He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother

It's A Long, Long Road, From Which There Is No Return, While We're On The Way To There, Why Not Share



New Girl And N.Y.C. Foibles '70

The next day Jim and I went sight seeing with Vicky, the chick from
Houghton Lake. She had been in the city for only a couple of days
and already had become acquainted with some N.Y.C. foibles. As soon
as she arrived, somebody threw a rock through the window of her
subway train, scattering glass all over her. The next day, while in
a theater, some guy sitting next to her jacked off and stained her
new coat with his semen. Maybe in another city these events would
raise an eyebrow, but in N.Y.C. these kinds of "odd events" are
dealt with on a daily basis.

Chicks got molested in the subway all the time. Sandy had many
stories, but the one that stood out was the one where a guy pressed
up against her on a train and got his hand through her buttoned down
Maxi coat, into her pants and inside her vagina. Even under protest
the pervert wouldn't stop. Sandy received no help from the other
passengers. They kept their backs turned to the altercation; in
N.Y.C. its not "no harm, no foul," rather its "no sight, no foul."
He stopped doing what he was doing only after Sandy threatened to
hit him over the head with her umbrella.

On another occasion, a stalker followed Sandy home from an uptown
train and if Mike and I hadn't been there to meet her at the exit,
there's no telling what would have happened. The two of us chased
the stalker away. Only a week had lapsed since a young girl was
stabbed to death at Sandy's subway stop. In N.Y.C. nobody was safe
from these kinds of threats. Yesterday, while waiting for a train,
some guy ran past Jimmy and I shouting for us to stop following him.
He ran up the stairs and from the top hollered down at us, "If you
don't stop following me, I'll kill both of you." Welcome to life in
N.Y.C.!

When Jimmy ran out of money we did a lot of nothing, we couldn't
even afford a subway token. Towards the end, everybody lived off
Sandy. Just before it got that bad there was one bright spot though.
The Moody Blues were playing at the Fillmore and everybody wanted to
go to the concert. Jimmy and I found out about Manpower, a temporary
employment agency, so we went to look for work. After sitting from 6
a.m. to 9 a.m. in cold, metal chairs, the guy behind the desk gave
us an address. We were put to work cleaning old, greasy, printing
presses. We worked all day at the warehouse, scraping and washing
grease off the presses for $1.65 per hour. It wouldn't have been so
bad except we had to use strong solvents to remove the grease; but
along with the grease, it felt like the skin on my hands was also
being removed. When we finished, the guy must have liked our work
because he told us to come back the next day. I wanted to tell the
dude to shove it, but when it was all over we had enough money to go
to the concert and then some.

When we went to buy our tickets there weren't any left. That didn't
stop us; we hoped to buy tickets from people who had extra tickets
outside the concert. On concert night, it was cold and windy and we
couldn't find any tickets for sale. We were leaving when this cat
offered us stage passes. Apparently, the Fillmore ticket taker had a
couple backstage passes and he charged $5.00 every time someone used
one to get in. As we walked through the door he took the passes and
his buddy recycled them back among the people standing in the crowd.
The passes didn't get us a seat, but from the back of the Fillmore
we could still see and hear the Moody Blues. They were great, well,
they were great until someone called in a bomb threat and the
Fillmore had to be evacuated. The people with tickets got back
inside, but the rest of us (I stopped counting at thirty) were left
out in the cold.

The Bottle Let Me Down

I've Always Had A Bottle I Could Turn To And Lately I've Been Turnin' Every Day


Bowery Time After Leaving Dave's Place
Bottles And Cans Explode

Back at Sandy's, I found the apartment door locked. I didn't know
when Sandy and company would return, so I went to the East Village
to hang out. When I got there it was around 10 p.m. and I figured I
had at least a couple of hours before I could go back to the
apartment. After I walked the streets for a while I went into a
greasy spoon and bought a cup of coffee with my last dime (money
borrowed from Jim). The greasy spoon bordered the Bowery, the area
of N.Y.C that was home to a lot of homeless winos.

Inside, it was crowded with no place to sit. Occasionally, one or
two winos would come inside to get warm. I was standing directly in
the path of the wind that came rushing through the door, so with my
back to the door I found myself staring at three winos lying on the
floor drinking from a shared brown paper bag. Through the window, I
watched as another wino crawled on the sidewalk. I went outside to
help him to his feet and when I tried to pull him up he came at me
with every swear word in the book. When he pushed me away, I looked
up and saw that the people inside were giving me dirty looks. I left
the wino on the sidewalk and my coffee on the counter, and walked
away. Out of view of the people inside, I stood and watched the wino
crawl through the door and over to where the other wino's were
passing around their brown paper bag. He managed to get what he
wanted without my help. As I walked away, inside, I felt terribly
empty. By the time I made it back to the Village, I was chilled to
the bone. I wasn't alone though.

There were five of us standing around a fire that one of the Bowery
boys had started when this pig pulled up in his black and white and
made us put it out. Without a fire, everybody split except for the
small, black man who started the fire and myself. After the pig left
we built another fire. Actually, the black man took it upon himself
to build the fire, but he made a gesture to me for some help. I was
happy to oblige. Together we collected enough burnable material to
light up the street corner once again. Standing close to the fire,
the little man put his hands on me, and turned my body around. In
hardly distinguishable English, he said, "Bottles and cans explode."
This fire was even larger than the one we had before, and it
attracted a lot of attention. It even attracted the pig who made us
put the last fire out. He must have sensed that more good was coming
from the fire than bad because this time he ignored us. This fire
was providing heat for some half dozen frozen individuals; true, it
was built on a street corner, but it wasn't hurting anybody. I spent
the remainder of the evening appreciating that very old gift, thank
you Prometheus.

When I got back to the apartment around 1:30 a.m. the door was still
locked. Sometime after 2 a.m., the good time people came staggering
home. As I suspected, there was a misunderstanding about the key,
but it was soon forgotten. The next day, after I thawed out, I tried
putting my feelings on paper. It turned out this way:



N.Y.C.

On a New York City cold night, under
not so bright lights,
amidst exhaust clouds, horns, and
stampeding footprints
on a snowy sidewalk,
I watched the San Francisco 49ers
get their asses kicked on TV
through a glass window.

Arms slapping arms,
feet shuffling and biting,
one black man and one white,
salvaged a healthy lot
of garbage.
Hovering over a street corner fire
with no spoken words,
a refuge was found and
a moment of great importance shared.

Seattle Dave In N.Y.C.

Say Hello To Dad And Shake His Poor Hardworking Hand And Send A Picture Of Mother If You Can


The Most Memorable Dinner Ever

I phoned David, the cat I met hitchhiking in California. We had
hitchhiked up the coast to Seattle together. He lived in a small
N.Y.C. apartment, and when Jimmy and I went over to see him, he
seemed different from when I knew him back on the highway. For
instance, in California we both raved about the music of Cream,
Hendrix, and the Who, but when I arrived at his place I found him
listening to country western music. It wasn't just any country
western music, however, he only listened to songs that had the theme
of "mothers" in it. It didn't take long to realize he hadn't changed
much though. Dave was always a little strange, and in his natural
environment I wouldn't expect him to be any different, besides I
liked Dave because he was a little strange. While we were listening
to Marty Robbins, George Jones, and others sing about their mothers,
a couple of David's friends showed up and before they left they
invited us, Jimmy, David, and myself, over to their place for dinner
on Thursday night.

When dinner night came, Jim went with Mike and Sandy to Sandy's
girlfriend's place to see another chick who had just flew in from
Houghton Lake. I went to Dave's so we could attend the dinner at
David's friend's place. When we entered his friend's apartment, I
was taken aback by the living conditions. In a three-room apartment
(of a lower class variety) there lived a husband and wife, their
three little children, and the mother-in-law and brother-in-law. It
was hard enough just to fit in the apartment, not to mention trying
to get around the makeshift table that was created for this
occasion. I didn't expect much for dinner. Boy, was I wrong! After
the candles on the table were lit, the hors d'oeuvres were served,
and a delicious white wine was poured. The overhead lights were
turned off and the women brought in the baked chicken on a flaming
platter. I can't remember when I enjoyed a meal more.

