The Work Ethic
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: Melinda Haag, US attorney for Northern California, who is conducting the inquisition and suppression of Medical Cannabis, refuses to address the issue of lost jobs, lost advertising revenue and lost taxes. Rather, she parrots the Reefer Madness party line, stating that her office received "many phone calls, letters and e-mails from people who are deeply troubled by the tremendous growth of the marijuana industry and its influence on their communities."
As we all know this is pure horse hockey. What about the influence of the alcohol industry?
What about those lost jobs at Christmas time? What about the community services that the marijuana industry supports? And dammit, what about all those sick patients Melinda? Its time to phone, write and e-mail Melinda Haag and tell her how deeply troubled we all are by her uninformed, insensitive, and downright unAmerican actions.
Meddling Melinda has already caused three fine clinics to close their doors. One of them,
Medithrive, wisely shifted to a home delivery service. Check their menu online then call 415-562-6334. You'll find they're both prompt and polite and serve up the same high quality boo that made them a San Francisco favorite.
The Work Ethic
From my first day at Bantam Books i morphed from grasshopper to worker ant. i assiduously read all the books scheduled for jacket copy, as well as novels in the slush pile ( unsolicited manuscripts ). i've been blessed with the ability to read quickly which served me in good stead. At my peak i was reading 3 books a day and one at night after work. My writing skills were getting stronger thanks to HB's generous tutelage, and i was receiving accolades and pay raises regularly. i was also discovering that my hippy-influenced, out-of-the-box ideas were solid moneymakers in the real marketplace. Around that time i worked up enough confidence to tackle my first novel. i had absorbed enough raw manuscripts to know what one should look like. And so, every night after work, i would write three to five pages of Doctor Orient, a novel about a character i'd been contemplating since my voyages to Baalbek. Dr O was a telepath and occult adept who embodied the spiritual and cultural values of the psychedelic era. In this new wave thriller i could expound philosophical theories that would otherwise prompt people to signal for the check. i told no one about the project and the secret seemed to feed my efforts. At the time i was casting about for an agent and contacted Owen Laster at William Morris who had seen, and liked, some of my earlier cabaret sketches. Owen told me the psychic investigator concept would never work. Motivated, i named my character Dr. Owen Orient and went on. My first draft was a tad skimpy but Mark Jaffe, editor in chief at Bantam, thought i might be "on to something". It was all the encouragement i needed. Still keeping mum about the book i went about a rewrite--and found it surprisingly rewarding. About that time i had an idea for a an original Bantam book that would stimulate younger readers to appreciate poetry. Titled The Poetry of Rock it would be a collection of 60's rock lyrics, which had evolved way beyond the June, moon, spoon, school of croon. HB was right there with it and we made our pitch to Mark who gave it the green light. We decided to contact Richard Goldstein a fledgling rock music critic (there were very few in '68 ) who ran a column called Pop Eye in the Village Voice. Richard would write the introduction and choose the lyrics. Later his introduction was featured in Life magazine. Unfortunately it fell on HB alone to actually acquire the lyrics from the maze of music publishers and distributors who held the rights. However that book i thought up and HB worked so hard on, The Poetry of Rock. is still in print forty years later.
Oh yeah... the reason HB had to carry the load alone was that an advertising agency made me an offer i couldn't refuse...
Recommended Reading: The Poetry of Rock edited by Richard Goldstein
Recommended Listening: Lostintheunderground. com
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Getting Into The Wind
Time Capsule 1970
Can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ) n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis
Another Moment of Terrifying Clarity: Just a thought. Our Supreme Court in it's wisdom, deemed corporations have the same rights as people. However corporations don't pay people taxes. They have corporate exemptions. So it seems logical to sue corporations for the return of said exemption money to the U.S.Treasury-not to mention the IRS. After all, it's for exactly the same reason--disallowing normal corporate exemptions claimed by our cannabis dispensaries--that the IRS is going after them. Meanwhile they are not above accepting tax money from what they claim is an illegal enterprise. Where is Zorro when we need him?
Author's note: The following is sort of a digression from my usual first person recollections. However since it was written on the spot, day-to-day, i felt it might be useful to know what it was really like to be part of this still-unequalled cultural movement--if only to understand motivations that might seem reckless in today's corporate society..
