Comedy, Cocaine and Cable TV

HippyLand

by Robbie Jones Saturday Night Live

producer Marci Klein SNL

Sara Seth glanced up at the marquee

on west 68th from the inside of the Hilton Hotel. 10 minutes to show time! Famous

comedian famous comedian am I said she to the empty bar. She watched as the

stepladder was placed in front of the marquee – the workman in

white pulling each letter from the metal marquee. New film, new star.

Every Friday a new picture.

“Film star, all of us could be film stars.. I just know it – SARA

IF YOU WOULD TRY HARDER –“ Sarah sipped at a coke and

Bacardi rum to the end sucking nosily. Her Mother’s voice echoing.

Try harder. Do better. Useless all of you except for Sara. Sara did a

show and brought in 50$. Mrs. Seth lighting a cigarette and shifting

in the heavy upholstered chair. Her pudgy face turning as she shook

her dark hair. “I just want what’s best. For all of you.” She inhaled

and looked around at her handsome husband and daughters. She

dismissed Shelly and called for Sara to sit with her. Lesley left and

the other arm went around Sara. There was nothing to do at this point

except to hear the crickets and kids playing from the open window at their

New Hampshire home. It was late. Sara had gotten a gig doing stand up.

Shelly her Dad had found a 5 day job bricking up a wall at a rich neighbors home.

Lesley had handed over her babysitting money to her Mother, reluctantly.

All the cash was in her hand as she counted and recounted. Everyone

had to hand over their cash to Mrs. Seth.

“Baby do you need something?”

Sara nodded yes and stared out the window to the trees, the roads

to town, the night sky with a star shining. Her long brown hair was parted

to the side and her face was small and handsome. Everyone said she

resembled her father with his ‘handsome movie star looks’ and it was true Shelly

was the most handsome man in town. As Sara had grown up and watched as

woman after woman threw themselves at Shelly. She had also watched as

he, at times had indulged in some back seat fucking behind his wife’s back.

Sara had learned one thing. Women would do anything for sex from a handsome man.

And the more he played them, the more they wanted it.

Shelly always had his pudgy devoted wife and in the New England town

on Fridays and Saturdays while they were all at the movies or the

Lakeshore diner he escaped his drab life in a 20$ hotel room with

a bar maid. Or in the backseat of a car with the wife of a friend

“Baby do you need anything?”

“Mommy I want 25$ half from my gig. Please.”

“You were funny?”

“He said I’m really funny and I rocked the house. I did Mommy.

I can do another show next Friday. I get a free drink and a meal $50”

“You’re kidding me-“

“No Mommy he hired me- I want my 25$”

“Darling you got hired?”

A huge grin appeared on her face and her pudgy arms wrapped

around her daughter in a hug. ”Hired. 50$ every Friday. Finally!

One of you has some guts. I knew you were a somebody.

Lesley will never amount to anything! Shelly is shit. You

my angel, are something.“

Sara rocked in her Mother’s arms. The room exactly the same as it had

been since she was a child. Same chairs, same bookcase with

scattered chipped teapots and cups and plates. A framed photo on the wall.

A lumpy sofa at the wall. The window open to a New England summer night.

Sara had sex with the manager after her show. It was over quickly.

And he had hugged her in much the same way her Mother was now.

He was handsome and married but he gave her the gig and

looked and looked at how beautiful and smart she was. He

had kidded and joked with and hired her to bus tables and host.

It all ended up in back room with a single bed and creaking bed springs.

It didn’t matter it was job security and she knew she was funny and the

crowd at the bar had actually liked the show. Goodbye cleaning hello affair

with a married man and hello stand- up comedy. The Friday before her

Mother had slapped her face hard when she mentioned money. Sarah Seth

was making it. 35$ 100$ Hiding it, giving her Mom some and feeling better.

New shirts, a new skirt. Cologne. Anything seemed too expensive.

Shelly had finally admitted he had spent all his money on food & beer.

“Hired. A real comedian.”

“Yes Mommy – and I want 25$”

“Sure kid here.”

Her Mom folded the twenty and five into her hand and kissed her.

Hugged her again. Finally her Mother wasn’t angry every day.

The old 3 bedroom home was paid for and it was just

utility gas and food they needed. Sara was seventeen and had

a closet of clothes. Her sister had the same but her Mother had

been beyond angry all week. Finally she was happier.

“Come on baby, let’s have a drink an celebrate”

Sara stood and looked out the window. Her Mother led her to

the back kitchen and pulled her inside, softly locking the door.

The marquee back on 68th street was changed to HippyLand.
Same as she called her summer house in New Hampshire.
Pot, hot tubs, bring your little brothers and sisters up.
All welcome and all of us best friends. Forever Hippies.

The new poster up and the ladder being turned. Sara Seth was

looking out the window. Her Mother had died earlier that month.

Lung cancer and a fight over some bags of pot on the table.

A lump on her neck, a tumor behind. Her Father Shelly had died as well.

As soon as she started dealing they had gone. Dead. Sara thought quickly of a joke.

Mommy, what zodiac sign smokes the most. Cancer. She smiled and

laughed. Finished the Bacardi and shook the ice. 11pm and showtime!

Let them wait a few minutes. Sara Seth was always funny.

Her show always rocked the house. The Marquee had changed

and her Mom was gone. Woodstock and now HippyLand..

A new star, new film every Friday. Sara looked at her list

of ten jokes and quickly left the empty bar.

********

Sara Seth glanced up at the marquee

in Vegas 10 minutes to show time! Famous comedian famous comedian am I said she

to the empty bar. She shook her hair back and ordered a quick rum & coke. The

bartender winked at her and she looked at her list of ten jokes. Winner winner winner –

talk while - look at room - winner winner winner talk winner winner winner

annnnd end joke. Holy shit Vegas crowd! Sarah shrugged. Sarah Seth was

always funny. She thought back earlier that day up in her hotel room.

She woke up at 12 ordered breakfast, ate and went to the pool and wasted an afternoon

on the phone and looking at the staff. Ordering anything and everything. More ice, colder

glass, another water - keep them busy Sarah thought. Vegas Vegas Vegas. Ooooh

babyyy playing thumping in background. She looked at her ten jokes. Play this crowd –

play them same as the Comedy Cellar crowd. Deb her waitress was near. Deb Mimosa!

For awhile I thought that was her name. Sara looked at the email from Sydney. Her

screenplay was being done. Compromise, some days we play Abba some days we play

Neil Diamond. We must all melt a bit and not be so cold . Sydney always said

that. Later Sydney. As she looked at her fragile face in her hotel mirror

she had thought of her early days in comedy. So happy walking down Macdougal street

in Manhattan. To all the comedy clubs and cafes. Everyone out, couples everywhere.

She got gig at the cellar right off, shaking hands and talking her way in.

No back rooms it was just be funny. It was always crowded at the cellar and a strict 2

drink minimum kept it busy. Pressured to perform she took the stage and bombed with

her first joke and just kept talking. The crowd hardly noticed and finally she said

something funny. A wave of laughter rocked her and she got right back on. Dirty jokes.

Fine got them and she just kept on. She had her guitar and could always play a bit and

talk to her crowd but it was crowded. They wanted to laugh and she always knew a few

dirty jokes. Two minutes into it she relaxed and kept being sexy dirty and

quick. Laughter. Applause. Laughter. They loved her and finally the host waved, set done

and she waved and applause. A moment to savor and she stood and grinned. Hopped off

the stage. Asked for a free drink at the bar. Got a draft beer and went to the back.

Got it. Got it.

On the phone and a call to her Mother. Mom. "How was it baby? Come home tomorrow."

Mom. The years had gone, gone where. Seven years later in her hotel room in Vegas

thinking of the comedy cellar. Looking at a stranger in the mirror. Sara Seth.

Her face was hard. Her eyes pools of black. Shark eyes. So much had happened.

Her face was hard. "My Mother is dead." She said aloud. "Shot in the head. I should

have stayed in bed." She looked around. View. Cool breezy Vegas. Big bed

and towels on the floor. She had the cash and could have a party later that night.

Her hand hurt. She had thrown a glass in anger earlier. Sure. A party.

