The Joker Gets Wild

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 it's ability to fog the minds of those who don't use it."


A Moment of Terrifying Clarity: What's up with the human race? While meditating over my morning J it occurred to me that the inhabitants of this planet are having a lethal hissy fit. Syrians slaughtering Syrians,  then there's Sudan, Mali, Nigeria, Egypt (still), Yemen, Somalia, Rawanda, Libya, Iraq, just to name a few. But beyond war and revolution, there are moral violations that are beyond comprehension. That helpless children are forced to become killers, prostitutes, or laborers in designer factories. is revolting enough but the beat goes on: beheadings, mutilations, mass rape for starters. In Nigeria victims were killed by pouring boiling water over them. Third World horrors right? Oh no. Right here on campus, Florida A&M to be precise, one student died and others severely injured from being hazed by the school's marching band directors. This is faculty i'm talking about--educators, mentors... One young female was beaten so severly her thigh was broken These professors Anthony E. Simons III and Diron T. Holloway beat Robert Champion to death. For a fucking marching band? Human beings seem to have lost all sense of proportion--and humanity. No wonder UFO's refuse to land here.

                               
                              The Joker Gets Wild
( the following is from my log of that 1970 voyage from New York to Tangier )

Cole was a tight friend from the early days and he was seeing some pals off. He knew that Scorpio was on the boat and, what do you know, his friends were right next door and introductions seemed in order.
Scorpio didn't mind. He knew that Cole ran with good people and it was all inevitable anyway. But he was thinking hard about the Joker Man as he followed Cole to the next cabin.
Now Cole was a swashbuckler, pure adventure, and over the last few years Scorpio had cooled that part of his life. But it was that cooling that led to Scorpio's original doubts. He was getting slow, in the same predicament as the athlete turned announcer.
Well there was no changing that. Scorpio was not about to come out of retirement. He was just happy to be in disorganized ball you see, and able to enjoy the game from another angle. But here were Cole's friends Pack and his old lady Tina, all smiles and good vibes, rolling some smoke and getting into a rap. Pack was a quick, compact cat with a thick Zapata moustache, looking like a muscular Biff Rose.* His lady was tall and lovely, with long black hair. And they had the first rumour of the trip.
Art Garfunkle was on the boat.
Everything was relaxed as we discussed the rumor and where-you-going sort of thing until Cole said his good nights and left for Manhattan. .
The next morning Scorpio went out on deck to see what was happening.
Nothing.
The hatches were wide open, still empty and there was plenty of deck space left to fill. It would be another two days at least. Lunch saw a table of Homespun Hecate, Pack, Tina, Mysterious Traveling Companion
and Scorpio. He and Pack began a casual game of friends in common that ran right through the entire afternoon, dinner, brandy in the lounge, and developed into an eyeball-to-eyeball rap that covered all the routes they had traversed over the past 10 seasons. Faces, places, and stories that stretched from Dino Valente to Hugh Masekela , wound around Momma Cass to Maury Hayden, into Rick Lloyd and Ben Carruthers, and across Europe to Balbek Lebanon.
Earlier in '69 Pack had become involved as a suspect in the Sharon Tate killings. He had been hanging out in LA, running with Voytek Frykowski, the Polish producer who was one of the victims. Because of a quirk of accent he always pronounced Pack's name as "Pick", a variation of the bloody "pig" scrawled on the door of the murder house. Pack had been questioned for fourteen hours by a team of detectives who knew everything about him: his favorite drugs, his buddies, family, and current scene.
"They even knew stuff that only me and one other cat knew... and  he's dead." Pack pondered their efficiency.
The conversation went around, connecting like a pinball machine. Every name Pack or Scorpio mentioned hit a scene they both dug, Scorpio felt good. Intersubjective cosmic points racking up a sense of what he had been trying to define. New York seemed far away, even though the boat had yet to sail.
But he was still wary.
Joker Man was getting rather heavy in there giving Scorpio pause to wonder what next.
All these pauses, connections, great gossip and Pack's sense of what's funny, brought the time to Friday the 17th of February. Out on the deck the Tuhobic was looking really trim and together for the first time.
That evening at dinner the Joker wailed on.
Art Garfunkel was On the Boat.
Everyone was cool and looking somewhere else but there he was, confiding to a rather foxy brunette. The rest of his table was filled out by some collegiate types.
The way the dining room was now set up all the youngsters were at long tables at each end while the more senior citizens sat at smaller tables in the center--thus forming a tacit no-man's-land. Over dinner everyone talked about when the boat was LEAVING while Pack and Scorpio picked up their rap. Slow but steady.
"Think there's some pickers on board," Scorpio might venture.
"That allowed?" Pack would matter of fact.
And they would fall out.
Up above the dining table there is a sprinkler system. On it is a directive written in two languages: Non Dirate/Do Not Touch.
"Must be do not touch in Yugoslav," Pack considered.
To test his theory, Pack grabs the passing arm of The Extremely Nervous Waiter Who Speaks No English, points violently at Tina, and begins shouting "non dirate" at him.
Everyone-including the waiter-broke up laughing while no-man's-land looked grave. The evening passed like that, bouncing tales over drinks, smoke, and music, the rap marching on while Pack and Scorpio wondered where it was they hadn't met.