And while we are all here it seems like a good time to thank my friend, consigliere, and editor on this rambling oral journey--Robert Gilman...
Getting Into The Wind
( continuing my log of that 1970 voyage from New York to Tangier)
Saturday morning, the 18th of Febuary, Scorpio woke to the throb of the ship pulling out. He got up, took a peek out the porthole, and went back to sleep. As far as he was concerned the boat started sailing days ago. That afternoon Scorpio went to lunch alone. Mysterious Traveling Companion was out of commision due to flu and couldn't leave her cabin. A classic ploy.
Lunch was sparse, only Pack and Tina, a few of the old folks, and two of the collegians across the hall. Things picked up in the lounge after lunch. Scorpio ran into a face he knew. Blaine was a waiter at one of his favorite neighborhood hangouts. He was taking his BMW to Yugoslavia and making a run to India.
A young girl wandered in holding a recorder. She sat down and began blowing soft, mournful notes.
Pack drifted by from a conversation with a cat with an FBI haircut and a wild backwoods gleam in his eye. The man was fresh off an Alaskan oil rig and bound for some speculation in Morocco. Pack and Blaine talked motorcycles for a while. Then Blaine went out to check his bike's rigging while Pack and Scorpio shook their heads, knowing what the other was thinking. They start out for India with some spare parts and a map. Later you catch them in Istanbul wheeling a bent frame and holding a clutch cable in their trembling hand.
"Wait man," Pack snapped his fingers gleefully, "that's when it's just getting to be FUN." Although both agreed Blaine was cool they later discovered he had never broken down his bike. He'd watched someone do it and figured he'd learn as he went. Pack nodded sagely, aware necessity was a sharp spur but nonetheless offered to go over the machine with Blaine when the weather settled.
For at this point the sea was fitful--and quickly getting worse. The ship was rocking...and rolling--no stabilizers on a frieghter, so...it was time to read.
The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test concerned itself with some of the matters Scorpio had been meditating on this trip. Are you off the bus--or On The Boat?
Outside the weather was building into a serious storm.
That night at dinner it was tough keeping food on the table. The steward battened down the portholes with a worried look on his usually impassive face. At Scorpio's table Tina and Pack were discovering there was no way to eat on a ship pitching like Warren Spahn (who used to lean wayyy back, his foot straight up in the air before he threw) so talk was muted.
It was useless to do anything but get into your bunk and cool it.
The waves got ever wilder with each hour however, and Scorpio was reduced to gritting his teeth as he watched the curtains lift almost parallel to the floor with each immense heave of the ship. For the next two days the Tuhobic continued to struggle through high, dangerous seas. Passengers were forbidden on the upper decks. Objects flew around the cabin at will. The steward wet down the tablecloth to keep the plates from sliding. Transferring food to mouth was a major logistic problem.
But finally, one morning the weather broke.
It was reasonable. Objects remained in a fixed position. Plates of food remained still long enough for one to spear a bite or two. Scorpio arrived at lunch refreshed by his first eight hour sleep in two days. Garfunkle was there, having made all the meals, as had Pack and Tina, now known as The Mad Eater.
Pack had been juicing pretty good on the tax free booze while maintaining a steady communication with Scorpio. The both of them knocking each other out with experiences and people. "From obscure corners of our reality," Pack confided to Garfunkel later on.
Or as Cole once put it,"Life is just a story to tell."
Next: The Long Rap
Can * nois * seur ( kan' us sur' ) n. one competent to render critical judgement on the qualities and merits of cannabis
Another Moment of Terrifying Clarity: Just a thought. Our Supreme Court in it's wisdom, deemed corporations have the same rights as people. However corporations don't pay people taxes. They have corporate exemptions. So it seems logical to sue corporations for the return of said exemption money to the U.S.Treasury-not to mention the IRS. After all, it's for exactly the same reason--disallowing normal corporate exemptions claimed by our cannabis dispensaries--that the IRS is going after them. Meanwhile they are not above accepting tax money from what they claim is an illegal enterprise. Where is Zorro when we need him?