She looked again at the stranger in the mirror. Forget it. She smiled and

took a deep breath. Sara Seth was always funny. The marquee said headliner

and she was making good money. Funny. That was done. She had learned that

way back at the comedy cellar. Seven years gone. Gone where.

*******************************

"Sydney this is so funny you wrote this?"

"But yes, of course. Really?"

"It's so funny - it's hilarious. Did you get your bonus?"

"Totally."

Sydney Lewis waved her check at her co-worker at the silicon valley start up.

A program built in Gerard's parents basement went to 3 people working in his garage

shrink wrapping packages to a 200+ company with Gerald in sunglasses constantly

talking on the phone and his high school friend Sydney marketing itune APPS

to teens in California. Text to Guru Gerard, let's do a Mork and Mindy APP.

And a POPE APP. SOAP ON A ROPE WITH THE POPE Sydney Happy APPY

Lewis. Annnnnnnnnnnnd Send !And Sydney pulled her hair back into a

pony tail and pulled on a worn sweater over her button down shirt. A tan skirt and

Birkenstocks.

Outside to the warm California evening. It was a long day, they had done it.

They had sold the company. All the meetings and handshaking and meetings

and phone calls paid off. Meetings and meetings!

A thirteen million dollar sale and Gerard was happy driving off to meet his

masseuse whom Sydney was sure was gay and Gerald well, he built the program.

If he wanted a massage from a blonde surfer guy - for sure. Gerard was so lonely.

All he did was work and Sydney was happy he had a friend. Everyone in the

company had gotten a bonus from the sale and it was over. Namesdomain Inc.

was over. Swallowed up acquired by large looming shark Ashton-Tate. Emails to

everyone. All Gerard's friends back from MIT in Boston. The ring

bearer has fulfilled his quest! My kingdom for windows DOS! All the worlds

a stage and we are just world of warcraft players. What did Diana Ross say to

her tech support team- where are my back ups! All Sydney did all day long at the

hippy computer company was make jokes. Jokes riddles puns limericks long rambling

jokes short witty remarks - as if it were Wisecracks Inc. all day. Sydney had a strange

ability to get people laughing so hard tears came. They fell off chairs and sometimes

they laughed so hard they peed. It was a unless talent in the software industry

but it was also becoming apparent Sydney would rather be writing jokes than device

driver code and answering never ending tech support calls.

"This is funny. You should be in comedy."

They always said that and she just always smiled and looked down.

Comedy. The big C. Laughter, like a tumor it was, humor. Mary Tyler Moore moments,

joke books and all the television. Sydney had watched every sitcom ever.

The green backyard at her Mom's house with it's sliding glass doors.

The television room and a tv guide. Peaceful and tranquil for devoting herself to

watching, detailing, analyzing every sitcom ever. Newhart Sanford and Son

Maude The Jefferson’s Mary Tyler Moore Rhoda Sonny & Cher Good Times

Faulty Towers Benny Hill Mash Barney Miller Facts of Life Family Ties

Prince of Bel Air The Courtship of Eddy's Father Bridget & Bernie

One Day At A Time Donny & Marie The Smothers Brothers Laugh Inn.

Every cheap and cheesy thrown together or perfectly produced show

that had aired Sydney had seen most of. Most episodes. TV dinner I am there!

Her Mother read all the time, her Father traveled with an executive job

and Sydney had only two sisters and they kept busy with boyfriends and

high school teams.

Boring, banal, hours upon hours of nothing but television and cups of tea,

soda, coffee, a large open patio with crickets to walk and take a break and

then back to it. More tv. Episodes of Twilight Zone. Late night Mary Hartman

Mary Hartman. Johnny Carson. His guest hosts including Joan Rivers. Hilarious!

A cat curled up near Sydney. And of course SNL every Saturday night.

WPIX channel 11 news with it's harrowing accounts of New Yorkers braving

everything! Hookers in Times Square, junkies in the village, dow market

crashed again! The same newscasters, same hair, suit tie coats

and 11:29 pm channel 4 NBC the peacock and those tense moments.

A bowl of popcorn near. Is Saturday Night Live on? Is it a good one? A rerun?

Moments and then Chevy on stage and laughter a pratfall and Live From New York!

It's Saturday night! Theme music and the not ready for prime

time players! Garrett Gilda Jane Larraine Chevy John Dan Bill Murray!

And Don Pardo announcing your host for this evening is Buck Henry!

He hosted all the time and usually had a funny crawl in his

monologue. Hello I'm Buck Henry da da da da and then these words would

start on screen - ' a crawl' on the screen saying totally opposite of what he was

saying. 'Oh tonight's show the actors are such and such and really you wouldn't

believe the lunch they gave us today' on and on and on - so funny.

Saturdays were important to Sydney. Starting early in the morning with

every Bugs Bunny cartoon, Daffy Duck, Tweety Bird, Elmer Fudd, Speedy Gonzalez

and Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner episode she could cram in.

Then helping her Mother with shopping. A drive to the supermarket

and walking around talking and picking up TV dinners and cereal, milk butter eggs salads

having fun and shopping. Her Mother was so popular and she let Sydney watching TV

all the time. Later on Sydney had seen an ABC television ad jokingly saying

"8 hours day of television a day, that's all we ask -" and Sydney had agreed.

There was no such thing as too much television if anyone had ever asked Sydney

growing up. If anything, more cheesy Solid Gold Dancer shows.

Television! Her childhood had been a summers at a tennis & swim club,

playing cards & picking blackberries, frisbee and endless pizza parties.

Year after year with the same kids same friends same parents same blackberry

bushes near the same swim club. Her bike parked with the others, never locked.

The white stone wall of the club and entrance. Sydney knew almost everyone at the club.

She went alone or with her family and there was always something to do.

Ping pong. Cards. Swim team. Sitting with the diving team and throwing

tennis balls at the boys. Everyone was friends and there were rows and

rows of lawn chairs. Everyone in a swim suit. Relaxed. Smoking. Reading the paper.

Tennis gear out. Reading magazines. It was a mellow club. Mostly Jewish but

with a few Scandinavians and Italians and us leprechauns Sydney thought

with a laugh. Riding down the path near the grass and past the back drive

chain and up the hill to her Moms home. Hair wet and a towel around her neck.

Bike in garage and door to playroom to walkway to patio her Mother

siting reading a book, smoking and a smile as she entered. "How was the swim club?"

Sydney's mother was always happy. A sexy Sagittarius with dark hair to her

shoulders, in shirts and a short skirt. She had escaped Ohio with a good marriage

bought a home with 10,000$ down 200 feet from an elementary school and

had three kids. Done. She played tennis, swam, shopped at Lord & Taylor

and did an occasional acting part at the Sterling farms golf theater. She had

stenography training growing up and could memorize a short book word

for word. Sydney's Mother was sensible and funny. She loved her husband,

her daughters and that was it. She graduated high school and had the

steno thing wrapped up. Everyone liked her she waved to everyone in

the supermarket and flirted when she cashed checks at the supermarket office,

talking with the men. They all laughed and she waved and shopped and

drove away. A actress who had somehow skipped ahead and went right to

a happy home in Connecticut. Always smoking and laughing.

'How was the swim club Sydney?" and a hug and cups of Lipton tea everywhere.

Regina. Twenty years later Sydney looked at the Malibu coastline as she

took PCH up to Topanga. The bus was empty except for some spanish workmen

and one surfer. 8000$ and free. Her Mother had passed away from lung cancer

years back. All those cartons of Benson & Hedges. Lighters and ashtrays.

Sydney had joked in her stand up routine 'Lung Cancer - it's the way!

You can smoke to the very last day and it keeps you thin. Here’s my ashtray

‘I'll quit tomorrow!' Sydney had smoked and then stopped. California was

so healthy and there was wheatgrass everywhere. A few shots and the

craving was gone. After three days she just let it go.

And she kept busy Sydney had always worked in offices. She got into computers.

Her sisters had married and her Father re-married briefly before lung cancer

got him as well. Sydney thought of a joke.

"If only you had watched more television Dad." The Malibu coastline loomed,

beautiful and wild. She was living with a guy she was designing a front end for.