I found out later that it was the couple's anniversary and it made
me feel good that they invited me to share this special occasion
with them, but if I had known, I would have politely refused their
invitation. "Life is what you make it," and nowhere was that adage
more on display than in this family. After dinner, Dave, his happily
married friend, and I, left for the gymnasium to play basketball.
Dave was asthmatic and frail, and not a good basketball player. It
worked out though because I wasn't as good as the rest of the
player's, so I sat the bench with Dave. After the game, Dave wanted
me to go play cards with him and some of his other friends. I begged
off the invitation by telling him I had to go see the girl who had
just flew in from Michigan. The last thing I wanted to do was play
more cards.

Washington Square N.Y.C.

Diamonds And Rust--Washington Square--Our Breath Comes Out White Clouds, Mingles And Hangs In The Air, Speaking Strictly For Me, We Both Could Have Died Then And There


St. Patrick's Day Parade
N.Y.U. '70

Two hours after I began my search for Sandy's apartment I got off
the subway in Queens, a N.Y.C. Borough across the East River from
Manhattan. Considering my reputation for getting lost, the two hours
it took me to find Sandy's apartment was an amazingly short time.
Just four blocks from where I surfaced, I buzzed Sandy's apartment
building's security door. After riding the elevator to the seventh
floor and knocking on her apartment door, the three of us, Mike,
Sandy, and I, had a friendly reunion. We spent the rest of the
evening reminiscing. Sandy didn't get paid for four more days and
the cookie jar was empty, so our next day sightseeing activities
were somewhat curtailed. To further the group's survival, I was
happy to contribute my twenty dollars, but that still left us with
only a few dollars to spend for entertainment.

Sandy's one bedroom apartment was no penthouse; it had wood floors,
cracked walls and leaky water pipes. Sandy's roommate moved out
after Mike moved in, and stuck Sandy with the rent. Sandy and her
roommate shared the exorbitant $250 per month rent, but now it was
not going to get paid. Nobody seemed worried about next month's
eviction; instead we concentrated on taking advantage of what little
time was left.

During the day, Mike and I walked the streets of Manhattan and spent
a lot of time just sitting on the benches in Washington Square. We
would meet Sandy after she finished work at 5 p.m., and the three of
us would ride the trains back to the apartment. This routine was fun
for the first couple of days, after that, well, let's just say
everybody was glad when Jimmy, a friend from Houghton Lake, showed
up with Sandy's car. Sandy made arrangements to have Jimmy deliver
it, so she would have transportation back to Michigan. With Jimmy to
keep me company, Mike was free to stay home; he had seen enough of
N.Y.C. anyway. Jimmy and I went to Time Square, Central Park, and we
climbed to the 90th floor of the Empire State Building. The
elevators to the observation area, another seven stories up, were
jammed with people, so we figured we were high enough already. You
couldn't see much farther out than a few miles anyway because of the
smog.

N.Y.C. was truly the Big Apple of all cities. Whatever you wanted
could be found there, and when you found it, it was usually bigger
than expected. For instance, on St. Patrick's Day, Jimmy, Mike, and
I took the train into Manhattan to see the parade. On the subway we
met this chick who told us to go to 86th street because that's where
the action would be. At the time, we could only guess at what she
meant. It was a beautiful day on Park Avenue and we did not expect
the amazing crowds gathered to see the parade. At the start of the
parade, everybody was there to watch the parade, but as we
approached 86th street things got a little more frantic. When we
arrived at 86th street, all hell broke loose.

We were pushed and shoved in every conceivable direction by a mass
of drunken kids. For the most part, the kids were 10-to-18-years-old
and they didn't hesitate to act their age. Everybody was holding a
drink and by the end of the day, you not only had to worry about
being splashed by alcohol, you also had to worry about getting
pissed on by some kid who couldn't hold his bladder any longer. The
more modest of the mob would squat or stand over in Central Park.
The pigs had everything they could do just to keep the kids off the
parade route; the condition of the youths was not their concern. We
had to step over more than one kid who was sitting or lying in his
or her own puke.

Getting out of that crowd was no easy task. A pig on a horse almost
knocked Jimmy to the ground. He couldn't get out of the way because
the crowd pushed him into the path of the horse. Using Central Park
as our escape route, we arrived back where the parade started in
time to pick up Sandy. Come evening, we were all huddled around the
kitchen table playing Canasta. In N.Y.C., our days were full of
unpredictable excitement, but nights were predictable to a fault. It
was cards, cards, and more cards.

New World Symphony

Does It Worry You To Be Alone-No I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends


What An Arrival—New York City

Back on the highway, I would have preferred warmer weather, but the
sun was shinning and the rides were good. One ride was especially
memorable. An attractive, but troubled young lady who never picked
up hitchhikes, picked me up. She was a nurse and she told me "I
looked safe." She was out for a drive, and I guess she wasn't used
to being around people who had little or no responsibilities, or at
least that's what she told me. She must have found me interesting.
She drove me almost across Pennsylvania before she finally dropped
me off, and headed back to Ohio. She told me if it weren't for
having to punch a clock she would have driven me even further. It
was going on 5 pm and she had almost six hours of driving in front
of her before she would begin her eight-hour shift back at the
hospital. When I got out of her car, she thanked me for my company.
I wanted to say something, but all that came out of my mouth
was, "Your welcome." Standing on the highway, waiting for my next
ride, I had a new appreciation for what being alone and being lonely
really meant.

I don't know why, but I had good luck hitching to New York. After
the chick from Ohio dropped me off, I had a barrage of unprecedented
rides with people who normally wouldn't pick up hitchhikers. Somehow
I managed to get lost in New Jersey and this dude went out of his
way to put me on the right road. As it turned out, when I finally
reached Manhattan it was dark, and I came in form from the south
when I should have come in from the north. I was dropped off at the
Staten Island boat dock. Seeing Manhattan for the first time from
the bridge of a Staten Island Ferry was breathtaking. On one side
was the shinning Statue Of Liberty, and on the other, beautiful red
lights adorned the bridge connecting the city to the mainland. In
front of me was the magnificent Manhattan skyline--standing tall,
and very, very, impressive!

I had Sandy's address in my pocket, but I didn't have the vaguest
notion how to get there. I asked a policeman for directions and he
pointed to the subway and said, "Just follow the signs." Except for
Toronto, I had never experienced a subway before. What I found under
the streets of Manhattan were not just trains; there was a whole
other city. I was shocked to find all life's necessities could be
purchased under the streets of N.Y.C. You never had to surface if
you didn't want to.

A huge system of interconnecting trains linked all five Burroughs of
N.Y.C. and although it was a bit confusing at first, from the map on
the wall, I managed to trace out the train that would take me almost
to Mike's front door. Incoming trains were ear shattering. After
coming to a screeching halt, sparks would fly and the doors would
slide open. Once inside, you took your seat and stared at the
advertisements pasted just above eye level, or you stood up and held
on to one of the straps hanging from the ceiling. After a few
moments of speeding down the tracks, lights would flash and the
train would come to another screeching halt. This ritual was a
little different during rush hour, instead of sitting or standing
you squeezed tight against the person next to you. Starting and
stopping, as might be expected, brought people together in ways that
were not always comfortable, but hey, that's why they call it N.Y.C.!

With A Little Help From My Friends

A Counter Culture Moment With Janet—Special
March, '70

My parents were always happy to see me when I returned home
safe from one of my journeys. This time however, I didn't accomplish
what I had set out to do; that is, get a job. Even in Houghton Lake
I couldn't find work, so when Mike called up and wanted me to visit
him in New York, I jumped at the opportunity. Sandy, Mike's
girlfriend, went to the Big Apple, and both her and her girlfriend
landed secretarial jobs. After the girls settled into their
apartment Mike followed them to N.Y.C.

I caught a ride with my old friend Roger (the same Roger who
I lived with in Lansing) to the Ohio turnpike. He was on his way
down to Florida, and then I headed east for N.Y.C. As I was standing
on the onramp waiting for a ride, another hitchhiker got out of a
sixteen wheeler and started to walk up to where I was hitching. I
had been there long enough for the cold to seep into my bones, so I
was happy to see a new face. If it turned out that we were heading
in the same direction I was ready for the company. What I wasn't
ready for was that he turned into a she and she was just as happy to
find me as I was to find her.