Author's note: The following is sort of a digression from my usual first person recollections. However since it was written on the spot, day-to-day, i felt it might be useful to know what it was really like to be part of this still-unequalled cultural movement--if only to understand motivations that might seem reckless in today's corporate society..
And while we are all here it seems like a good time to thank my friend, consigliere, and editor on this rambling oral journey--Robert Gilman...
Getting Into The Wind
( continuing my log of that 1970 voyage from New York to Tangier)
Saturday morning, the 18th of Febuary, Scorpio woke to the throb of the ship pulling out. He got up, took a peek out the porthole, and went back to sleep. As far as he was concerned the boat started sailing days ago. That afternoon Scorpio went to lunch alone. Mysterious Traveling Companion was out of commision due to flu and couldn't leave her cabin. A classic ploy.
Lunch was sparse, only Pack and Tina, a few of the old folks, and two of the collegians across the hall. Things picked up in the lounge after lunch. Scorpio ran into a face he knew. Blaine was a waiter at one of his favorite neighborhood hangouts. He was taking his BMW to Yugoslavia and making a run to India.
A young girl wandered in holding a recorder. She sat down and began blowing soft, mournful notes.
Pack drifted by from a conversation with a cat with an FBI haircut and a wild backwoods gleam in his eye. The man was fresh off an Alaskan oil rig and bound for some speculation in Morocco. Pack and Blaine talked motorcycles for a while. Then Blaine went out to check his bike's rigging while Pack and Scorpio shook their heads, knowing what the other was thinking. They start out for India with some spare parts and a map. Later you catch them in Istanbul wheeling a bent frame and holding a clutch cable in their trembling hand.
"Wait man," Pack snapped his fingers gleefully, "that's when it's just getting to be FUN." Although both agreed Blaine was cool they later discovered he had never broken down his bike. He'd watched someone do it and figured he'd learn as he went. Pack nodded sagely, aware necessity was a sharp spur but nonetheless offered to go over the machine with Blaine when the weather settled.
For at this point the sea was fitful--and quickly getting worse. The ship was rocking...and rolling--no stabilizers on a frieghter, so...it was time to read.
The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test concerned itself with some of the matters Scorpio had been meditating on this trip. Are you off the bus--or On The Boat?
Outside the weather was building into a serious storm.
That night at dinner it was tough keeping food on the table. The steward battened down the portholes with a worried look on his usually impassive face. At Scorpio's table Tina and Pack were discovering there was no way to eat on a ship pitching like Warren Spahn (who used to lean wayyy back, his foot straight up in the air before he threw) so talk was muted.
It was useless to do anything but get into your bunk and cool it.
The waves got ever wilder with each hour however, and Scorpio was reduced to gritting his teeth as he watched the curtains lift almost parallel to the floor with each immense heave of the ship. For the next two days the Tuhobic continued to struggle through high, dangerous seas. Passengers were forbidden on the upper decks. Objects flew around the cabin at will. The steward wet down the tablecloth to keep the plates from sliding. Transferring food to mouth was a major logistic problem.
But finally, one morning the weather broke.
It was reasonable. Objects remained in a fixed position. Plates of food remained still long enough for one to spear a bite or two. Scorpio arrived at lunch refreshed by his first eight hour sleep in two days. Garfunkle was there, having made all the meals, as had Pack and Tina, now known as The Mad Eater.
Pack had been juicing pretty good on the tax free booze while maintaining a steady communication with Scorpio. The both of them knocking each other out with experiences and people. "From obscure corners of our reality," Pack confided to Garfunkel later on.
Or as Cole once put it,"Life is just a story to tell."
Next: The Long Rap
Friday, May 4, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
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
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.
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
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Scorpio Rising on the Queen Mary of the Underground
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
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
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
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
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."
(In which i reprint the day-by-day log i kept of the Tohobic's voyage across the great Atlantic.)
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.
(In which i reprint the day-by-day log i kept of the Tohobic's voyage across the great Atlantic.)
Friday, April 13, 2012
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 SeventiesSuggested Reading: The Yiddish Policeman's Union by Micheal Chabon
Suggested Download: Lady Sativa by Frank Lauria (Ereads, Amazon, Google etc.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)