NEXT: Getting Into The Wind



*Note: Truly an obscure reference.

Beating The Devil

Time Capsule: 1970

Can * nois * seur  (kan' us sur') n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis

Heads Up: Check out a strain with the unlikely name Girl Scout Cookies at Re-Leaf on Mission at 9th in San Francisco. It's a fast moving, long lasting, space shuttle that keeps climbing for the new frontier.


Scorpio Rising on the Queen Mary of the Underground: Part 2
(The following is from my log of that 1970 voyage from New York to Tangier, Morocco)

                           Beating The Devil

Now you must understand that the charm of Yugolinia, the Yugoslavian Passenger Line, is in its casual attitude about time. People who can afford to spend eight to ten days en route to Tangier or Casablanca, are people who move with the flow.
Indeed Scorpio had first heard about the line in the late fifties when it transported heroes like Ginsberg, Kerouac, Corso, Bowles and Burroughs to the Casbah, And the legend persisted. Tangier, Kif, hash, Telepathon, girls, boys, free zone, exotic solitude, enlightenment... Any experience you can imagine. Live like a lord on 1000 bucks a year.
All through the early sixties the legend grew. The Yugo line baby. New York to Morocco for 180 bucks. If you take your bike its another 50. Haul a car? 150 bills. Absolutely the cheapest and grooviest way to go. Incredible droves of drop-outs, drifters, artists, students, smugglers, seekers and unlikely prophets: making it from everywhere to catch the boat. And most of them ending up crashing on someone's sofa and watching New York devour their circus money, while the captain makes up his mind tp pull out. For as mentioned earlier, the ship seldom leaves when it's supposed to.

                                                         (Jerusalem '65 Herod's Gate)
                               