Janet wasn't a beauty queen, but I wasn't complaining. She wanted to
tag along, and I was happy to have her there. I had heard about
chicks hitching alone, but not across the country; she was from
Wisconsin heading to Pennsylvania. The two of us got along fine. For
us, hitchhiking turned into a game, and we were winning. Getting
rides was easy and before long we reached the junction where Janet
went north and I was supposed to continue east. Janet suggested I go
with her to see her cousin who was attending a small church school
in northern Pennsylvania and I was more than happy to oblige. She
was returning money that he had sent her for the purpose of scoring
some weed. She could have sent the money back, but I guess she
figured she would get to spend some time with her cousin this way
(she wasn't able to get the dope because her dealer got busted.)

After we got off the turnpike, we went in the wrong direction, and
by the time we corrected the mistake, we were out of daylight and we
still had fifty miles to go. Our one compensation was that
Pennsylvania was beautiful and northern Pennsylvania was even more
beautiful. The mountain road to the college had little or no traffic
on it, so Janet called her cousin to come rescue us. Fortunately,
she was able to reach him by phone and he agreed. We found a small
restaurant to sit in until her cousin arrived in his black Mercedes'
limousine. Actually, the limousine wasn't her cousin's car; it was
her cousin's roommate's car. He volunteered to help with the rescue.

Riding in the backseat of a limousine with Janet was great fun. It
didn't appear to me that her cousin was in need of anything though,
since on the ride back he shared his killer weed with us. The music
and wine were excellent too. It seemed like it took forever to get
back to the college. Part of the problem was that halfway there we
pulled off the road to watch the largest crane/steam-shovel
imaginable. There were floodlights everywhere and this shovel, about
the size of a small house, was chewing up the mountain. We were
pretty stoned, so this spectacle was an interesting diversionary
activity.

That little sideshow gave Janet and I time to discuss our sleeping
arrangements and we decided come hell or high water we'd find a way
to be together. It was rather difficult getting our wishes realized,
though. We ended up giving her cousin $38. of the $50. owed him,
just so we could rent a motel room. Janet was old enough to make her
own decisions, and her cousin wasn't in a position to tell her what
to do, but it was easy to see that he didn't approve of his little
cousin's behavior. His disapproval was duly noted, as Janet and I
went off to our cushy motel room. We were, thanks to him, in the
right state of mind to enjoy the evening. We made it five times that
night. The next morning, after Janet's cousin found her in a good
mood, his demeanor changed for the better. He was only trying to
protect her; if I were he, I guess I would have reacted the same way.

Sight seeing was on the agenda, so we toured Janet's cousin's school
and it's small college town surroundings. We stopped for coffee
before heading back to the interstate and on our way south, Janet
and I sat holding hands while her cousin chauffeured us to the
highway. Our good-byes were less than poignant as each of us went
our separate ways. Janet's cousin went north, Janet headed west and
I trucked on east. Waiting for my next ride with my thumb out,
waving goodbye to my lover who also had her thumb out was a feeling
so odd that I just had to take note. There was something queer yet
beautiful about this whole state of affairs. I knew that this kind
of life would eventually fade into history, but that only made
living it extra special now!

Miller's Blues

Mobby Grape He Was Shattered When He Saw How Everything’s Exactly As It Seems


Hitchhiking Tennessee
Feb. 1970

The weather was much better now, and hitchhiking wasn't bad either.
If it weren't for everybody trying to do me a favor by taking me on
shortcuts, I probably would have made better time. Every once and a
while taking a shortcut proved interesting, though. For instance,
two really straight dudes picked me up in Tennessee and insisted I
go with them. They assured me, that we were going to make better
time because we were taking a shortcut. They were not the kind of
guys I would want to hang out with, but they seemed honest, so I
agreed to go with them. They stopped at a store and bought some beer
and we took off across the Tennessee countryside. At first it was
fun, then, as we drove through the small towns, it became less
amusing.

In the towns it was just like in the cowboy movies. The towns, all
wooden buildings lining the main street, had people sitting on
wooden sidewalks and steps, a piece of straw dangling from their
mouths, doing nothing more than killing time. In each town, at the
far end, was a section reserved for the "jig boos," or so my friends
called the blacks. We took the liberty of cruising the jig boo
section of one of these towns, so my comrades could laugh and poke
fun at the shabby living conditions of the poor blacks. The windows
were rolled down, so it was easy to yell things like, "How ya doin
hot mama," but the real jive was spoken in the car. Its all been
said before, so there's no sense repeating it here.

We were in a dry section of Tennessee and everybody got a little
worried because we were running out of beer. The driver knew a
bootlegger who lived twenty minutes away, so we were off on another
joyride to God only knows where. As we drove up a large hill, an old
man came out of a farmhouse on top of the hill to greet us. He went
directly to the driver and started talking about the weather. I
guess the driver wasn't on a first name basis with the guy because
it took a whole lot of talking before the old man went back into the
house and brought out two six packs of cold beer. Everybody was
smiling as we waved good-bye and drove back down the hill. I found
out later that the old man had quite a little operation going. He
not only bootlegged alcohol, he had a gambling casino camouflaged to
look like his garage. He had the local pigs paid off and if he
caught anybody selling hooch in his territory he would sick his
little mafia on them. Apparently, he controlled this county and four
others.

My rather drunk friends dropped me off in a little Tennessee town. I
walked, as best I could, to the outskirts of the place. Even though
I was just outside of town, I was not far enough out because people
in the town would still poke their heads out of their windows in
order to get a good look at the new kid. Some even got in their cars
and drove past me. I became the town's entertainment. I was not
happy with this situation, so I inquired about getting a bus and I
was told, "Sorry, this town is too small for a bus depot."

I stood in the hot, dry, afternoon sun until just before dark when a
welfare worker from New York City stopped and picked me up. The
welfare worker told me that the last hitchhiker he picked up stood
for three days in the spot where I was standing. He said, "You must
have an angel watching over you." Once I got back to the main
highway, it was business as usual. I spent the rest of the night and
the wee small hours of the morning standing under streetlights and
hanging out in gas stations. I made it to Detroit by mid morning and
by late afternoon I was glad to be home — more than glad. Home is
where the heart is--really!

A Song For All The Seasons Of Your Mind

Society’s Child All The Muddy Ponds And Dirty Sewers, Feed Your Mind Upon A Skewer

Black Sky, Bitter Wind
Hitchhike

It was gloomy the next day, synonymous with my disposition. After
taking the bus to the end of the line, when I got
off, a Louisiana flash flood fell out of the sky. I managed to take
cover in a grocery store. It didn't last long, but it left enough
water to make it look like an all night rain. After that, I started
hitchhiking back to Michigan, and the dude who picked me up dropped
me off smack dab in the middle of bayou country.

Surprisingly, standing on the road in the middle of the swamp
cheered me up. The swamp was overflowing with water, making bayou
country a beautiful sight to behold. The peace and quiet of the
swamp made it easy for me to understand how the stereotypical image
of the slow moving, slow thinking, black man came to be. There was a
strong sense of "If it doesn't get done today, it's no big deal, and
if `whitey' or anybody else doesn't like it, I'll just go back into
the swamp and forget it all." No doubt about it, bayou country
would be the perfect place for a fatalist to set up housekeeping.

Unfortunately, I didn't have long to soak up the atmosphere because
two black dudes picked me up. If I had listened to them I probably
would have had better luck hitchhiking. When I was dropped off
somewhere in Mississippi, they told me to stay on the country roads.
They said, "Country folk pick you up, not the people traveling the
expressway." But my experience taught me to stay on the main
highway, so I stood out on the barely traveled expressway for three
hours, and than I backtracked to the country road where the black
dudes told me I would have better luck. It took me a while before I
could put their advice to the test because as soon as I reached the
road the sky turned black and the cold wind picked up (an
uncomfortable reminder that it was still winter in the south). I
took shelter from the rain under a parked earthmover. I was
beginning to have visions of having to sleep under the earthmover
when the rain let up and I managed to catch another ride.