His program was getting noticed and his Father had put up some seed

money for his on-line dating site. Sydney had a knack forgetting things done quickly

and smartly. She had free rent from him. A sofa near the window. She talked over

the design with him and they worked beautifully together and Neil was aiming

for a big sale and needed a coach. Sydney was a pretty good coach and

had a knack for telling jokes and being mellow and not clingy. She had finally

found a coffee bar in Santa Monica where she pushed herself on stage and got

through 10 jokes with her friend Cynthia at the bongos. The crowd laughed

she had re-enacted an episode of Hawaii 5 O. Book 'em Danno was her last joke.

It got laughs and applause. Done. Sydney had a coffee after with a shot of tequila in it.

Comedy comedian comedy. She was drifting into it and liked it. Software

was a breeze and there was a job offer up in San Francisco. Sydney would fly up,

book into a youth hostel. 25$ a night breakfast included. Find a cute guy from

the Netherlands or Australia and get laid. Have dinner with him and everyone at the

communal table later and never say a word about it. Go out to the pub crawl

and talk with Europeans and complain, laugh joke and stay up all night.

Adios LA. Hello beautiful Swedish accents, cable cars and long breakfast at

11 am or 12. I'm a night owl honey - I sleep all day long. A Carly Simon sketch.

Carly would love the hostel! For sure Carly would. Comedy. Sometimes Sydney

thought of New York. She had met a extra on SNL and written sketches for him.

She dated him and loved his name, Evan a 6 foot tall African American.

He was funny and young and Sydney had even thought what a good couple they

were walking in sheep’s meadow Central park. She fell sort of in love with him

and his funny t-shirts thick black glasses and New York preppy aggressive style.

She wrote him into some sketches and they were good. She knew it. And they got

along so well she just thought, marry this guy totally! Well, sort of err yes.

He had liked acting and then some neighbor told him all sorts of things about Sydney

and the whole thing was swept away by a flight he took to LA. He just went with another

woman. The sketches were left. Sitting there ready and waiting for SNL.

Funny, printed, neat. They lingered in her west village flat until her last day

before the flight. She had gone to Rockefeller center on a lark and gone ice

skating all day. Then took the flight back. Wondering. Comedy. Well, computers

were stable. Everyone had a Mac the internet would go on forever and she

had called the company in San Fran and was interviewing this week.

Travel. Fly. Up in the sky. Bye. A fly guy. Try. Yet Sydney wondered.

She looked a list of 10 jokes. Had worked it down to ten. Rambling on in the

middle about Stonehenge and druids. How many hobbits does it take to screw

in a light bulb? One but you need a wizard air freshener. Were there

any blacks in the Hobbit? Just a Tolkien black. Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Sydney printed her boarding flight and went outside and sat in a lawn chair.

Night sky and a Pepsi near. Neil inside up all night coding. A 30ish hippy

with a beard and long hair and hidden bags of pot. Yet it worked. Sydney cleaned up

and coached his design. The TV flicked on in the home.

Live from New York and opening sketch. Sydney looked at it, the simple bizarre

SNL humor. She had been watching the show since Chevy and Gilda days.

Live from New York.

Sydney sighed and shook the ice in her drink. Comedy. Comedy on the rocks, neat.

****************

"Who do YOU THINK YOU ARE?

Another night with Mrs. Seth and Sara was hiding near the back wall

of the kitchen. Her sister Lesley got the brunt of the Who Do You Think You Are lecture

followed by the Not One Of You Has Anything Going For you lecture followed

by the You Are All ShitHeads theory and then a grande finale of If You Were A Somebody

You'd Make It lecture. Then some tears and Mrs. Seth hugging after all the

screaming and sometimes hitting. Sara always moved her face and quickly said

'Stop it stop stop it Mom - STOP!' But Mrs. Seth was a big woman and heavy

and strong. She had her hands around Sara's throat at some point and shook her

hard. Fucking bitch! Fucking bitch! Get OFF! A lamp thrown. Shelly yelling

and Lesley crying in the corner.

Shelly leaping onto them and it was comical and Sara would laugh out loud.

Her Dad tackling Mrs. Seth and then uuufph - it was comical and tears and hugging

and some laughter.

"It's alright it's alright Shelly come here baby -"

Saturday night to Sunday then Roman Catholic cross on the wall and mass

and Sara in confession. Confessing she wanted a flight to Miami and a new

Mother. And 6 hail Mary’s, not a hundred.

Father O’ Brother. Long sigh. Sara in her worn sweater and white polo shirts

and brown cords and boots. Her brown hair at her shoulders and cups of coffee.

Her Mother getting into it with the Church janitor and Shelly getting in the

middle of their on-going name calling every Sunday. Lesley talking to a guy

and laughing and then running to the Chevy everyone getting in and the old car

creaking back to their house. Shutters falling apart the roof with grey shale pulled off.

Hands in pockets and eyes down Sara went inside away from the constant back

and forth with Mrs. Seth and Shelly. He was spitting at me. He didn't he did not!

He said we were behind on our payments. So what! He gets paid after we get paid.

They found the bottle of Jack Daniels hidden behind the alter. Shit. That bag of

pot was mine from bingo. That Fucking Priest. Free dinners on Friday nights, thank God.

Free booze from the booziest parish to ever hit New England. Father O'Tequila and

his margarita mix and Fridays were good for the Seth family. Poor but honest.

Drunk but sober. Laughing but crying. Sara shaking her head and making a

margarita for herself at age ten.

Lesley dancing with the church deacon. Shelly laughing and Mrs. Seth selling

phony raffle tickets to men all night smoking and drinking away the weekends.

Mass on Sunday and they'd haul out Monsignor Guam a Filipino man who spoke

in a high tranquil voice and brought tears to everyone eyes. Have faith!

Kindness is the way! Simple sermons and his tender voice covered

everyone and protected the parish. You felt relaxed and free after his Sunday

mass. Lighting a few candles, stuffing a few dollars to the poor. Monsignor talking

and hugging. Friday dinners with real plates, glasses, round tables and

terrific baked yams, fish, corn. Cobb salads. Crispy fried chicken, baskets of

warm bread with butter, plates heaping with food and Sara ate and drank

50 cups of coffee, talked and had unseen margarita after margarita.

The grassy courtyard and sometimes a band, a movie with popcorn for everyone.

Sleepy kids on their moms shoulders drifting off to station wagons and Volvos.

All the local family together for a night and then night time New England crickets and

driving home. Upstairs to bed and pajamas, reading late at night or just staying up.

Mrs. Seth in a good mood. Shelly happy. Other nights Sara watched as Shelly took

a single woman behind a shed at the dinners and fucked her quickly and without much

effort and then both of them walking back inside as if they had just had a cigarette.

Mrs. Seth had started an affair with the church janitor. All to get his keys and his job.

It was the seventies and la dolce vita, the good life. He was coming over in the day when

Shelly was at work and Sara and Lesley at school. Only Sara came home at 1 o'clock to

watch All My Children and saw them getting stoned all the time and smiling and laughing.

It worked and he was fired for drinking on the job and Shelly got his keys and access to

their goal all along. The poor box. An extra 150$ every month and freebies

from the church kitchen. Mrs. Seth had finally figured out a somewhat honest

way to live. She just figured, they were the poor. Let us have the money and there,

everyone was sort of being good. She didn't know what else to do. Thanks to the boxes

set strategically around the church and a devoted parish they always had some money.

Cash in hand. 30$ 40$ 20$. They had everything but they always went to bargain

basements, thrift stores. She had begged her Mom and got a few comedy tapes

hidden in her bedroom. Lilly Tomlin, Flip Wilson, Monty Python, Benny Hill.

She practiced routines out loud and in front of a mirror. She read books on comedy

and books of jokes. Actors monologues and plays. She brooded over it and

then stomped through the house and found her sister and talked and talked

and talked to her until she made her laugh and laugh and was standing up

making all of them laugh. Shelly and Mom. Lesley all laughing and Sara

going on and on.