As the scheduled departure date went from February 17 to 24 Scorpio began to get anxious. His phone was off, his apartment disassembled, and his psyche set at split position. With each change of date the delay became more sinister. Finally, on the 24th, Scorpio decided to stop fucking around and Get On The Boat.
He boarded the Tuhobic at the Columbia Street Pier in Brooklyn, after a grim ride through Red Hook  at dusk. The first things that struck him were the scars that time, and the sea, had worked into the freighter. Needing a paint job, its hatches open and empty, loading beams tangled and cargo in disarray, the Tuhobic looked vulnerable, and very tired. Well, she was five years older and so was Scorpio. He found his cabin, hustled the steward for some food, took a long walk around the deck and went to sleep.
Scorpio took his time getting up and arranging himself in the cabin with his Mysterious Traveling Companion. He was On The Boat and there was no reason to hurry.
In the off season (November to March) the difference between First Class and Tourist Class is thirty bucks. Scorpio had traveled Tourist the first time, and found it quite confortable. Since he had Mysterious Traveling Companion along this trip it seemed like a good idea to spring for some extra amenities.
It was an excellent idea.
All of the cabins, both Tourist and First, were done in the same decor: sort of New England bed and breakfast. But the first class cabins were spacious: large stateroom, private bathroom, wardrobe area with big closets. The two single beds were separated by a mirrored vanity table and against the far wall was a couch with small bureaus at each end. There was also a table, two armchairs, wall to wall carpeting, and plenty of drawer space. All this was to the good in Scorpio's situation because because  Mysterious Traveling Companion never made a move with less than ten suitcases and the odd trunk.
That taken care of, Scorpio put a roll of film his Konica and leisurely went up on deck  Leisurely because On The Boat time is a key factor. Sixty strangers compressed on board for ten days with all their needs covered, booze fifty cents a taste, and grass legal beyond the twelve mile limit. Everything of course at the captain's discretion. Over that span things change and take shape. Basic elements for any number of plot lines.
On deck nothing was moving.
Scorpio took a few shots of the loading cranes talked to an elderly fellow passenger about the departure date and went back to his cabin to read. He picked up The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test by Tom Wolfe, switched on the reading lamp above his pillow and, after noting the subtle luxury of the ashtray screwed into the wall just hand high, remained transfixed until the dinner bell rang.
 One's first entrance in any ship's dining room is always an uptight affair and Scorpio's dinner offered an added stroke. There were ten pissed off females sitting glumly around the table.
It came out that only two were sailing and the rest were there to see them off. They were dragged because they all expected to eat but the ship was only feeding certified passengers. To Scorpio this meant getting into his chow with sixteen hungry eyes on his greedy chops.
During the meal Scorpio learned which two were on the boat. They were eating. One was a homespun, maidenly type from Florida who was on her way to Morocco and Europe, destination and stay indefinite. The other, a very straight looking bird with an up and over swept hairdo that made her look like a Miss America contestant--was on her way to Algiers to pick up on revolutionary techniques. From Miss America to Miss Chicago Convention. She talked about Battle of Algiers and billyclubs and as he listened to her repeating slogans, an ecstatic glaze on her smiling face, Scorpio realized he was dealing with the old Joan of Arc change here and promptly intoned baptism.
After dinner he went directly back to his stateroom and his book only to be interrupted by a knock at the door. Reluctantly, Scorpio got up and opened it a crack.
Cole was standing there.

NEXT: The Joker Gets Wild

Scorpio Rising on the Queen Mary of the Underground

The Horse's Mouth

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."

Head's Up: Some weeks ago my wife broke a rib. At the same time i met a couple from the East Bay who created and market a wonderful new product named docGreen's Therapeutic Healing Cream. My wife, who is more of a sceptic concerning the benifits of cannabis (see above quote) was prevailed upon to try it, and reported immediate and positive results on the fractured rib, dulling pain and making it easier to breathe. The Cannoisseur highly reccomends trying this product for topical relief of aches and  bruises. Their slogan reads "potent pain relief right where you need it" and they're right. But don't take my word contact them at docgreen.org or call them at 510-936-2420 for more information, including where the cream can be purchased.

 

Scorpio Rising on the Queen Mary of the Underground

(The following is the actual log from that 1970 voyage from New York to Tangier, Morocco

      Advertisement For Myself

Scorpio was edgy about this trip.

The first time around he had set out with the fool certainty of a pilgrim, to ride the myths of the Hash Trail. And it had all worked. 

In spite of a doubtful premise and a few incredible blunders Scorpio managed to out it together and come back decently enlightened. 

But now Scorpio was five years older and not quite so quick. Realities, responsibilities and New York City had dulled his desire to swashbuckle. 