At the risk of sounding ungrateful, I can only describe my
compatriot (the driver of the car) as a bigoted, male chauvinistic
pig. I tried to avoid talking politics, so I sat quietly and
listened while the jackass solved all the world's problems. By the
time we reached Jackson, Mississippi, he had the niggers shipped
back to Timbuktu, the Jews put in concentration camps, and welfare
recipients put on the chain gang. It wasn't as if I hadn't heard
these things before, but this guy just rubbed me the wrong way.
Being wet, tired, and hungry probably had something to do with why I
hated this guy too. Saying good-by to "my savior" was a joy. With
that dude in my past, I was left to wander the streets of Jackson,
Mississippi.

I really didn't want to get back on the highway. The daylight was
gone and so was my energy. I had some money left, so I decided to
buy a bus ticket back to Michigan. I was looking for the bus station
when I met this guy getting into his car. He started talking about
the nasty weather and one thing led to another until I found myself
accepting an offer to crash at his place for the night. I was
surprised to find he lived in a large house in the middle of a fancy
neighborhood. Ed's roommates and his Grand Champion cat greeted us
at the door. Once inside, I found his expensive furnishings and fine
art collection a pleasing sight to behold.

Both of Ed's roommates were friendly. When we were drinking beer
together, however, I could feel a little tension coming from the
older roommate. I thought all along Ed might be gay, but so far
there was nothing to confirm my suspicions. By the second beer, the
four of us were talking as if we had known each other for years.
When Ed's roommates excused themselves, I found out I was sleeping
with Ed. By that time, I pretty much knew what was going on. I
suppose I could have said I would sleep on the couch, but I decided
to postpone the embarrassment until the last minute.

When I got in bed and started to go to sleep, Ed asked if he could
rub my back. I didn't respond. When it came time to object, I
didn't. I consented because I was not going to let society tell me what I
could or could not do, in the privacy of my own home, or in this
case, Ed's bedroom. Ed didn't take advantage of me, he took
advantage of the situation and I let him, not because I was giving
in to my hidden desires, but because, at the time, it seemed like
the right thing to do.

When I went home with Ed, I thought it would be for one night only,
but Ed invited me to stay, and when I accepted, it was understood
that I would be sleeping on the couch from then on. The next couple
of days I became a privileged tourist in Jackson, Mississippi. Ed
and his roommate escorted me around town in their luxury automobile.
As it turned out, Ed's older roommate, so to speak, was Ed's wife.
The two of them had an open marriage, and took in the kid because he
needed a place to stay. The kid was okay with the gay relationship,
as long as he was left out of it. Ed owned a picture frame business
that was apparently successful because they shipped custom picture
frames all over the world. The three of us toured the university,
the medical complex, parks, and the exclusive section of town, which
by the way, was where Ed's parents lived. Before it was all over, Ed
offered me a job and said I could stay at his place for as long as I
wanted. I was tempted, but I'm not stupid. I knew that kind of
relationship would explode in the end. When it was time to say good-
by, I thanked him for all the hospitality, real southern
hospitality, and he dropped me off at the expressway.

Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down

On The Sunday Morning Sidewalk, Wishing, Lord, That I Was Stoned


Time To Pack It In
New Orleans '70

Waking up in the morning, I grabbed a handful of stale chips
from the bag on the table and popped open a beer. After I drank
another, I put on my cleanest dirty shirt, and walked out to greet
the day. It was Sunday morning, and I had no destination. When I
came to the park with the swings I thought, "There's no time like
the present." I just wanted to shut my eyes and forget everything. I
put my mind "on hold" for the rest of the afternoon and evening, but
come Monday I was back walking the sidewalks.

If you didn't want to be anywhere, New Orleans was a good place to
be, it kept you in touch with all the misgivings that made you feel
that way in the first place. I was tired of always being on the
edge, and I wanted it to end. By the time I got back to my
apartment, it felt like I had walked clear across New Orleans. I put
the six-pack that I was carrying under my arm down on the table and
opened a beer. I sat back and watched the twilight turn into
darkness. As I was drinking my fifth beer, I knew I had to do
something or I would fall asleep. I decided to go back down to
Canal St.

Drunk, but still conscious, I took refuge within the shadows of a
burned out street light. There was a heavy mist hitting the streets,
and just down the block I could see someone walking towards me. As
he passed by, he looked down at me and said "Hi". I could tell by
his backpack and his three-day beard that he was new in town and
watching him walk away, I thought, "Wouldn't it have been nice if
somebody had helped me when I first arrived in New Orleans." My next
thought was to catch this guy and offer him a place to crash, but
then I stopped. I wanted him to experience the same anguish that I
had felt. It was kinda like getting revenge on the city. I didn't
find any hospitality, and now I wanted this guy to suffer too. I
felt evil, but it felt good. I thought, "What the fuck, if I can't
have it, nobody can." I milked that feeling until I couldn't get any
more out of it, then I started to feel sorry for the guy all over
again. I decided, once again, to offer the cat a place to crash. I
had to run to catch up to him because he was a good four blocks
away. When I finally caught him, he told me, "Yes," he had just
arrived from Florida, but "No," he didn't need a place to crash. In
fact, not once, but twice, and now with me, three times, he had been
offered a place to stay. I didn't know what to say, I guess I said
something like, "Gee, I hope your luck holds out," and then I sat
back down on the wet sidewalk wishing I had another six-pack.
Eventually, I picked myself up and started back to my apartment. It
was then that I decided to leave the city. Tomorrow, for me, New
Orleans would be history.

Infidels

What's A Sweetheart Like You Doing In A Dump Like This


In My Room
New Orleans '70

The room had a double
bed and was fairly clean with adequate ventilation. A stove and sink
were in the corner of the room and the bathroom was off to the side
of the facilities. I liked my room on the second floor of the house,
but living with all the uninvited insects was not my idea of ideal
living conditions. I found out later that in the South, even among
the more respectable rent districts, living with insects was quite
common. The cockroach came in all sizes, with the largest one being
the most disturbing. I guess I never did get use to living with my
roomies, although I did manage to put up with them.

I never did get a real job, but it wasn't because I didn't try. Just
thinking about the mileage I put on my shoes makes my feet hurt. I
was finally humbled into taking a job selling encyclopedias. I
didn't really want the job, but they promised good money and I was
getting desperate. When it came to giving a sale's pitch, I wasn't
sure if I could pull it off. (In College, I was so afraid of
speaking in front of people that I never gave one speech to my
speech class. I passed the class with a D since I did well on the
written tests.) Actually, I was lucky to get the job. Many of the
people didn't get past the first day. After the interview, I was
given a three page long dictation to memorize. On the following day,
many of the other people didn't have their lines memorized; they
were dismissed on the spot. If it weren't for the fact that I was
bored at night, I wouldn't have taken the time to memorize the
shitty speech anyway.

With my books to keep me company, my nights were mostly spent
reading in my room. Having only a few dollars in my pocket and even
fewer friends, painting the town was not an option. One night was
worth remembering, barely. After a disappointing day job-hunting, I
stopped by a local tavern. At the bar, I sat next to a pretty girl.
I listened as she poured her life story out to the bartender. She
was new in town and unattached. When she said she was from
Huntington Beach, California, I thought to myself, "Now there's a
connection, I've been there and I can use that to begin a
conversation with her." Drinking my beer, waiting for the right
moment to begin talking to her, a Dylan song popped into my head. In
the song, the protagonist strikes up a conversation with a girl at a
bar and discovers that both he and she share a common hometown and
acquaintances. Letting the song play over and over in my head, made
it easy to wait for the right opportunity to talk to the girl. Just
as her conversation with the bartender was tailing off, in walked
this guy who sat down on the other side of girl, and when he heard
that she was from California, he asked, "Where in California?" As it
turned out, both he and the chick happened to be from Huntington
Beach, and they shared many friends in common. That could only
happen to me!

Back in my room, I was not in a very good mood. I didn't feel like
reading, but I needed to do something, so I sat down and started to
write. I guess I wrote a poem. Well, maybe it wasn't a poem. The
only thing that really mattered is that it helped me get through the
night.