Twenty years later Sarah looked in the mirror in Vegas. It was 3 am and the party had gone

on after her show. She had cash and was wearing a 600$ blazer & t shirt & slacks and a five

thousand dollar Rolex wristwatch. 3 AM the boozy coked up hooker was looking at her

after kissing a guy with a Mercedes Benz t -shirt on and a bathing suit. Hey honey Sara get me

a drink - and that was all it took. Sara hit her to the ground and pounded her. The guy

kept swearing and saying Yeah yeah get her ! and Sara ended with a punch in her

weeping face.

She went to the wet bar and made a drink and threw it at her.

Hippie Songs Invade Texas Cowboy Country

MERCEDES - Can you imagine performing at a show in the Valley and seeing a crowd of Winter Texans with long hair, head bands and hippie garb all laughing and having the time of their lives?

Well, that's the experience James Marvell and his wife Faye had Friday night January 27 at Paradise South's Hippie Days Dance. The show turned out to be a smash hit with at least 95 percent of the people in costume and dancing to the sixties hits such as "Help" and "Good Day Sunshine" as well as some favorite line dances and classics from the fifties.

James was there in the '60s performing with the million selling group Mercy and their Billboard hit "Love Can Make You Happy." He had opportunity to socialize with Jimmy Hendrix, The Byrds, The Guess Who etc.

Although drugs were all around in the industry, James always spoke out against their use. For him the joy of the sixties was some of the great music of that era.

Front Page - Valley Morning Star in Harlingen -
http://www.valleymorningstar.com/articles/memories-97821-mercedes-retirees.html

Original Winter Texan - last week
http://www.yourvalleyvoice.com/news/winter_texans/article_94830284-53a8-11e1-9b77-0019bb2963f4.html

The Winter Texan Times - last week:
http://wintertexantimes.com/news/entertainment/48-entertainment/870-get-groovy-at-a-hippie-dance.html

Call 813-505-4966 or email: jmarveIl7@yahoo.com

Off the Grid in the Natural State

“To properly understand political power and trace its origins, we must consider the state that all people are in naturally. That is a state of perfect freedom of acting and disposing of their own possessions and persons as they think fit within the bounds of the law of nature. People in this state do not have to ask permission to act or depend on the will of others to arrange matters on their behalf.
The natural state is also one of equality in which all power and jurisdiction is reciprocal and no one has more than another. It is evident that all human beings – as creatures belonging to the same species and rank and born indiscriminately with all the same natural advantages and faculties – are equal amongst themselves. They have no relationship of subordination or subjection unless the lord and master of them all had clearly set one person above another and conferred on him an undoubted right to dominion and sovereignty."

- John Locke, Two Treatises on Government

*

It was August, 2011. A multitude of bells rattled and clanked from the distance and were accompanied by the bleating of goats. Sunlight poured through the canvas tent like grain through a sieve. The heat of summer smothered me out of slumber. I opened my eyes and blinked to clear the dust from them. I looked around at the items in the tent: a bookshelf stretching from the back end to the front along one side, on top of which lay strangely-shaped and colorful rocks; guns tucked in the corner behind the bookshelf; the guitar and the daitos, wooden replicas of Japanese swords used in practice of various martial arts.

I was a single man, newly graduated from Arkansas State University–Heber Springs, when I visited here about two years ago. That was before the goats. I was here now with Nikky, my wife of just nine months who was about a month along in her pregnancy.

My old friend Benjamin came out here to start a new life. He had gotten cheated out of his $200,000 business in Little Rock in an attempt to sell it. He sold his old property in Shirley, Arkansas, put half the earnings in savings and sunk the other half in a large sailboat that he kept docked off the coast of Greece—just another in a long line of failed attempts. His wife Tiffany miscarried on the boat, and so they returned to Arkansas.

I sat up, waking my wife in the process.

“Good morning,” I told her with a smile.

She yawned. The goats bleated again, this time sounding louder.

I kissed her lightly. “I guess we should go see if there’s anything to do. Are you hungry?”

“Very. So is the baby.”

We got out of bed, put on our clothes, and exited the tent. The day met us with a full burst of heat. The trees were alive and basking in the summer sun. Up the dirty trail we saw Nathan, the elder boy, being led by a sea of goats. The goats shoved and pushed their way in a fight for leadership. The dark 16-year-old carried a stick that he bounced occasionally on the toe of his shoe. He smiled and waved at us.

The goats passed us by in a flurry of jumping spots and flapping ears, and Nathan stood before us.

“What's up?” he asked with little enthusiasm as he looked up the trail. His Korean descent from his mother’s side was evident in his dark, sleek eyes that always seemed to smile.

“What do we need to do?” I asked him.

“Go see Dad,” he said. “He probably wants you to help him with Josiah’s platform. Follow me.”

I looked at Nikky. We nodded and began walking down the trail. The silence was disturbed only by the creek that fluttered and rolled all along the way and by the faint buzzing of insects and the goats baaing ahead of us. None of us said a word on the walk, but Nikky and I laughed at the curiosity in the goats’ eyes and in their light, joyful hops.

As we neared the bottom of the trail, I saw Benjamin getting the work site ready for the day’s construction. He moved around in a flurry, scooping up logs, loading them on his shoulders, dumping them closer to where the platform sat that would serve as the floor to the next tent—the next home—that was going up. This one was for the younger boy, Josiah, who was strangely absent from the big clearing in the woods, the headquarters of the homestead. He must have slept in, I thought.

Benjamin looked up at us, already covered in sweat. He waved, set down the tools he was carrying, and strode down the steep hill towards the creek, which flowed just opposite the main tent that we were now standing at.

“Weeeeeell… Mornin’!” came his familiar high-pitched, singsong voice. He walked up to us. His short beard dripped with sweat, but his eyes looked alive and ready to face the day.

“Did y’all sleep well?” he asked when he got to us.

“We slept alright,” Nikky said. She looked sideways at me and suppressed a smile. She had complained about her back the night before because of the stiffness of the bed.

“Good, good.” He drew the words out in two separate musical notes. “Nathan, where’s your brother?”

“Sleepin’.”

“Sleeping?! Well go wake him up. The morning’s already over. We’ve got things we need to do today. We have got to get things in order around here.”

Three years of hardship deep in the national forest of Arkansas had done their damage to Benjamin’s once hopeful spirit. He sat down and shook his head slowly.

***

August, 2005. I had just been inducted into the Messianic Jewish congregation I would be part of for the next four years of my life. I would learn Hebrew, worship with fellow believers on all the Jewish holidays, work beside them, suffer with them. We would become a family, dysfunctional as most families are. As Messianic Jews, we’re not really Jews (though many within that demographic are), but by Christian standards we are heretics: We’ve denied the equality of Christ to the Eternal G-d (the Father), and therefore denied the trinity; we practice Torah, though most of Christianity interprets the writings of the New Testament to say that the Torah doesn’t apply to Christians, at least not literally and wholly; we worship on Saturday instead of Sunday; we’ve forsaken traditional Christian holidays, imagery, and many practices as pagan and false.

Yet the Jews reject us as well, because we follow who we believe is the prophesied Messiah, the heir of King David, and the redeemer of this world of paganism back to the principles of G-d’s Law—the man the mainstream Judaism rejects as a false Messiah, a pagan sent to mislead Israel. We are somewhere in between, rejected and isolated, and by society’s standards, we’re a little nuts.

Today is my first Sabbath with these folks. The men, all good ol’ boys—Gentiles—from the South, sing and wag their long beards. We sing Christian praise songs and gospel hymns with a Jewish twist: Lines of Hebrew strewn into the mix of lyrics, and praises to Yeshua Hamashiach —Jesus the Messiah.

There in the front of the group, leading the music on the guitar, is a man that reminds me of a good friend of mine from my old church. He’s of average height, physically fit, and his dark brown hair and long brown beard give him the appearance of an outlaw from the wild west. But he sings those Jewish songs in a high pitch, like Paul Simon who, I would later learn, is one of his favorite artists. His Jewish fringes, four sets of white strings with a single deep blue strand in each set, hang just below his tan T-shirt and over his faded blue jeans. The cuffs of his pants are accidentally tucked behind the tongues of his brown leather work boots. I think for a moment that he looks like a dirty redneck (the kind I’ve always disdained), but I can’t deny his talent.