The question was, had it dulled the radar?
Scorpio had watched the Word come and go in America and he was a worried man. It all seemed played out, finished. There was nothing in sight but that bad moon.
And Scorpio wasn't the only one who felt the vibe. Friend Richard Goldstein of the Village Voice, during the course of his less-than-hale farewells, had expressed the same doubts. He also sensed an energy slowdown in the environment. Something wasn't right, perhaps a period of colic for a force-fed youth culture--or perhaps time for some regrouping and getting back.
So it was with such thoughts that Scorpio plunked down his cash for two one-way passages to Tangier at the N.E.W.S. Shipping Line at Battery Place. And it was there that he saw old joker face Fate on his ticket.
Scorpio had drawn the Tuhobic.
Five years before, in 1965, he had crossed on the Tuhobic's maiden voyage. Also a maiden voyage of sorts for himself.
He was pleased but concerned. The Joker hadn't wasted any time setting him up. It seemed that he had been lurking there, waiting for Scorpio to get himself ready.
Get it on then brother.

NEXT: Beating The Devil 

The Dawn of the Seventies

Taking Stock of the Sixties


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."

Heads Up: At the moment the best high quality, low budget herb can be found at Re-Leaf at 1284 Mission Street, San Francisco. The dispensary has a liberal discount policy. While a bit pricier, Medathrive delivers premium strains, and offers varied discounts. Check their website. Igzactly 420 at 527 Howard Street is doing some aggressive marketing on their most interesting strains. Worth a browse. But be warned, there's sales tax on top of the stated prices.

Into the Breach

While poised on the brink (and i use the word advisedly) of 1970, it might be useful to review some of the broad strokes of the Sixties. Most notably, three major forces in American society had been assassinated (JFK, MLK and RFK) all by a lone gunman, if you believe the kangaroo court findings on the official record. Parallel to this was the rise of the Hippy movement: part spiritual, part idealistic, part sexual, part political, and part economic. In 1965 half of America was under the age of 30 and was on the road in one way or another. Right alongside was the breaking of censorship restrictions on word and film. Rock music provided a glorious soundtrack to these momentous events as we rushed headlong into the future. Personally, since my discharge from the army in 1960, i had been married, acted on Broadway, divorced, driven coast to coast, sailed off on a middle-east adventure, returned with the mysterious Lady M, and in the last 3 years, had gone from the lowest point in my life to the highest: waiting for my first novel to be published. The film rights had already been optioned by college chum Ray Lofaro who was cutting a wide swath, in the world of TV commercials. However all this was not without personal tragedy. My old friend Bruce Erb, one of the few to help me when i was busted, had died. Bruce had left for Mexico with his wife Arlene ( also a high school friend) and his children Derek and Jill, to write. Somewhere along the line they split up. Bruce went to San Francisco where i hooked him up with Luigi Alfano. But Bruce was depressed by the breakup and returned to Paterson NJ, hoping to reconcile. However before that could happen Bruce went out drinking and never returned. The victim of too much alcohol and an unusually freezing night, he died of hypothermia. Then too were all those who fell victim to drug ODs and the living death of heroin addiction. The new freedom was taking its toll. As was the Vietnam war, which had expanded like a tumor since JFK's murder. Oddly enough ( i call it Karma), i drew the same freighter that had taken me on my first adventure in 1964--the good ship Tuhobic. Even odder, when i went aboard i found my old running buddy Jerry Cole, who was seeing a friend off. And there was news floating around the ship...Art Garfunkle was on board.

NEXT: The Horse's Mouth
(In which i reprint the day-by-day log i kept of the Tohobic's voyage across the great Atlantic.)

From Weird To Worse

A Tragedy of Errors

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."