I had arrived in New Orleans four weeks before Mardi Gras. The whole
time I was there I could feel the excitement building. Every day the
city was becoming more alive with its new decorations, fresh paint,
and newly installed bleacher seats. Although I was looking forward
to Mardi Gras, I didn't figure on any surprises. The people in the
French Quarter were already celebrating. The excitement of watching
people throw beer cans, scream obscenities, and, in general, act
like jerks, loses its appeal after awhile. I suppose I could be
speaking out of envy, since I was not one of the good-time people,
but I hope not. The week before Mardi Gras there was the pre-Mardi
Gras party. Bourbon St. and Royal St. were awash in drunken
celebrations. The highlight of the party came when this muscle bound
peacock stopped traffic and tried to pick up a Volkswagen full of
terrified tourists. Even with his drunken buddies cheering him on,
he could not pick up the car.

The thing that turned me off more than anything else was the
indisputable prejudice that was all around me. Although the black
population got the brunt of the prejudice, there was more than
enough to go around. It seemed some of the people down here were
still fighting the Civil War. Being from the north and a hippie, I
was not immune from being the object of prejudice. Not one to back
down, though, I would often walk through the black section of town
and stop to swing on one of the swings in the playground reserved
for black kids. Everybody, blacks and whites alike, gave me dirty
looks. The anti-social stigma of being the wrong color in the right
swing, or being the right color in the wrong swing, did not win me
points among the locals. Fortunately, I wasn't trying to win a
popularity contest. I just learned to swing with my eyes closed.

I stayed with my encyclopedia job for better than a week, and
learned all the sales pitches and promotion exercises. I was one day
away from getting my first paycheck when I told the whole fucking
establishment to kiss my ass. I couldn't picture myself as a
salesman anyhow, but the real reason I got pissed had to do with the
way they treated one of the girls who I became friends with. She was
from Silver City, New Mexico and she was counting on her promised
paycheck so she could buy a bus ticket home. The guy in charge found
out that she wasn't going to stick around and sell encyclopedias, so
he fired her. She spent what little money she had on clothes and now
she was out of money and a job. She was devastated. I felt sorry for
her since I knew how she felt. I guess quitting my job wasn't the best
way to show my support for her, but the thought of working along side
garbage, like the guy who fired her, made my skin crawl.

Moon Over Bourbon Street

It Was Many Years Ago That I Became What I Am--I Was Trapped In This Life Like An Innocent Lamb


Looking For A Job
New Orleans, '70

I was in the most visited
of all southern cities and before I went job-hunting, I wanted to
soak up some of the local culture. Without spending much money, I
took in the sights and sounds of Bourbon St. and Royal St. The
closest thing I could find to hip-culture was a little boutique at
the end of Royal St. called the Far Out. Here, the hippies would
linger until the pigs moved them along. There were a lot of hippie-
looking people around, but they were scattered about the French
Quarter with no apparent cohesiveness. I believe the pigs were the
reason there was no organization to hip culture down here. Oh, I'm
sure there was some organization, be it at concerts, or at a
friend's houses, but it's just that it wasn't happening on the
street. This lack of organization, I am sure, had something to do
with my living a solitary existence in the middle of a city known
for conviviality and its party atmosphere.

I had to cross Canal St., the main street in New Orleans, in order
to get to the French Quarter, which was more than a mile away from
where I lived on Jackson Ave. Public transportation was cheap; ten
cents would get you anywhere you wanted to go. A nickel would buy a
phone call and I was only paying $15.00 a week for my kitchenette-
equipped apartment. I guess you could say the cost of living wasn't
that bad in New Orleans. Even though I could afford public
transportation, I preferred to walk. I found walking therapeutic.
New Orleans' French Quarter was a very interesting place. It was an
assortment of shops, art boutiques, strip joints, quaint bars, and
exclusive bars. I spent most of my time just walking and observing,
sometimes though, after job-hunting, I would go to a small park
located at the top of Bourbon St. and read my book, or just lie down
in the sun. I was reading Roszak's The Making of the Counter
Culture. On other occasions, I would stand around outside the park
and watch the local artists make their living sketching portraits of
the tourists. Some of these artists were damn good; I could spend
hours watching them.

I taught myself how to tie a tie in New Orleans. I've never needed a
tie up until then, so I never learned how to tie one. I needed a job
and I was willing to do just about anything to get one. I found that
wearing a tie didn't help much though. I was turned away by every
store on Canal St., finally, a guy who owned a bookstore
said, "Maybe," but later said, "No thanks." My landlady told me to
try the boat docks. There's hardly anything more depressing than not
being able to find work. After a long day looking for a job, I would
end up back at the French Quarter.

In many ways New Orleans was a conservative city, but when it came
to drinking and strip joints, it was also a very open city. The
French Quarter was unique in that on the street you could just as
easily find yourself walking shoulder-to-shoulder with a drunk, or
the rich and famous. Make no mistake about it; the passengers
getting out their glistening chauffeured limousines did not relish
rubbing shoulders with unwashed degenerates. On more than one
occasion, while walking next to a sophisticated lady or gent, I was
made to feel like an object for somebody else's amusement. This
mixing of classes was made possible, I suppose, because of the
French Quarter's celebration of public alcohol consumption. While
the more affluent would go into expensive bars, the less affluent
would sit on the curb with their six packs. On the street, it was
just one big drunk.

It wasn't that the entertainment was reserved only for those who
could afford it though. The music created inside the bars carried
out on to the street with no problem. I'm sure the cat on the
street, holding his beer bottle, had just as much fun as the drunks
inside. One bar even brought the entertainment to the street.
Inside, a girl swung on a trapeze and when she reached the limit of
her swing, her legs would thrust through a window and over the heads
of the people on the sidewalk. From the street you saw bare legs,
giving the impression of a nude body, a rather nice impression.

Driftin' And Driftin'

Driftin’ And Driftin’ Well I Didn’t Mistreat Nobody, I Didn’t Do Nobody Wrong


Goin' To New Orleans
Jan. 1970


I still had some money in the bank, but not enough for school, so I
decided to go back to the city and look for a job. This time,
however, I would go alone--and to a different city, one preferably
where the weather was warmer. I spent the next month contemplating
my next move. My father was born in Baton Rouge; a city just north
of New Orleans, so I figured maybe going to New Orleans would bring
me luck. I always felt a fascination for New Orleans anyway.

I was up early. Like other times, I told my parents I had a ride to
somewhere or other, and then had a friend drop me off at the
expressway. (That way my parents didn't have to suffer through
dropping me off on a cold and lonely highway). It was January 3 and
I was carrying a suitcase full of clothes. As suspected, the
suitcase was clumsy, but I was really optimistic about getting a job
and when that happened the clothes would come in handy. When I left
Houghton Lake the temperature was zero and the wind was blowing, so
hitchhiking was not pleasant. Eight hours later, just outside
Chicago, the temperature had dropped three degrees. By the time I
got a ride out of the Chicago area, it was dark and my frozen face
was covered in ice. The guy who picked me up was heading to Houston,
Texas. I thought Houston was way out west, so I told the cat I would
get out in St. Louis, Missouri. That was probably the stupidest
thing I have ever done. Neither one of us had a map. It wasn't until
it was to late that I found out that Houston was a lot closer to New
Orleans than the seven hundred miles New Orleans was from St. Louis.
To make matters worse, when I arrived in St. Louis, it was 11p.m.
and I was not excited about getting back out in the cold, so I had
the driver drop me off at the bus station.

Inside the bus station, I tried to explain my situation to the guy
selling tickets. I wanted an eight-hour bus ride to get me through
the night and closer to New Orleans. He either couldn't, or wouldn't
sell me a ticket without a destination. It didn't take an
explanation however, for him to decide that I was a hippie. He as
much as told me that my money wasn't good, and I should get the hell
out of his bus station. Under any other circumstances I would have
told the guy off, except I wanted out of that crummy bus station and
city more than I wanted to tell that asshole to go fuck himself. He
finally did sell me a ticket.