The songs end and we all sit to discuss the Torah portion. Each Sabbath there is a Jewish obligation to read a predetermined section of the Torah, the first five books of the Bible, so that a few chapters are read each week until in one year’s time you read the entire text. On the same annual holiday each year the cycle starts over with Genesis 1:1.

The musician sits with his legs kicked out and crossed in the seat in front of him. We all face the front, where Yaakov, the presiding elder this week, leads the service. It’s strange to me how different this service is from every church service I’ve been to. The men raise their hands and speak right in the middle of the service, commenting on the text, debating the finer points of it. The subject of today is Torah Law, from a section from the book of Exodus. We’re talking about returning our neighbor’s lost sheep and putting to death our own ox that has gored a person. How does this apply to me? I wonder. Just then someone raises his hand and says, “We can see that these principles apply today because whether the animal is a sheep or an ox or a dog, we still have the obligation to return a lost possession to its owner, and we still have to take responsibility for the actions of our pets. A dog that bites a person should be put down.” I got it then.

The musician is the most opinionated of all of them. He’s already lambasted the government and modern society over and over, and mocked the traditional Christian interpretation of several of the passages we’ve read. Then again, they all do that, it seems.

The service has ended, and we’re all filling plates from the kitchen area with all of the hot meals different families have prepared for the evening, a weekly tradition from what the elder’s wife Linda told me. Some people have gone outside on the front porch to smoke. I find it strange that so many of them smoke cigarettes while they refuse to eat pork or shellfish or any of the animals forbidden by the strict Torah Law.

I’m sitting at a far table by myself, listening to the bustling building full of voices and laughter and finding it ironic that I’m off a back road in Jacksonville, Arkansas with a bunch of reformed Christians whose lives are morphing into Jewish ones. The musician pulls up a chair next to me and spins it around, sitting back and spreading his legs haphazardly. His boots thud on the wooden floor as he slams them down.

“So what’s your name?”

“Aaron,” I answer. “Yours?”

“Benjamin. Nice to meet you.”

We shake hands.

“So what do you think of all this?” he asks as he motions around the room.

“It’s very…interesting. I don’t really know what to make of it, to be honest. But I love the atmosphere. It’s closer to right than I’ve ever felt in a church.”

“Yeah, I think we all feel the same way,” he answered.

“So what do you do?”

“For a living? I’m an animal trapper.”

“You trap animals?” This is getting weird, I think to myself.

“Yeah, I work all over the state. Mostly in Little Rock though. The rich people in Chenal who have the money to throw to me. In return I get squirrels and skunks and other rodents out of their attics and basements. Or whatever they need gone. Then I repair the damage and ensure they don’t come back.” He nods and smiles with his eyebrows raised high. “What about you?” he asks.

“I’m working with my brother-in-law. Learning to become an electrician.”

“That’s a good job. If you ever need something else, just come to me. I give all Sabbaths and Jewish holidays off. I pay pretty good, too.”

“Thanks,” I say with a nod.

***

Josiah entered the tent with sleepy eyes. He was fumbling with his cell phone.

“There you are,” Benjamin said.

His younger son looked similar to Nathan only shorter and with freckles spotting his tan face.

“‘Bout time,” Benjamin said as he ruffled his hair and poked his ribs.

“Yeah, yeah,” Josiah said. He moved away from his father’s teasing blows and a faint smile crept over his face.

“You sleep too much, boy. Go out there and get some eggs for breakfast.” He left the tent. Benjamin looked up at me. “You ready to get started?”

“Ready as I’ll be.”

We made our way back up the hill to the new platform. Benjamin started to measure for the rail while I went and dragged up the logs he called for to build it.

“Just wanted to say thanks for letting Nikky and me come out here to visit. This is something we want to do, eventually.”

He looked at me. “Of course, brother. Any time. You know how I feel about free labor!” A giddy laugh followed. I smiled and nodded.

“Dad, we’re ready!” Josiah called from the kitchen area. We looked at each other and headed back down.

***

Oil. The material world is composed of it. We wear it, process our food with it and then package that food in it. A plastic, synthetic existence. Mass-produced goods promote a mass-produced lifestyle. The plague of our time: Cancer. How many cases are tied to chemicals and byproducts of oil?

Work. Jobs are tailored to the needs of humanity, and the needs of today are dependent on time converted into money. Time spent on what? Entertainment, fashion, and that disgusting word that now dominates the globe: Business. Capitalism.

Government. It now stems from the people. From what people? You? Me? No. It is the will and whim of Corporate America. They produce drugs to correct the infirmities those same drugs create. They attack our citizens under shadowy guises, then start up wars with the accused scapegoats to steal their wealth and unite the world under the common system of modernity. Wall Street and Congress are in bed together, and we’re the helpless offspring of that unholy union.

Media. Our minds are enslaved by it. Everywhere we turn information floods our senses at epileptic speed. False information to indoctrinate us with sex, drugs, violence, ideas of material “need”; indoctrinate us with belief and trust in our lord and savior, Government. After all, we’re helpless on our own.

What happened to what matters? Family, community, art, faith, hope, freedom. We’re too modern for that. Nietzsche slew those traditional, outdated constructs. Let’s move on. I look around at the world that has emerged as a result: A cold, dead, meaningless and robotic world where individuality and culture have been usurped by tailored suits and iPhones, where our every move is scrutinized by security cameras. Is privacy that overrated? Or am I just paranoid?

My mother told me that insanity is not being able to recognize reality. Under that definition, I may be paranoid, but it’s the majority that’s gone insane.

***

After a light breakfast, Nikky and I went with Josiah to milk the goats. He led the goats—and us —to the goat pen up the mountain side. When we got there the smell of pine pricked my nose. We led the majority of goats into the pen, then put the milk goat, Nanny, up on the table, and Josiah proceeded to milk her.

“Do you like it out here, Josiah?” I asked.

“Yeah.” He was distracted.

“Do you ever miss the city?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugged. “Wanna try?”
I nodded.

“Just grip here and pinch, then slide down while you put pressure on it. Roll the milk out.” I filled the tin can with milk.

When we got back to the main tent, Benjamin separated the hairs out of the milk and shared some with Nikky and me.

“Tastes like milk,” Nikky said with a shrug. I gagged. Milk isn’t my thing, and goat’s milk is no exception.

The boys went off to play and do chores, and Nikky decided to take care of the dishes and start on some sort of lunch. She’s a fierce worker and indulges in the grittiness of natural living.

Benjamin and I made our way past the chickens and guineas, past the clearing that will soon be an irrigated field for gardening, and on the trail back to the tent Nikky and I had slept in the night before.

We talked about the news all along the way. Benjamin was slightly out of touch. Although he kept a few vehicles to get around out of the woods, a cell phone to communicate with his friends and loved ones, and a chainsaw, everything else stored in the large tents was fairly primitive: no TVs, no radios.

“I just can’t believe this stuff is goin’ on!” he said. “You know this whole financial crisis is rigged, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“It’s engineered. They’re not concerned with helping the economy.” He stared into my eyes. “They want it to fall.”

“I know that. They manipulate the wealth according to their needs. We’re the pawns.”

I sat on the porch while he went in the tent. He came back a moment later with a pipe to commence another one of our rituals. He hit it and passed it to me. The smell was skunky and potent.

“Yeah, brother, I tell you what,” he said. “I just can’t believe Tiffany is leaving me. We’ve been married for 20 years now.”

“That’s a long time to just up and end things,” I said. Tiffany was a woman who, as long as I’d known her, wanted to honor her husband and raise their children according to his beliefs. She is strong and pretty. And now she lived outside the woods, in the small town that’s nearest

Benjamin, and works at a Christian youth camp. Abby stays with her most of the time.

“I’ve known you all for a long time now. You’re good people. You’re a good father and you seem to be a good husband.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but she’s just not satisfied with living in tents. I’ve studied the Scriptures over and over on this. It says a wise man readies his land before he builds his home. She wants a house or a cabin, but I’ve got to get this land ready first.”

I looked away. I wondered if he remembered the parts of Scripture that talk about taking care of your family and providing for the needs of your wife, but I said nothing.

“But I think my boys are gonna stay out here with me.”

