassettes.
While Monkey Man crashed along in true Stones fashion, Scorpio nursed his drink and sipped his tea. Then, as the first sweet choruses of You Can't Always Get What You Want began, he turned up the volume full blast. A bit of overkill that floored Garfunkel. When he came to he demanded to hear the rest of the Let It Bleed album immediately. As he listened he commented that he'd like to get that sound on some of his sides. He pulled some cassettes from his own stash. The first was Songs I Learned At My Father's Knee, by the Everley Brothers. Garfunkel reminisced that he'd been hung on the Everly Brothers all through high school, waiting impatiently for their new singles and buying them as soon as they were released. After the Everlies, Garfunkel laid a tape on the room that consisted of various things he liked: a couple of Larry Coryell cuts, the Stones' Sympathy For the Devil, his very favorite McCartney/Lennon song, Here There and Everywhere, and something intricate and majestic by a Hungarian Chorus.
Garfunkle and Scorpio went off to Abbey Road, wondering why such a fine piece of work was ripped and dismissed by the critics. They both agreed it was mostly side two, but the sheer flipped out, unprecedented brilliance of that side should have earned the Beatles more than an oh yeah.
Scorpio believed the critics were constantly shifting loyalties, as well as their integrity, to survive. First the artist is fawned upon, then yawned upon. More scotch was passed and Pack went into some old memories of Lenny Bruce in LA. Scorpio leaped to offer the Lenny tape he was holding. His sentimental favorite, the Frank Dell at the Palladium routine.
Pack wasn't familiar with the bit, but Garfunkel was very involved. Garfunkle told them that he and Paul blew riffs from that same Lenny solo between themselves, especially when they were on the road playing strange towns and strange rooms. In fact, he was carrying that very
Lenny Bruce album. Meanwhile the tape ran past Lenny into the Groupie album Scorpio had recorded as an off-the-wall slice of Americana. The album had been distributed mainly through mail order ads in papers like the Voice and the East Village Other, and was rumoured to have been produced by Frank Zappa. The record is a discussion/confession of the rock courtesan life style, by some the ladies who travel that road themselves, notably Cynthia Plaster Caster who takes plaster casts of rock cocks. A reality Scorpio saw as an extension of Lenny's absurd eye.. "the only people laughing were the two usherettes who balled everybody who played the theater,"
Lenny Bruce
from the Palladium routine
Garunkel was first taken by the rippling voice effect that started the round robin. And when the birds began to sing he was amazed. He wanted to know where he could grab this lurid prize. It was decided to transfer it to a blank tape. Scorpio did pause to reflect what type of groupies Paul and Garfunkle encountered. A poet and a one man band.
Next: The Big Broadcast Gets Bigger
Highly Recommended: Http://www.flickr.com/photos/gilmfilm/show
Author's Note: Are we there yet? Halfway across the Atlantic. Please let me know if you want to keep sailing or cut to the chase. Thanks.
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: Heavy props to Re-Leaf at 1284 Mission @ 9th St., San Francisco, for dispensing a wide variety of high quality, fair trade herb. While small, they are a major market factor, keeping prices low as other dispensaries raise their rates. They've even been known to throw the occasional barbecue for the neighborhood. Stop by for a taste.
The Big Broadcast
(the continuing day-by-day log of a 1970 freighter voyage to Tangier)
As usual Scorpio went to work after dinner and closed shop just in time to see the bar close. However Pack had taken to buying it by the bottle due to the bar's skimpy hours (4 to 5:30 and 7 to 10), so they settled down to talk it over. They looked for Garfunkel who was across the lounge, playing Scrabble with his collegiate table mates.
A small tribe, consisting of two very long haired cats, two madonna ladies in Rennaisance garb and two dogs, floated by. Scorpio was cornered by an elderly cat from D.C. who was a dedicated fucking racist. After hearing his opening rant earlier, Scorpio had avoided him as best he could--but there he was. Fred Hart was concerned about militant revolution and seemed to think that Scorpio had the answer. Scorpio, taken aback, knew what he could not say.