I had an hour to wait before my bus left. I went to the bathroom and
this black dude followed me in. Besides the asshole ticket guy and
me, everybody inside and outside the bus station was black, so I
didn't think anything unusual was going down until another black man
walked through the door and the guy standing next to me asked me for
some spare change. I said, "Sorry man, I barely had enough money to
buy a bus ticket." That was not the answer the guy wanted to hear.
He backed me into the corner while the other dude watched at the
door. The black man said, "Not only do I want your spare change, but
show me your wallet too." I gave him a couple quarters as I emptied
my pockets and when I opened my billfold, he took my seven dollars.
Luckily, in order to keep from spending money, I tried not to carry
much money in my billfold. The guy seemed satisfied and left with
his buddy. God, I hated that place. Boarding the bus, I discovered I
had paid for a ride all the way to New Orleans. I didn't argue, I
just wanted out of there. The thought of not having to put up with
more assholes was worth the money.

The weather was unseasonably cold; snow covered the ground even in
Mississippi. The farther south I went though, the harder it became
to tell the snow from the litter. Also, the farther south I went,
the more rickety the houses became. House was probably not the right
word, "old shacks," I suppose more accurately described the living
conditions of the poor blacks. I expected to run into this kind of
poverty in Mexico, but I never thought it possible in healthy,
wealthy America. These shacks were so dilapidated you couldn't even
build a fire inside them. It was a common sight to see black
families congregating around open bonfires trying to keep from
freezing outside their shacks. I saw barefooted kids running through
the snow while the rest of the family huddled around their front
porch fires.

Just before arriving in New Orleans, the bus crossed a twenty-six
mile long bridge. From the middle of the causeway, you felt like you
were driving across the ocean. Due to many delays, the bus ride
ended around 6 p.m., lasting more than eighteen hours. I was not in
the best of moods when I arrived in New Orleans. I planned on
getting an apartment, but I wanted to get to know New Orleans before
I made a major decision like that. Back on the street, I immediately
started looking for New Orleans' hip culture. When I asked the
street people where the local hippies hung out, they looked at me
like I was from a foreign country. Their responses were cold, but
not as cold as the nippy breeze that chilled every bone in my body.
I finally asked a hotdog vendor where I could get a cheap place to
stay. He told me about a few cheapies and then told me I might be
able to get a place in his boarding house. He said, "It's clean and
you can cook there too." I didn't want to turn away any luck that
came my way; these days luck for me was a precious commodity. I
thanked the man and left to try and find his place. At least the
hotdog vendor was friendly, a friendliness that in my opinion, was
in short supply in New Orleans.

Diamonds & Rust

There’s A Man With A Gun Over There, Telling Me I Got To Beware



Oh gosh, I almost forgot the most exciting part of my Washington
D.C. adventure. When I left the rally to go look for the car, I ran
into the chaos resulting from the attack on the Justice Department.
Up by the Capital, I found pigs arm in arm, holding their wooden
sticks, blocking the streets where the frenzy took place. I needed
to get through the human barricade in order to get to the car, so I
figured that since I didn't take part in the Justice Building
mayhem, the pigs would let me pass. I was mistaken. As I approached
the blockade, I could see the tension in the pigs rise. When I asked
if I could cross through, I was greeted with "You son-of-a-bitch,
nobody gets through!" As I was wondering how I was going to get to
the car, the pig's attention turned to the cat who followed me up to
the battle line. The cat wanted to pass through also and when the
pigs told him to get lost, he started screaming at the pigs to let
him pass. The cat's disrespect for the law didn't set well with the
Sergeant in charge. He came out from behind the men holding their
wooden sticks, hollering, "I ain't taking no sass from an asshole
hippie." As the kid turned and headed back toward the crowd the guy
kicked him in the rear end, sending him to the pavement. The kid
picked himself up and yelled back, "I'm gonna sue you fucker, I'm
gonna sue you." All the time the kid was yelling, he was walking
backwards toward the crowd. Once he was safely in the crowd, he
turned and was gone.

At the conclusion of this whole sorted scene, I turned to see where
the chanting I was hearing was coming from. Down the street, coming
in my direction, I saw a very large group of people walking towards
where the pigs had set up their battle line. The crowd, a massive
group of radicals, maybe 3000 strong, were throwing rocks and
kicking in storefront windows. My adrenalin started pumping, but I
didn't run, I just moved closer to a building over by the sidewalk.
I thought to myself, "This could get interesting. Here are 3000
angry protesters about to take on fifty pigs draped in riot gear."
As the radicals approached, the pigs raised and extended their
interlocking arms. The rebels were lead by a Goliath of a man, maybe
seven feet tall, with long flowing hair, waving above his head a an
eight foot wooden pole. He was yelling back at the mob, "Don't
disperse. Don't disperse." From where I was standing, the pigs were
about to get massacred.

Never underestimate the "powers that be." In the dark, behind the
blue wall of uniforms, somebody switched on the lights. National
Guard troops, hiding under the cloak of darkness, were waiting to
back up the men in blue. Before I could get over the shock of seeing
military men in the streets of Washington D.C., the tear gas started
to fly. Everybody, radicals and by-standers alike, panicked; burning
gas was everywhere. It was full ahead retreat for me, I never looked
back; I just kept running from ground zero. Some of the people were
not so lucky, in Washington D.C. ambulance sirens rang out
throughout the night.

All Of Us

Well May The World Go-Peace May The Generals Learn



Washington D.C. Moratorium '69

We were supposed to gather in front of the Washington Monument and
march down Pennsylvania Ave. When we reached the monument, we
encountered a sea of students and other protesters. The organizers
were trying to get the people grouped by states and it was all we
could do just to find the Michigan delegation. State banners were
waved above the crowd, but unless you were already close to your
state, you probably wouldn't be able to find it; there were too many
people to be able to move freely through the crowd. Once we joined
the delegation from Michigan, I ran into students from CMU. The
students told me that they came to D.C. in one of seven buses. One
of the students told me that U of M sent twenty buses and MSU sent
twenty-nine busloads of students to D.C. Standing in such a large
crowd of people was an unforgettable experience, especially when you
knew everybody was there to express one opinion--in one loud voice.

Don't ever underestimate the power of the establishment to distort
the facts. The news media reported 250,000 people attended the
Moratorium rally; a gross underestimate. The Michigan delegation was
huge, but compared to the crowd as a whole it was hardly noticeable.
In fact, when it came time to march, the Michigan delegation never
moved from its spot. We stood freezing for two hours while the
marchers walked down Pennsylvania Ave. The protesters were like a
giant slinky; the front of the line moved down Pennsylvania Ave.,
but the back of the line never got started. When the news media
reported 250,000 people protested the Vietnam War in Washington
D.C., that number represented the number of people who marched down
Pennsylvania Ave., not the number attending the rally. The Michigan
delegation, in order to keep from freezing to death, turned and
walked over to where the Moratorium speakers were going to address
the crowd because it was just to painful too wait anymore. Even the
area where the stage was set up, on the other side of the Washington
Monument, was too small to accommodate the crowd, which stretched
from the Washington Monument all the way back to the Smithsonian
Institute; every inch of ground around the Monument was occupied.

Around 10 a.m., after using the restroom in the Smithsonian, I began
to make my way to the stage. Two hours later, I reached a spot where
I could see the stage. It was not until 5 p.m. that I reached a
place where I could both hear and see the speakers. By that time, I
had missed a lot. I still got to see and hear Pete Seeger, Arlo
Guthrie, the cast of Hair, and Peter, Paul and Mary though. The
struggle was definitely worth it. Peter Yarrow announced to the
crowd that the Moratorium had brought together more than a million
voices calling for an end to the Vietnam War. Although that number
was disputed, I am inclined to believe it, for the one simple fact
that at 4 p.m. the news media reported that 75,000 protesters
attacked the Justice Department and maliciously vandalized the
building. That means, if the media was right, 75,000 people, a third
of the crowd, was supposed to be absent from the main rally. I was
making my way through the crowd at 4 p.m. and its size had not
diminished. In a crowd one million strong, that is exactly what you
would expect.