He surveyed his land. Forty acres of the national forest, bought and paid for by Benjamin.

“I’m ruined, Aaron. The woods have spoiled me. Every time I have to go back to Little Rock to do a job, I lose it. I can’t stand being bombarded with their brainwashing. Have you heard Katy Perry’s song ET? They are mocking us.”

“You mean the aliens?” I smiled sardonically.

“The nephilim. I’m almost positive I’ve been abducted before.”

Benjamin believes that the world governments are controlled by fallen angels under Satan’s authority. There is Biblical evidence that these angels, who procreated with mankind before Noah’s flood, have done so repeatedly throughout history in an effort to outbreed and destroy mankind. It’s sort of Satan’s answer to G-d’s Israel. Benjamin believes they’ve infiltrated the upper classes. In his theory, which fits with the Biblical understanding, they have human bodies but they are soulless. In place of the human spirit breathed by the Almighty they are filled with demons. They are the Nephilim, and Benjamin thinks they formed our government (and most of modern society), bought out mass media and the education system, and are now destroying the foundations of freedom, taking away one civil liberty at a time until the world is one giant totalitarian state devoted to the worship of Satan and his antichrist.

“Abducted? How can you tell?” I asked.

“There’s a small circular chunk of flesh missing from my right shin. I’ve read in several books that it’s a sign of alien abduction.”

I looked down at my own leg covered by my jeans. I looked at him with wide eyes as I pulled up the right pant leg, revealing an identical scar on my shin. He looked at it closely as his hand found its way up to his mouth.

“Nikky noticed it before I did, last year,” I told him. “Neither one of us could explain it.”

“I’m telling you man, you need to watch out,” he said. “They target specific people. I’m convinced the man who cheated me out of my business is one. But he’s lower level.”

“And you think I’m being targeted?”

He waited a moment. “They know the truth seekers.”

***

October, 2005. I call Benjamin up, bloodied from a nasty fall on the job wiring an old warehouse. My brother-in-law, despite his initial promises upon hiring me, says that business is picking up, and everyone has to start working Saturdays, with no exception. The bosses are asking me either to start working them or turn in my resignation. The Torah forbids work on the Saturday Sabbath, so after just three months of electrician work I decide to take Benjamin up on his offer. I’m going to become a trapper.

I would spend the next several months extracting animals from houses in the bitter chill of winter. I would learn how to drive a standard transmission, because the company trucks are all old Toyota pickups with stick shifts. I would have several onsite accidents, and would quickly determine along with my coworkers—who are all Messianic men from our little congregation— that I am somewhat accident prone. I would grow in my faith and the knowledge of it. And I would decide to go to college. Three years of grueling labor for businesses that I felt were unimportant in the eyes of Eternity had forced me into a mild depression and a heavy angst. I was an artist who had relegated himself to construction and the factories. I decide it’s time to learn what I love and get a degree. I’m going to earn a living while doing something true to me.

My opportunity comes when Benjamin announces to us that he’s selling the business. He’s spent too many hours away from his wife and kids, so he’s packing up and getting the hell out of Dodge. He will live off the coast of Greece, because “government may control the land now, but the ocean is freedom.” Well, he can have the ocean—I’m going back to school.

Somewhere along the way I begin studying conspiracy theories. I begin researching quotes from the upper echelons of society, and most importantly, I begin researching the details of the September 11th, 2001 attack on the World Trade Center. My findings quickly lead me to form my own socio-political theories. I begin to hate our government and the system it perpetuates. The more I look at, the more evidence I find that the world is being duped.

I want to talk to Benjamin about it, but he’s halfway around the world, going through some sort of midlife crisis. I wouldn’t see him again for a couple of years.

***

“I already talked to the boys this morning,” Benjamin said to me. “If y’all wanna come out here and do this with us, you’re welcome to. We’d give you the big tent that Tiffany and the kids have been sleeping in. Now that the boys have their own tents and my wife won’t be out here anymore.”

“It’s a tempting offer,” I said. “You know we want out of society as much as you do. But I’ve got debts, man. I’ve got 10 grand in school loans to pay back, and if I come out here now, how would I earn money to take care of that?”

“That is an issue. I tell you what I’ve learned out here, though. Out here, the sounds and business of the outside world are silent. Out here, you can think. Out here, you learn what’s really important in life. I’m convinced mankind should basically be living as paupers. That’s what we’re doing here. We don’t go hungry, either. We work at our own pace, and we’re always together as a family. Or, we were until Tiffany decided to leave.”

I looked away. I thought about Nikky. When we met a couple of years ago, she was young and newly freed from her parents’ home. Since we’ve met she’s taken my ideas and run with them. She craves a natural life, close to the Earth and free from humanity’s tampering. Our mutual mistrust of the system runs deep now.

“So do you know what the baby is yet?” he asked.

“It’ll be a surprise. We’re doing a home birth.”

“With a midwife?” he asked.

“With a midwife.”

“You’ll be a good dad. I love my boys. When you have a boy, you get excited because you can teach him the things you know about being a man. But when I had my daughter, it was something else, brother…” A smile flashed on his face. “I felt like a prince coming out of that hospital. And when they love on you, you just feel like the king of the world.”

I had seen Benjamin and Abby, his four year old, playing together and I knew what he meant. I could see it in the way he ran around with her on the playground at the park, and I heard it in his voice when he talked to her. He was a proud father, and she was a daddy’s girl.

We smoked some more.

“How much debt do you have anyway?” he asked.

“Ten grand,” I replied. “But it may go up. Now that we’re having this baby and I’m going back to school, I don’t know if we can make it without the loans. I’ve applied for them, but haven’t accepted yet. If I do, it will be $6–8,000 more.”

“I wouldn’t.” His voice was rising. “It’s a trap, brother.”

I looked down and nodded. “I have to do something, Ben. You’ve got two decades on me. You’ve lived your life, had your family. You’ve earned some money so you could come out here and live the way you want. I’m not there yet.”

“Look at me, Aaron.”

He was serious now.

“I’m telling you like I would tell one of my boys. You need to give back that money.”

He looked at me expectantly.

“I’m serious,” he continued. “You need to give it back before it’s too late. That debt is the claim they’re going to have on you when they call in the debts. You’ll be separated from your family. Maybe indefinitely. You need to come out here, with us.”

“And what am I supposed to do about the debt I already have?”

“A lot of people think I’m crazy, so take this with a grain of salt. But if it was me, I’d sell your car, put the money in gold, and ask your dad to pay off your debt. Then you can pay him back without the threat of being arrested later on down the road.”

“How?” I demanded. “How am I going to pay him back? I have to earn money.”

“We’ll start up a log furniture business.”

I searched his face for irony. There was none.

“Nikky and the boys can start on the garden, start canning things, and you and I will make log furniture and sell it. I also want to get this place ready for guided tours and that kind of thing. Maybe start a survivalist course. There are ways to make money, brother, without selling your soul. You don’t need more than that. Or you’ll just wind up like everyone else: fat, lazy, and blind.”

“I know the dangers, Benjamin. Don’t you get it? I’ve been struggling with this stuff for a while now. I want the freedom this place has to offer. But my hands are tied right now.”

“You better listen to what I’m saying, Aaron. You’re going to ruin your life.”

I looked away. “You did this your way. Let me do it my own way.”

“Look,” he said. “I’m not gonna be mad at you if you don’t listen to me. But I want you to think about it. The offer is on the table, and I hope you act before it’s too late. If I’m right about the timeline—and it’s looking like I am—in less than a year society is going to collapse. You should be out here where the woods can take care of you. You won’t be able to start once it happens. This,” he said motioning around, “is where the future is.”

We finished the platform by nightfall, with little said between us as we worked.

“Well, Ben, I think it’s about time we head out.”

He shook my hand. “Hope you’re not mad at me.” He smiled.

“Nah. I just need time to figure everything out. I appreciate your concern for me, though.”

“Of course. I think of you like a brother.”

“Me too,” I said.

Nikky and I drove our little stick shift out of Benjamin’s woods up the rutted drive, avoiding the rocks like mountain peaks that stabbed up into the air. Our excursion was over. We were going back to society—back to our family and friends, back to school, bills, and a twisted system that weighs down on us, threatening to crush our spirits. Back to our ambitions to contribute to humanity, to help better the existence of our loved ones, and to make our mark on the world. We were going back—for a time, at least.