Heads Up: Since my last post, things have truly gone from weird to worse on the Bay area cannabis scene. The Feds, in their infinite, self righteous, wisdom, saw fit to raid Oaksterdam University, an educational center devoted to the art of botanical excellence in the cultivation of the God-given herb. Meanwhile just as an IRS swat team trashed and seized the school's property, less than a mile away at Oakland's Oikos University, a gunman killed seven staff and students and wounded three others. (i think that tragic fact warrants a bit of highlight.) Exactly what social good comes from a fascist type raid on what is basically a medical center? And at what cost to the taxpayers? Isn't that time and money better spent protecting innocent victims from rampaging gunmen? If i seem a bit shrill it's because the mind boggles at the sheer stupidity and waste of resources. Melinda Haag, US Attorney for this district has waged a mean spirited campaign against medical cannabis at the expense of her sworn duty...to protect society from real criminals--from hate killers and gun runners, to elected embezzlers. This is about MEDICINE Melinda. Remember sweetness, God appeared to Moses in a burning bush...

The Pilgrim's Progress:1969

About the same time i was leaving Bantam Books to be a copywriter for the Waterman Advertising Agency, my novel was accepted, pending some rewrite. Advertising copy is quite different than book jacket hype. i learned to be more conceptual. One of my favorites was a line for a dashing trench coat photo that went "Don't talk about your past--wear it." However the agency business was slightly to the left of Mad Men, a well dressed mosh pit of misplaced ambition. i much preferred the courteous literary logic of publishing--and i missed books. Having left Bantam with a great rep, i soon received a lucrative offer from Pyramid Books to be their copy chief and i jumped at it. At this point i was making a good deal more than my probation officer, a miserable thug who had actually gone to my college (Manhattan) but boola boola meant nothing to him. So he kept me on the string for regular visits despite my obvious reformation. Pyramid Publishing was interesting in that i became aware of the huge market in Christian directed books. They had a deal with an outfit called Zondervan that published The Cross and the Switchblade, a huge megaseller that never showed up on any lists. Hovering under the radar, Zonderman is a massive force in publishing to this day. From Pyramid i was recruited by Paperback Library as "Creative Editor" meaning i would conceive of books that should be on the market then hire writers to make them real. Actually a great job with fine people including Susan Jacobson, a peppy New York editor. The company was owned by Hy Steirman, who had scored bigtime by securing the book rights to the immensely popular daytime vampire serial Dark Shadows. He also had a series of books (these were the Sixties) starring a James Bond spinoff named Rod something who had a severe priapic condition. meaning he had a constant erection. These titles paid the rent and then some. Hy had also been publisher of a magazine called Confidential, a Murdoch type muckraker that looked under the bedsheets of celebrities' private lives. Hy kept a photo in his safe that purportedly showed Marlon Brando going down on some dude but the picture was too blurry and dark to be certain who was doing what. Paperback Library was a fine experience and i was able to help many writers find a platform ( including my mentor H.B. Gilmour). However my biggest coup by far was getting on the New York Mets miracle run for the pennant in 1969. i decided early that win or lose it was a great story. We contracted NY Post sportswriter Maury Allen to do the project and one week after the Mets won the World series we had a book on the stands. Shades of Cary Grant and Roz Russell in His Girl Friday. i kept creating original paperbacks until the time my probation period was successfully over, and my first novel Doctor Orient was due to be published. Rather than play it safe i decided to leave Paperback Library and New York, and take a Yugoslavian freighter to Tangier to write my second novel.

Next: The Dawn of the Seventies

Suggested Reading: The Yiddish Policeman's Union by Micheal Chabon

Suggested Download: Lady Sativa by Frank Lauria (Ereads, Amazon, Google etc.)