Regardless of the disputed numbers, there were a lot of people
protesting American foreign policy. They had traveled all the way to
Washington D.C. to make their voices heard, and they succeeded. This
accomplished, it was Saturday night and, as they say, "When in Rome,
do as the Roman's do". After I became reacquainted with my friends
back at the car (we scheduled this rendezvous point if we managed to
lose one another), we were off to the bar. Back in Georgetown, we
found this really quaint bar named "1789." It was crowded, but it
was a fun place to be. The bar band sounded a lot like the Kingston
Trio and the beer really hit the spot. After a few delicious beers,
the fatigue that we were feeling hit us hard, so we all agreed to
find a place to crash. We could stay at the University again, but
one of the guys was a frat man, so we thought maybe our
accommodations would be better it we could find his Greek brothers'
fraternity house. After a few failed attempts, we found his Greek
house and we were received with smiles and open arms. After
watching, somewhat disappointingly, the media's coverage of the
Moratorium, we went directly to bed. I slept on the floor while the
boys took the couches. Everybody was glad to be sleeping in the
Greek house instead of the noisy dorm lobby.

80,000 Michiganders

Ain’t Gonna Let Nobody Turn Me Around


On My Way To Washington D.C. '69

The next morning I boarded a bus for Detroit. The gloomy morning
turned into a gloomy day and pulling into the city didn't help
matters any. Detroit was bad enough all by itself, but on a dreary
day, when you had to hitchhike out of the city, it was anything but
a cheerful place. I could feel myself falling into depression, but I
fought it back. Inside the bus station, I rented a footlocker,
stashed my gear and then started asking people how to get to
Washington D. C. On the eve of the big demonstration, I received
looks from people that even made me laugh. Finally, I got
directions, and luckily I managed to get on the right expressway.
Three hours later, I found myself standing in cold, wet, snow,
waiting for a ride just north of the Ohio state line.

The temperature had dropped twenty degrees and the cold, gloomy day
was fast turning into a cold, black night. I was beginning to think
the whole Washington D.C. thing would have been a lot more fun if
only I would have watched it back on the Toronto TV screen. Just
when things were looking their worst, a car pulled over and I
thought "Hurray, at least I've got a ride to a warm gas station." I
was thunderstruck when the dude in the car responded to my
question, "Where are you heading?" with the reply, "Washington D.C."
The three male schoolteachers who occupied the car, were on their
way to participate in the D.C. Moratorium and when they found out I
was doing the same thing, they invited me to ride along with them.
Going from a fear of freezing to death to a ride all the way to
Washington D.C.-- and back, left me totally speechless. I was told
later however, that I had an affirmative smile on my face.

I've been lucky with rides before, but this ride was too good to be
true. Not only did these guys offer me transportation, they had
enough beer and sandwiches in the car to feed an army. It was a
picnic all the way to D.C., except for the snowstorm we ran into
while crossing the mountains. By that time though, I was to drunk to
notice. When we arrived in Georgetown, a little town outside D.C.,
it was four in the morning, but it looked like New Years Eve. By
staying open all night, the merchants were capitalizing on the
influx of spenders. We were all tired, and in my case not feeling
too well, so getting a place to crash became top priority. A large
church was set aside to house the Michigan delegation, but when we
arrived we found the arrangements were sorely inadequate. Instead,
we ended up crashing in the lobby of a George Washington University
dormitory. I was told later that Michigan was well represented at
the rally, it was estimated that over 80,000 Michiganders were in
attendance.

At the Capital, in the morning, everything seemed well organized.
There were pigs around, but it was mostly students wearing black
armbands who handled the crowds. It was a real rosy cheek day, or
some might say it was colder than a bitch. Spirits were high
however; students were everywhere, in every alleyway and behind
every door. If I ever felt like I belonged anywhere, I felt like I
belonged there, as a member of that crowd, contributing to the
people power that was all around me. I was overwhelmed by
the "strength of will;" I could feel it, everybody could. The
establishment was being put on notice, I was sure of it.

That Did It! I Was Going To Washington D.C.

Pride Of Man, Do You Understand, What You’ve Been Stealing


St. Andrews Church
Toronto '69

I did nothing the next day. I guess I was depressed. After dark, I
went to the Free Soup, Donut And Coffee Gospel Kitchen, or at least
that's what I called it. There, you never had to worry about
deciding between the different entrees and the texture of the food
was always consistent. The coffee was weak, the donuts were heavy,
and the soup was tasteless. If you were really hungry, the
incompetence of the chef, or in this case the hymnal singer, was
quickly overlooked. While I was eating, the cat sitting across the
table from me, started up a conversation. Usually I like to eat
alone, but the cat was interesting, so coffee and donuts took second
priority. He told me about a church, St. Andrews, which promoted
artistic creativity among Toronto's transit population.

After dinner, before he said good-by, he took me to the church. In
the basement, I found lots of rooms, each specializing in some form
of art. There was a room for woodcraft, pottery, painting, and there
was even a dimly lit room equipped with a record player, but it was
strictly for dancing, not listening. There was also a room with a
television set. This was the room I came back to after I checked out
the possibilities of the place. I wish I would have known about this
church earlier because I would have put it to good use.

As I settled into a cushy chair to watch television, there was a
reporter talking to a protester on the Capital steps in Washington
D.C. who was protesting the Vietnam War. This part of the protest,
according to the reporter, was being held to honor the Americans who
had died in Vietnam. In a slow procession, the demonstrators were
lighting a candle for every soldier who had died in Vietnam. This
Death March, as it was called, had already gone on for more than a
day and was scheduled to continue right up until the weekend
Moratorium rally where anti-Vietnam War protesters would march on
the Capital. As I listened to the kid struggle to tell why he felt
the war had to stop and stop now, I could feel something inside me
click.

At first, I felt extremely alienated and lonely watching what was
happening on TV, but listening to the protester say what I could not
say for myself, I began to feel as though I was taking part in what
was happening back in Washington D.C. I was ashamed of my country
when I thought about the Vietnam War, but I wanted, with all my
heart, to identify with the Americans who saw the war as an
injustice, with the Americans who said, "Enough! Stop the war in
Vietnam and bring the troops home!" Listening to the interview,
hearing the kid's words on the television screen, my whole body
started to tremble. I wanted to go to Washington D.C., but I didn't
want to go to prison. I became tense and agitated. I did not know
what to do. Like the head butts of two rams struggling for
dominance, I was tortured by these conflicting desires. As I was
about to open my mouth and scream, I heard the kid on TV say he was
from Detroit, Michigan. That did it! I was going to Washington D.C.
and I would leave tomorrow. My decision made, my body
collapsed. All the tension that had been building for days vanished.
My fate was in society's hands now. The only thing I had to do was
cover ground and get myself to Washington D.C.

After I left St. Andrews church, feeling as though a thousand
pounds had been lifted from my shoulders, I envisioned the streets
of Washington D.C. filling up with protesters for the big Moratorium
rally. The march on the Capital was scheduled for Saturday, but that
was still a whole day and a night away. I already had my ticket
home, and twelve dollars in my pocket. I was concentrating on the
trip and wondering if I could get there in time when I crossed the
street against the light and was almost hit by a car. I started to
pay attention after that and it was then that I noticed a guy on the
street crawling, as best he could, up the steps to an apartment
building door. I figured he was drunk and trying to get home. It was
obvious he wasn't going to make it without help. I didn't realize
how drunk this dude really was until I got close enough to ask, "Can
I help you?" When I put my hand on his jacket, he let go with a
right cross that fell just shy of its mark. As I backed away, he
verbally pounced on me with every swear word in the book. That was
the second time in less than ten minutes that I put myself in
danger, and I wanted it to be my last. I left the old man lying on
the steps and headed straight for my apartment. After walking a
couple of blocks, I looked over my shoulder and the man was still on
the same step. It's a pity that pride can't help him climb those
steps. When I got home, I put my things together for my trip to
Washington D.C. Lying in bed, I pitied that old man, and the whole
of the human race, myself included.

Toronto 1969

The Whole Human Race Has Taken Far Too Much Methedrine Speed Kills


Christmas Time In Toronto

Toronto was a "speed city." Everybody on the street did speed. I
never did understand how people got hooked on the needle, but in
Toronto I met people who would mainline anything. I met girls who
mainlined ejaculated sperm just to see what would happen. Some
drugees, after the veins in their arms gave out, shot up in their
feet, ankles, legs, neck, and tongue. The headline in Toronto's main
newspaper read, "20,000 Estimated On Speed," that pretty much said
it all.

