THE IDIOT AND THE ODYSSEY -------------------------------------- First came to #9 in 75. Had heard it was an underground center, and so on October 23rd I knocked on the door. A bored-looking college guy opened the door to say everyone else was out and he was visiting-- but I could stay one night. I replied I would only stay a few hours. Good enough, he answered with an air of finality. The living room was clean; a decade later #9s floor would be covered with catshit from bow to stern. On a halfwall separating the living room from the reception area-- a dilapidated desk and file cabinets-- was a giant painting of a red star and overlaid marijuana leaf, with a black background symbolizing anarchism. I was impressed. Marijuana communism, I muttered. The college guy laughed. Then it was time to check out the basement. There were stacks of old Greenwich Village newspapers, and a bed. I read old issues of Yipster Times for a couple hours, then asked to be locked out-- not overstaying the welcome was a good idea if one wanted to come back someday and ask to live there. For destiny, no matter how squalid, was beckoning. After a decent interval of a few months, I returned to #9. A guy opened the door, and this time I had an opener all ready: I know what is going on. It worked, the guy led me to the living room where Yipster Times were being stuffed into envelopes. I started stuffing envelopes, knowing on what side the bread as buttered on. A huge papier mache head, Gerald Ford, had been added to the room. I looked at the other man who was stuffing an envelope, he looked familar; he looked like a guy who had been in a tussle years back with Bob Dylan. The heads at High School had showed me his photo. However the stoners had embellished the fight... they made it sound as if Dylan had practically beaten AJ to a pulp- when it was apparent Dylan wouldnt do something so foolish. The days went by quickly. Soon it was the Bicentennial and Bob Druskin asked me to register a van in Vermont under my name: I was the only one who had a clean licence and was willing to travel to Montpelier Vt. The trip went smoothly, but the first cloud appeared on the horizon: after returning to #9 someone asked why I hadnt stayed in Vt. Ouch. Then, too, the staff at #9 was beginning to look at me as if to say its summer now, what are you going to do? sleep on a couch here the rest of your life? everyone else there was an activist: Dana Beal the LEMAR guy; Aron Kay the Son of Sarah Lee; and AJ the fulcrum-- the assassinologist/Dylanologist. I was cynical after Watergate. But what perked me up was being there when Aron hit Daniel Patrick Moynihan with a pie. After Aron left the scene of the piecrime, I shook Moynihans hand-- but he looked at me as if to say you little bastard, you were with that guy who pied me. The last straw was that autumn when a visiting college boy sat next to me on the couch and asked why I was there. Everyone else here has a real function. Youre just a gofer and part time envelope stuffing janitor I wanted to scratch his eyes out-- but he was right. A few days later I hitchiked out of NYC... it was October 23rd again. I wound up in Berkeley California, walking around looking for someone approachable. An asian fellow was right there. He introduced himself as an artist, and reeled off his achievements. Berkeley is the only place you can be free, he announced. I told him I had just arrived from NYC. He replied hed done a six ft. papier mache likeness of Gerald Ford for theYippies in NY. Synchronicity. But looking around, it was obvious the freaks in Berkeley had all traveled on the Intercontinental Freakway to Berkeley. We each thought we were special yet we would end up in section 8 housing, with food stamps. No Revolution, merely squares giving us section 8 and foodstamps until it was time for a nursing home. Berkeley was wild, even a park owned by residents, where everyone could sleep in. But when spring rolled around, as it always does, homesickness crept into the Garden of Eden. Back onto the Freakway going east. Arrived back at the front door of #9 late one night; Bob Druskin opened the door. He had a message: you know that van that was registered under your name in Vermont? Um, yeah. Well, someone was asking about you-- the van was involved in a fatal accident. The Freakway never ends, it goes round n round.
Posted on: Sun, 03 Nov 2013 04:43:22 +0000
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