*

“A man is rich in proportion to the number of things he can afford to let alone.”

- Henry David Thoreau

From the Novel, FLASHBACKS THROUGH A PURPLE HAZE
          Author’s Note

I MUST BE NUTS! You see, I already realize this radical, rabble-rousing book is going to be incredibly problematic and controversial. After it’s available to the general public the repercussions could completely ruin my scientific career: Possibly my life! But, like the chump that I am... I’m going to go right ahead and publish the provocative, thought-provoking manuscript anyway...

            To be perfectly honest, in spite of the fact, I have undergraduate degrees in both sociology and psychology, along with a PhD in anthropology. Most of my so called friends and candy-ass colleagues already think I’m crazy! However, after reading this mind-boggling material, many of my tight-ass contemporaries, might want to have me locked-up in some demoralizing mental institution. Lucky for me, the statue of limitations has run out... So, at least I can’t be put in prison! All the same, I’ll most likely make a lot of enemies after the scandalous document is published. I’d probably be a lot better off if I just take the uncompromising document and throw it in the trashcan... Right now! Yes! That’s what I should do... But, I’ve spent four terribly long hard years, plus a hell of a lot of blood, sweat and tears writing this freethinking book...

        Hell! I’m not sure what to do with the unorthodox text. It’s like an uncontrollable creature...haunting my every waking moment!   Odds-on, the cynical FBI will begin taking pictures and bugging my phone - again!

        Yes indeed! I could lose my crucial research grant. You’d think at my advanced age, I’d know better! Without a goddamn doubt! If I have any brains, I’d get some lighter fluid, strike a match and set the goddamn book on fire! Before it’s too fucking late!

          Yup! Putting out this screwball book may be the biggest mistake of my life and a bona fide heartfelt dilemma! the book’s a terribly truthful, comprehensive account about a monumental moment in history... The text is also an uncompromising manuscript firmly against hard drug use. However, I’m virtually certain the book’s message will be entirely misinterpreted by most people. I’m almost positive the government will feel the book’s confrontational and subversive. So almost certainly they will misinterpret the true meaning and confuse its directness and honesty. I wrote this mind-blowing book because I believe someone must tackle this extremely noteworthy subject head on. Focus the star-sparkle-spotlight on the facts. Decipher and chronicle what truthfully went down in the drug world of the “nineteen-sixties”. Being a social/behavioral scientist, I believe revealing the bona fide truth about drug use can’t harm anyone.

          As the old adage goes, “The truth will set you free...”

          By the same token, conveying an array of lies about drug use does destroy lives and injure countless people. Needless to say, this truthful, no-nonsense, coming-of-age book will be banned in scores of high schools. And, this is an honest tragedy! Because, for the first time a book explains: plus, clarifies the truth about drugs and their use... For all intents and purposes, the book clears-up significant historic and scientific information. Therefore, the true-life story really should be required reading in high schools the world over.

         First of all, let me emphasize one terribly essential point, aft a forty year involvement with the direct observation of drug use in western society, I clearly comprehend how lethal morphine, methedrine and cocaine based substances can be. Also, after spending numerous years researching the existing evidence pertaining to the application of mind-altering substances in tribal cultures, I now comprehend the anecdotal problems with the use of mind-expanding substances during the mid 1960’s. Some of the difficulties with LSD use, especially by members of the neurotic Dr. Spock baby-boom generation occurred because you need an authentic shaman to facilitate the psychedelic experience. Too allow it to function at its full potential! This lack of an appropriate spiritual guide was a central problem in the use of psychedelic drugs during the nineteen-sixties.

          The effects of LSD vary widely from person to person. You need someone genuinely qualified in its use to guide the consumer of the psychedelic substance. The surroundings, expectations and the cultural environment can affect the experience and its outcome. Lack of certain essential variables is a pertinent factor in the psychedelic experience, adding to the significant number of bad trips during the mid 1960’s.

            The Greek word psychedelic means mind-manifesting. If you are to form a functional opinion on psychedelic drug use, you should understand one core thing: Western industrial culture is the only social structure that outlaws altered states of consciousness for diagnosing and healing diverse medical and mental conditions. Together with the utilization of mind altering compounds in rites of passage, sacred rituals, various religious practices and numerous transitional ceremonies.

            Our superstitious society must comprehend: Western civilization is the one and only culture making the pursuit of spiritual awareness, using plant and chemical compounds a crime. In a variety of religious rites conducted in numerous wide-ranging pre-industrial cultures, conscious-altering plant life have been used to alter perception and expand comprehension, well before the dawn of recorded history. Conscious-altering plants have been employed for the cultivation of mysticism, extrasensory perception along with varied forms of artistic inspiration. For countless centuries these perception altering substances have been highly valuable in various diverse civilizations’ growth, advancement and spirituality.

             Many of these substances are universal; together with cross-cultural. They’ve been utilized by shamans and medicine men, for both medical along with psychological healing, also too obtain spirituality and enlightenment. These spiritualists use altered states of consciousness to intensify their own diagnostic capabilities. Used properly an assortment of psychedelics can help facilitate scientific evolution along with the spiritual comprehension of contemporary society. Turning Western Culture into a more loving and peaceful social order. Similar to a caveman capturing fire for light, theses mind altering substances could provide ground-breaking enlightenment: make available a world-shattering new manner of understanding for modern mankind.

             Plant and chemical compounds can not only be beneficial to modern humanity’s spiritual fruition. Dispensed properly by specialists, these compounds can transform an individual’s, together with a society’s, philosophical and psychological development. Psychedelics are capable of transforming a malevolent Mr. Hyde into a compassionate Dr. Jeckel. That’s the reason a variety of diverse cultures have utilized these mind altering drugs since the dawn of humanity.

        As a behavioral/social scientist, who has done emic research with these mind transforming substances for well over forty years; I believe in a selection of cases, used properly by trained therapists, LSD and other chemical compounds could some day replace the over-prescribing of psycho-pharmaceutical serotonin reuptake inhibitors, together with other antidepressants... A variety of these antidepressants are merely a temporary resolve for various psychological problems. As an alternative to a band-aid provisional fix: specially trained psychotherapists could use a type of psychedelic rehabilitation: a new form of psychotherapy emphasizing a form of intense multi-layered regression and multifaceted mind exploration, taking the patient to a higher level of consciousness, and greater understanding of the nature and root of the problem.

           In the erudite words of Dr. Stanislav Grof, “I seriously believe the unbiased study of this material (LSD) would lead to changes in our understanding of the human psyche and the nature of reality that would be as far reaching and radical as those introduced into physics by theories of relativity and the quantum theory. Psychedelics used responsibly and with proper caution would be for psychiatry what a microscope is for biology and medicine, or the telescope is for astronomy...”

                It really is a shame that compounds like LSD, which can be so useful in self exploration, psychoanalysis, understanding certain forms of psychoses, along with treating drug and alcohol addiction - should still be illegal! Even worse, LSD is even now incorrectly classified as a schedule one drug, alongside deadly hard drugs like heroin, methedrine and cocaine. For thousands of years shamans have distinguished, good medicines from bad medicine... Mind altering compounds, being good medicines, mixtures to escape reality, like alcohol, are bad Medicines...

          In spite of everything we have learned about the medical and psychiatric benefits of psychedelic substances, the government’s deception about these materials continues. So, when all is said and done, America is still lost in a dim shadowy stupor.