Harvest Moon And The Witch Hunters

The Catbird Seat

Can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis


Heads Up: Harvest time is here, a time to rejoice, but the Federal spectre looms, a shadow on the golden moon. Lately the menus at various dispensaries have gotten sparse, a sign that they're selling off inventory rather than restocking. So why the Federal witch hunt? It's still not clear, perhaps because the entire exercise is absurd. The only sensible reason is that it's a DEA "fundraiser" a ploy to inflate their budget--at the expense of medical patients, and a social program that works. Usually if you follow the money it leads to the real lies. state senator Mark Leno and assemblyman Tom Ammianno are drafting legislation to protect the clubs as nonprofits. Where's Obama? Doesn't he know that smokers vote?
So to all ye growers, trimmers and tenders out there, this bud's for you...


SPARC on Mission Street between 9th and 8th is at the forefront of gathering resources to fight this ominous trend. Check out their website and join the battle to protect our right to natural herbal medicine... sparcsf.org


The Catbird Seat

Once back on the street there were questions. Who had set me up and why so long to make bail? Obviously Bobby S had set me up ( along with a few others ) but i let the second question hang. i had more immediate, and deadly serious, problems. I had no income, and I was not about to go back to jail. You can't get good coffee in the slam. I needed to find a job and leave my wild and free ways behind.
Interestingly enough, my free ways left me behind. Few people want to talk to you after you take a bust. You definitely find out who your friends are. i needed bread for a lawyer and the rent. Bruce E. was one of those who was there for me. We met in a park on Bleeker Street, where Bruce took his son Derek. Bruce agreed to lend me $400 and i took a photograph of Derek, face smeared with chocolate and ice cream that is still clear in my memory.
Another friend was Rich who let me use his office as a base of operations while job hunting.

An advertising writer named Ned, arranged for me to meet another, highly respected copy man, Jerry Della Femina. Jerry went on to a brilliant career as #1 Mad Avenue marketing maven, and stylish restaurateur. Out meeting was short and his advice to me was this : "get emotional". It was the best writing lesson i ever received.
i put together a mock portfolio of advertising campaigns and copy including an anti-war spot and presented it to HB, then head copywriter for Bantam Books, and a minor legend for her headline for a mystery thriller...The Hardest of the Hard Boiled Dicks.
HB liked my samples and hired me.
It was like entering the gates of a major movie studio. Paperback books had stepped into the publishing mainstream after years as a poor relation living on Tobacco Road. Suddenly paperbacks were out earning and out performing their more staid brethren. Long known as a gentleman's business, the paperback trade had embraced glamour and hype to sell its wares.
At the same time the Summer of Love had arrived and very few people knew what was happening to America's culture. i happened to be one of them.
Bantam Books was a hotbed of creativity. Guided by Mark Jaffe and Oscar Dystal it grew in profitability and influence. One could pitch an idea to Editor in Chief Mark Jaffe and within the year the book would be on the shelves. i couldn't believe i was actually getting paid to read--and to write. Even better, my voice was being heard on a professional level. The better to inform the growing misinformation about the burgeoning youth culture
Through all the sexual euphoria, outrageous fashion and public outcry, i realized that the hippy movement wasn't social--it was spiritual...

Next: The Work Ethic

Recommended Reading: Tobacco Road by Erskine Caldwell

What's Up With the Feds?

From The Crucible To Daylight


Can * Nois * Seur ( kan' us sur' ), n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis

"The most amazing property of cannabis is its ability to fog the minds of those who do not use it."

Heads Up: After a long hiatus spent on finishing a novel i'm back on the case, with a caveat. i'll be focusing more on the overview of the cannabis industry ( soon to be a farcical drama ) and less on daily touts of good strains in town. That having been said let's light up. Just today in Aurora Colorado a man who had ordered pizza received a visit from the police. fortunately he had a medical card. It seems the delivery boy smelled pot and was afraid the man was "smoking pot in front of his nine year old son". Like this is a reason for alarm? Suppose the man was drinking a beer in front of his son, or a glass of wine? Would the delivery boy have cause to call the law? It's just another result of Reefer Madness--the hysterically absurd demonization of a benign herb that has been peacefully comforting mankind for millennia. And what's up with the Feds? Why on earth do they want to shut down a thriving, tax producing industry in the middle of a recession? Not only that, but why on earth turn the herb trade back to the cartels? The Feds rationale is that some clubs are less that 1,000feet from schools. Here in North Beach, San Francisco, we have a grammar school on Broadway located directly in front of Centerfolds Strip Club and bar. If you follow the money perhaps the Pharmaceutical and Private Prison Corporations are looking for victims. Only way it makes sense. It wouldn't hurt to write a note to Obama who might be too busy trying to create jobs to notice.
Next month this farce could morph into a tragedy.
Props to Re-Leaf @ 9th and Mission...and to Divinity Tree on Geary Street between Larkin and Polk for proving quality herb at righteous prices.

