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