       Hooked on hard drugs! Together with the cock-and-bull story, about mind expanding substances and their proper use…
                                     Dr. Steven Oliver Shaw PhD 2012


Light Years: an Anthology (Multimedia in the East Village, 1960-1966)
LIGHT YEARS
Edited by Carol Bergé

In the last twenty years of her life, running an antique shop in Santa Fe, the writer Carol Berge asked for and put together a capacious set of sundry memoirs of people she had known in New York, writers of talent who lived mostly on the Lower East Side in the late 50s and early 60s. This collection is now available in print thanks to her friend Carl Ginsburg and the editorial work other brilliant protégé, James Beach, its advent coming four years after her death in 2006.
   Carol clearly aimed in her introduction to make the anthology an anatomy of the world of her youth. The quantity of geniuses living in the Lower East Side at that time would have made such a task impossible even for a centegenarian encyclopedist. Instead, one has in these 625 pages a generous grab bag of reminiscence, letters, and pieces about the past by one of the most interesting generations of writers in American cultural history.
   LIGHT YEARS records a silent twilight of the gods, honoring an age that thrived in a few big cities before the intellectual axioms of a more popular and low culture were set in place in the late 60s, helped along by the Andy Warhol-James Rosenquist set. the intrepid folk in this anthology were not attempting to appeal to everybody; they were seeking to maintain their hermetic integrity as they explored the tomato can sections for monads of the concrete, ordinary and trivial. They could get abstruse and paid a dole for it. Looking at the origins of this, both Steve Kowit and Ron Tavel are quite funny. Tavel is dryly so, in his arch reminiscences of this dewy time. Steve is very brilliantly satirical about the priestly afflatus of high Art rife in that day.
   A book like this one is going to have one set of attractions for people who were there, now mostly perished, and another for younger folk looking for the models in mausoleums who, after a while given the proven if measured utility of the dead, have become genuine icons.
   Since there is no center to this book besides Carol's friendships and the once general physical proximity of all the characters to the point of living in a walking man's neighborhood, the reader of LIGHT YEARS is going to enjoy some reminiscences more than others. My own choice of bon-bons reflects only one way of seeing what ultimately is a low level enigma. After all, the real miracle in life isn't that some resourceful and cunning geniuses realize themselves, at least for a while, but that all human beings don't.
   The subjects of this anthology were all extraordinary people. The wildest of the contributors , like Ron Tavel or Jackson MacLow, tended to be the most discreet about their lives. Others, like Kirby Congdon, are, in print, what they were over a beer in real life.
   All the writers in LIGHT YEARS were an attractively fecund bunch of explosively diverse singularities. When people do get weary of "the banalities of their day, as youth commonly does, they couldn't do better than to look to this anthology as a classic model and magic touchstone for taking up their own immortal journeys into the wilderness. ---review by Matthew Paris, first published in Home Planet News

http://carolberge.com/Lightyears.html

The Hair Rebellion
All that trully want to embrace nature and encourage conservation should grow long hair or dredlocks. Long hair is the natural state of the human dew. Thusly, encouraging the natural state of the body, you encourage the natural state of the mind and the planet, instead of manipulating and ravaging the land to our own means. Long hair represents embracing what we already have instead of destroying what is and replacing it with what we already have in other places on the planet.

Hippy Hill Needs HELP Rebuilding
Really bad news, but in the early hours of Friday April 13th, 2012 there was a fire on Hippie Hill. Thanks god noone was hurt.

Hippie Hill is a non-profit organization that helps feed and give a place for people to stay at. If they lost everything Hippie Hill was always there to help you out with making sure you had a roof over your head and food in your bellies every day. Hippie Hill has been doing this for over 12 years, and after all that time, a tragedy that we had no clue about came to the hill on Friday the 13th of all days.

The kitchen is gone, this means there no food at the moment, no refrigerators, no freezers, our double oven, 6 burner and side griddle oven is gone.

The brand new shower house is gone, we spent months getting it together, tile floors and walls, 2 shower heads, a tiled bench, vanity, and right when we get done hooking up the plumbing it burns down.

We had a water tower that held our water to send it to the kitchen and shower house is gone. The water tanks we had to store our water in from the spring are gone.

Our $20,000 diesel generator is gone, burnt to a crisp.

Hippie Hill lost over $50,000 worth of supplies, and buildings that we there to help hungry people all around the country that came to visit or stay.

If anyone could help, heres a list of what is needed to help rebuild our community, and a ways of contacting or getting in touch with us.

- FOOD! we lost all the food for the kitchen.
- Lots of Lumber for building the structures back up.
- Help building the structures would also help.
- Water Buffalo's to store water in. We use to use 250 gallon tanks, but anything would help for now.
- Generators, preferably a big one to be able to run our stage and lights for the festivals and concerts we throw, but a couple good ones would always work. We're looking for at least a 50 kilowatt generator to help run everything again,
- Plumbing fixtures to re-do the shower house.
- Tile.
- A propane stove.
- Refrigerators.
- Freezers.
- Dishes, Silverware, plates, pots, bowls, pans, utensils

If you can, or you know someone that can help us out it would be greatlyyyy appreciated. You could come visit at the address below or give us a call -- 615-796-3697

HHK
8627 Burks Hollow Rd
Christiana TN 37037

All You Need Is Love!
All you need is love--such beautiful words that carry so much meaning. It is all I have need to be happy, all I need to find peace, and all I need to become the person I want to be. A virtue based on compassion, kindness, and affection. I believe that if you want to be a hippy, love is all you need. I hope the world will realize the immense relief that I feel when I let go of all mundane cravings and find satisfaction with feeling love.

MUCH LOVE TO ALL!
-Mario García

Summer of love
I left Alabama in 1967 with my first love and a friend. We left with $167.00 and a full tank of gas. We headed out west to see the great west. California bound. We would eat junkfoods and make sandwiches of sorts. We decided to vist LA first and and the Strip. We were invited into a Rolls Royce with The Byrds and smoked a joint. They saw us standing on the street and pulled over and ask for a light. We jumped in and rode around about a hour looking at Hollywood and talking music. They loved our accents being southern. We went to see Johnny Rivers at the whiskey Ago-go. What a trip and town. We had someone to tell us to split this place as all the good stuff was up in the Haight district in frisco so we hit the road up Hyway 1 and what a trip. Back then the old homes were still on the coast. We would stop and go down a cliff and watch the seals sometimes. We came into Frisco and went to Haight-Ashbury hungry of course. We pan handled money for the trip for gas. Frisco was a trip and the happist place I had ever seen. Acid,weed and free food. Medical help was even free. We seen the Dead, George Harrison,Zappa, Donavan and so many more there. You could sit on the street and waste a joint. Free concerst at Golden Gate Park and free clothes. It was one of the best times in my life. I was 17 and free.

Old Hippy Soul Revival

I am probably an old hippy (just turned 60) and lived like one often. If living on the road and traveling from place to place, in the forest or the beach, sleeping outdoors and visiting the rainbow gathering counts. Yet I do not count myself as just a Hippie. Still, there was a great opening of the cosmic door (probably in 1965 (sound of music and the 60’s/70’s music is the bomb still) and in that time the spirit flowed in strongly, brought Eck and the religion of light and sound or ancient science of soul travel and other books (Kerouac, acid-test, etc) as we uncovered the reasons for progress which included communes, psychedelics, folk rock and roll, and other new idealism thought and attitudes, among the best being love, peace, honest sex, and happiness all are ‘pretty darn good things“.

I wonder how many realize this and why they would not realize the society actually creates hippies, not the other way around. Society needs that balance and realism of the Hippie naturalist, artist, and independent or ‘communist’ to see itself and find growth. A good bit of our computer advance comes from people who were seeded in the 60’s. The homeless children in the desert who live outside society because of the economic imbalance and free-slave mentality (who would think we live in homes really owned by banks, ergo the state- and are no better than a former slave - If you don‘t think so, try not paying the mortgage - out you will be)

I say thank you Old Hippy, and please If Only I could remember my name, answer me this - Are we not all Hippies? That is, living off the land! Being in communal space! Hearing the music! Knowing the spirit! Who can say they are not, and are we not all hippies?

How about putting some of the music on your site too? Cool. Oh that word is so abused now, like the hippie. Soul! Now, that’s better.

Hippyland

Comedy, Cocaine and Cable TV

Hippie Songs Invade Texas Cowboy Country

Off the Grid in the Natural State

From the Novel, FLASHBACKS THROUGH A PURPLE HAZE

Light Years: an Anthology (Multimedia in the East Village, 1960-1966)

The Hair Rebellion

Hippy Hill Needs HELP Rebuilding

All You Need Is Love!

Summer of love

Old Hippy Soul Revival