Pack was huddling with Garfunkel now. As he'd been closely involved with the music business, it gave them more than a few references in common. Again, the room thinned out about midnight, leaving ten or twelve troupers drinking, smoking and listening to Joe Cocker getting by.
Scorpio began talking to a couple of faces, namely Whiting and Mort. Whiting was nineteen and Canadian.He had a passive, shy hip--nice and easy... Scorpio liked his vibration right off. Mort was a little older and harder around the edges, the diamond glint in his eye reminding Scorpio of those types who always seemed to be the proprietors of head shops, or concert halls. He was a former student looking for export/import opportunites.
Both were agog at the adventure they had found On The Boat, reporting outlines of various scenes: the cat who was dealing lids, Whiting's photo of the tribal dogs copulating, the fact that everyone was on an indefinite trip, the fact that everyone was looking for some elusive further truth...Pack came over to Scorpio and asked if he'd like to hang inside. Scorpio excused himself and followed him back to the cabin. Garfunkle was there sipping a scotch. Some smoke magically appeared and Scorpio went next door for some cassettes.
While Monkey Man crashed along in true Stones fashion, Scorpio nursed his drink and sipped his tea. Then, as the first sweet choruses of You Can't Always Get What You Want began, he turned up the volume full blast. A bit of overkill that floored Garfunkel. When he came to he demanded to hear the rest of the Let It Bleed album immediately. As he listened he commented that he'd like to get that sound on some of his sides. He pulled some cassettes from his own stash. The first was Songs I Learned At My Father's Knee, by the Everley Brothers. Garfunkel reminisced that he'd been hung on the Everly Brothers all through high school, waiting impatiently for their new singles and buying them as soon as they were released. After the Everlies, Garfunkel laid a tape on the room that consisted of various things he liked: a couple of Larry Coryell cuts, the Stones' Sympathy For the Devil, his very favorite McCartney/Lennon song, Here There and Everywhere, and something intricate and majestic by a Hungarian Chorus.
Garfunkle and Scorpio went off to Abbey Road, wondering why such a fine piece of work was ripped and dismissed by the critics. They both agreed it was mostly side two, but the sheer flipped out, unprecedented brilliance of that side should have earned the Beatles more than an oh yeah.
Scorpio believed the critics were constantly shifting loyalties, as well as their integrity, to survive. First the artist is fawned upon, then yawned upon. More scotch was passed and Pack went into some old memories of Lenny Bruce in LA. Scorpio leaped to offer the Lenny tape he was holding. His sentimental favorite, the Frank Dell at the Palladium routine.
Pack wasn't familiar with the bit, but Garfunkel was very involved. Garfunkle told them that he and Paul blew riffs from that same Lenny solo between themselves, especially when they were on the road playing strange towns and strange rooms. In fact, he was carrying that very
Lenny Bruce album. Meanwhile the tape ran past Lenny into the Groupie album Scorpio had recorded as an off-the-wall slice of Americana. The album had been distributed mainly through mail order ads in papers like the Voice and the East Village Other, and was rumoured to have been produced by Frank Zappa. The record is a discussion/confession of the rock courtesan life style, by some the ladies who travel that road themselves, notably Cynthia Plaster Caster who takes plaster casts of rock cocks. A reality Scorpio saw as an extension of Lenny's absurd eye.. "the only people laughing were the two usherettes who balled everybody who played the theater,"
Lenny Bruce
from the Palladium routine
Garunkel was first taken by the rippling voice effect that started the round robin. And when the birds began to sing he was amazed. He wanted to know where he could grab this lurid prize. It was decided to transfer it to a blank tape. Scorpio did pause to reflect what type of groupies Paul and Garfunkle encountered. A poet and a one man band.
Next: The Big Broadcast Gets Bigger
Highly Recommended: Http://www.flickr.com/photos/gilmfilm/show
Author's Note: Are we there yet? Halfway across the Atlantic. Please let me know if you want to keep sailing or cut to the chase. Thanks.
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