From the Crucible To Daylight: 1967. The Tombs is well named. A holding pen located two floors underground, beneath the court building, the only source of natural light or air comes from a series of windows along the ceiling. After being presented at night court i was taken down a steel elevator to a cell block behind a thick iron gate. The first thing that struck me was the noise; a cacophony of human pain and the electric hum of need. Then the smell: sweat, fear, hostility, in a dense mix at close quarters. Inside the steel door were two tiers of cells, one above the other. A series of picnic tables on the ground floor occupied the remaining space outside the cells. The guards took me to a cell on the ground floor. Six by six, it had a topless toilet and two bunk beds. On the top bunk was a young African American with red hair. i was carrying a small pillow and a blanket. There were no mattresses on the bunks, only bare, sagging springs. The door slammed shut. i tossed the bundle on the springs and sat down on the bunk. Outside the raucous jabber and occasional shrieks continued. I wondered if my phone call would ever be "processed".
My cell mate turned out to be a heroin dealer from Harlem who had never been to Greenwich Village. Fortunately he was not prone to violence. Now in the Tombs there was lock in time, and lock out, when you were literally locked out of your cell. The door opens and you walk into the common area divided by rows of picnic tables. Loose factions ruled various tables. There was a table for card players, a black Muslim table strewn with pamphlets, a Latino table, an all white table and a few multi ethnic tables marked by their New York neighborhoods. i had been studying Karate and hopped onto the exercise bench for a few fast push ups on my knuckles. It was my only trick, and it seemed to work. Busted on Friday means nothing really happens until Monday. And it wasn't until the following Monday that i made the ridiculously high bail that had been set. Until then i had to survive a very iffy environment. Interestingly, jail is very much like being in the Army, give or take a few freedoms. One morning at breakfast i remarked that you can't get good coffee in jail, which cracked up the dude next to me. Turned out he was from the Lower East Side and my having lived there qualified me for the Lower East Side Table. Ramon, my sponsor, was a heroin addict who only smoked weed when he was tying up for his morning shot. The main man at the table was Kevin, a rangy nineteen year old, who was up for murder. i didn't ask him the particulars. Kevin carried himself with a swagger reminiscent of a ghetto Errol Flynn with a sense of humor. Between the connected table and my Karate push ups i was left to my own devices. On the day i made bail i had drawn a portrait of Ramon and written a night club act for an African baritone called Baron, who had been in Italy with the road company of Porgy and Bess. Later it occurred to me that i was doing the same things inside as outside. And i realized it was time to put my creative side to work.
"A thousand dollar lawyer", was the word in jail. Anything less and you were screwed. for the first time in my life i was in debt. An unacceptable position. Every day i hit the streets looking for a job as a copywriter, something i knew i'd be good at. i used Rich's office at MPO as my midtown base, and one day i went upstairs to the art department, where Ken Schneider held sway. Ken was a fine painter, 8mm filmmaker, and was doing an animation by painting directly on the film. He was and still is, an extraordinary artist. Ken had a friend, HB, who he had saved from a suicide attempt. HB worked at Bantam Books... and was looking for a copywriter.
It was the break i needed.

Next: The Catbird Seat

Recommended Reading: The Last Werewolf by Glen Duncan