As I got to know more of the people, it seemed everybody at the
Diggers had a story to tell, but the chick who told the mainlining
story still stood out. Her back story was that three months earlier,
after a two year stint in the Newfoundland penitentiary, she was release,
and then started shooting up the speed that she is now trying kick.
What I was witnessing was her coming off the drug. Her first night at the
Diggers wasn't too bad, but her second night was pure hell. One of
the two people looking after her went to a free clinic to get some
downs (Secinal). Roshdale, the building where the free clinic was
located, was an experimental treatment center set up by university
students to help people on drugs. Doctors were on staff, but the
students did most of the work. The cat came back from Roshdale with
a handful of downs and gave two pills to the chick. After she calmed
down a little he gave her another one. I suppose, after a week or
so, she would be mainlining speed all over again. Kicking the habit
in an environment like this was probably impossible.

After a day of walking the streets and trying to figure out what I
was going to do with the rest of my life, I decided to check out the
addresses in my pocket. I figured, "What the hell, if I like Canada
and Canada likes me then I guess I'm home!" The next day, I went to
the House of American Exiles to see how to make Canada my permanent
home. This place was a refuge for American draft dodgers and
deserters. This was also a place where you could get free clothing,
food, and make arrangements for a place to stay. The information I
was after though, was not available here, for that kind of
information I had to go downtown to where a branch of the House of
American Exiles had their legal counseling. Upon arrival, I found
the place busy and had to wait my turn. When my turn came, I quickly
found out that Canada didn't give away residence cards to just
anybody. A grading system was in place, a system based on how
productive you would be for Canada. After my assets were counted, my
production potential was next to nil.

I felt myself slipping into depression. I knew that if I went back
to the Diggers things would only get worse, so I headed in the
opposite direction. If I walked long enough I hoped my fatigue would
make the depression go away. I must have looked as despondent as I
felt because when I finally did get back, this cat came up to me and
tried to cheer me up. He wasn't a resident, though. He was just
visiting, and had an apartment not far from away. When he first
arrived in Toronto, he stayed at the Diggers.

I did a lot of walking while in Toronto. It was cold, sometimes
biting cold, but that made it even more enjoyable. (When I wasn't
walking, I was reading my book; the chapter on Hobbs was my
favorite). Toronto's City Hall was beautiful; the whole structure
was absolutely marvelous architecture. Twin towers joined by a
flying saucer shaped building comprised the main structure of the
building, while giant arches that stretched over an outdoor ice rink
greeted you at the approach to the building. Night was a good time
to watch the skaters because scores of colored lights lit up the ice
rink and the strategically placed loudspeakers provided excellent
music. I would watch the skaters waltz to the sweet sound of the
music for hours at a time.

Toronto was getting ready for Christmas and the joy of the people
on the street was contagious. Whenever I walked down Yonge Street
with its window displays, or down Blur Street with its glowing
yellow streetlights, I couldn't help but pick up on some of that
Christmas spirit. The two main department stores, Eatons and
Simsons, decorated their windows with moving Christmas puppets. Each
window had scores of puppets acting out different Christmas themes.
Trying to protect myself from the cold while watching these puppets
made me forget my troubles, at least for a little while. At night, I
would walk the Strip and stare at the chicks and the freaks. When I
got cold I would walk up Blur Street and go into Zumburger.
Zumburger was a restaurant with a cozy atmosphere. The best part
though, in addition to the good music (a lot of Dylan), was that you
could sit at a quaint little table, smoke cigarettes, and drink
coffee without the management getting uptight. That, for me, was
heaven.

Unfortunate Event

Coming Into Los Angeles Bringing In A Couple Of keys


Toronto
Nov. '69

When I reached downtown Detroit, I went into Hudson's department store and bought a
book. I picked the cheapest, thickest, book I could find, The
English Philosophers From Bacon To Mill. With cowboy boots hanging
around my neck and carrying a suitcase, I made a lot of people smile
(even laugh) as I made my way to Canada.

With $150 in my pocket, I bought a round trip bus ticket to
Toronto. The guy at the ticket counter told me that Immigration
wouldn't bother me if I carried a round trip ticket. It was midnight when I arrived in Toronto. I was sitting in the bus station, sipping coffee, wondering, "Where the
hell am I?" I had arrived in Toronto, but in reality, I hadn't gone
anywhere. The bus station was as depressing a place as I had ever experienced, but the thought of the ice-cold street was even worse. At the counter, two freaks sat next to me. One was leaving on a bus to Sudbury while the other was just keeping
his friend company. When the cat left on the bus, the other dude
took me to Yorkville, Toronto's hippie district. Once on the Strip,
I started asking around for a place to crash. I was told that the
Diggers, a house set up as an emergency crash pad, would let me
sleep there.

When I arrived at the Diggers, the coordinator of the house told me
I could stay at the house for three nights, after that I would be
considered dead weight. After I was clear on the rules, the cat
softened up a bit. Before our conversation ended, he told me he was
a draft dodger from Chicago and had lived in Toronto for two years.
I told him I was also dodging the draft, and probably would
immigrate to Canada. He gave me some addresses, and then he showed
me the community room.

I sat in the empty chair with eyes closed. There was a dude sitting
across from me reading a book and two other dudes were sitting in
the far corner having a conversation. I was beginning to relax when
an upset chick walked in the room. She immediately started talking
to the cats in the corner of the room. She had just come from the
Strip where she was shooting speed with a guy she had just met. When
she was hitting him, the needle disengaged from the syringe and went
up the dude's arm. Apparently, they were shooting excellent speed
because when she wanted to drive the cat to the hospital he wouldn't
go (he didn't want to ruin his high). He told his distraught partner
that if he lived (you died if the needle ends up in your heart) he
would go to the hospital in the morning. She wouldn't take no for an
answer, though, so she started to drive the guy to the hospital
anyway. On the way to the hospital the dude made her pull over, and
when he got out he had to step over a woman crumpled on the
sidewalk. The woman on the sidewalk also needed help since she was
sitting in a pool of blood. The chick in the car wound up taking the
woman to the hospital instead of the dude. According to the chick,
the sidewalk woman's distraught husband kicked her in the crotch,
and she was pregnant. The husband then split, leaving the woman
lying in the street. After listening to this conversation I was, at
first, skeptical, but after living in Toronto for a while, I found
these less than fun facts easy to believe.

Toronto was a "speed city." Everybody on the street did speed. I
never did understand how people got hooked on the needle, but in
Toronto I met people who would mainline anything. I met girls who
mainlined ejaculated sperm just to see what would happen. Some
drugees, after the veins in their arms gave out, shot up in their
feet, ankles, legs, neck, and tongue. The headline in Toronto's main
newspaper read, "20,000 Estimated On Speed," that pretty much said
it all.

As I got to know more of the people, it seemed everybody at the
Diggers had a story to tell, but the chick who told the mainlining story still stood out. Her backstory was that three months earlier she got out of a Newfoundland penitentiary, after serving two years. Upon release, she started shooting speed
and only now was she coming off the drug. Her first night at the
Diggers wasn't too bad, but her second night was pure hell. One of
the two people looking after her went to a free clinic to get some
downs (Secinal). Roshdale, the building where the free clinic was
located, was an experimental treatment center set up by university
students to help people on drugs. Doctors were on staff, but the
students did most of the work. The cat came back from Roshdale with
a handful of downs and gave two pills to the chick. After she calmed
down a little he gave her another one. I suppose, after a week or
so, she would be mainlining speed all over again. Kicking the habit
in an environment like this was probably impossible.

After a day of walking the streets and trying to figure out what I
was going to do with the rest of my life, I decided to check out the
addresses in my pocket. I figured, "What the hell, if I like Canada
and Canada likes me then I guess I'm home!" The next day, I went to
the House of American Exiles to see how to make Canada my permanent
home. This place was a refuge for American draft dodgers and
deserters. This was also a place where you could get free clothing,
food, and make arrangements for a place to stay. The information I
was after though, was not available here, for that kind of
information I had to go downtown to where a branch of the House of
American Exiles had their legal counseling. Upon arrival, I found
the place busy and had to wait my turn. When my turn came, I quickly
found out that Canada didn't give away residence cards to just
anybody. A grading system was in place, a system based on how
productive you would be for Canada. After my assets were counted, my
production potential was next to nil.