Dark Side of the 60's Moon by Mike Marino (great novels of all time TXT) 📖

a look that said, show some compassion. “I’m sorry Olivia, just in a mood I guess.  Sorry.”

“It’s OK, Mickey. I’m glad to be rid of him, but this way seems so final.”

“It is Olivia. Very final and has to be. He could land me in prison for a few years or a body bag in Saigon. No thank you. Besides, I have you and China to take care of, well with Myrika’s help.”

We fired up a joint as we crossed the Pennsylvania state line as we made our way to the East Coast. In two days we’d be on the Mall in the shadow of the Washington Monument with as we found out later with over half a million radicals, activists of all races, and vets against the war. Folk singers would folk us and speakers would speak to us. It was Woodstock without Joe Cocker or the Jefferson Airplane. We Shall Overcome would be sung in unison and acid would flow freely. At the same time some 18 year old American and his 18 year old Vietnamese counterpart would buy a bullet and breathe their last breath. Guns don’t kill people...Politicians kill people!

“Well, me dear ladies. If all goes well. We’ll be back home by Christmas, after this march and the Alcatraz thing. We’ll be stoned in the Canadian snow...home again.”

The thought of Christmas on acid with Myrika, Olivia, Danny and the whole gang, was a rush. The tree alone loaded with those classic bubble lights imitating a Fillmore light show blinking turning the cabin into a Karma filled kama sutra beaded curtain incense filled harem of holiday cheer with the turntable spinning with the Seeds ‘Pushing too Hard’ to create a blue moody Moody Blue’s Magoo version of Johnny Mathis singing ‘Hey, Joe’ you’ll shoot your eye out kid, with that gun in your hand. Soon the stockings hung with care begin to stare back at you and the toys begin to talk in tongues and Alice appears in her Wonderland Wonder Bra with her designer Cheshire Cat thong running screaming “I’m late...I’m late .. I missed my period and got pregnant on a date!”

First things first, damn it. We had a war to end…….. Chapter 45 - The Moratorium March

 

 

Washington D. C. in November can be one of those frosty fall is in the air plaid shirt and hiking boots kind of place. Flashback, the ageing yet spritely camper was coasting us into the Beltway Political Bordello of D.C. where the hookers are the American public getting fucked by their own Congressional district pimps  the White House a mere whorehouse  for the pleasure of special interests.

LBJ, Hey, Hey, was sent packing back to Texas where he couldn’t bomb anyone in Cambodia, Laos or Vietnam. He could get deliriously  drunk and send troops by mistake into Oklahoma to quell some non-existent fully fantasized Indian uprising or hunt down Pancho Villa in El Paso while singing Marty Robbins songs about cantinas and senoritas.

Now we were going headlong  into the Nixon era kickback compound of Bebe Rebozo the Clown and the Peanut Rogues Gallery of future Watergate poster children. “Do not try these break-ins at home kids, we are professionals!”

We were ready to join the Moratorium and bring the walls of Jericho tumbling down marching and singing selections from the Pete Seeger songbook. Turns out Nixon was trying to checkmate us. According to released documents and an article in The Nation magazine,  “In 1969, as the anti-war movement was reaching a peak, Richard Nixon's White House staff debated what they could do to "show the little bastards" what kind of man they were up against. They were concerned about what would be the biggest antiwar demonstration in US history on Nov. 15, 1969, when half a million people came to Washington D.C. to demand that an end to the war in Vietnam.  Documents from the Nixon Library provide fascinating details about the debate within the White House staff two months earlier about how the president should respond. Daniel Patrick Moynihan, at the time an influential member of Nixon's inner circle, suggested that the president could "take away the day" from the protesters if he would "close down" the White House "in sympathy." "That will show the little bastards," Moynihan said. He knew the kind of talk that impressed Nixon.”

The Mother of Moratorium Marches was set for the coming Saturday. We arrived on Wednesday and set-up shop on Theodore Roosevelt Island park, across a bridge in the Potomac River. We weren’t the only ones. It was a carnival cornucopia of the counterculture. We were among friends...we found a spot where we could berth Flashback and allowed room for Danny Two Horse and his behemoth pick up truck camper he named T-Rez, the Motor City dinosaur. He would meet up with us later, after dropping our FBI psychedelic rat at a Resistance safe house in Largo. They’d keep him stoned until we were ready to unleash him at FBI Headquarters during the height of the March on Saturday.

As Abe Lincoln said, “A little bit of revolution is a good thing.”

We all sat up after Danny and company returned and invited our neighbors over for some some hash and weed. Being perfect guests, they provided some righteous mescaline to go with the guitar playing of Myrika who sang “This Land is Your Land” in German followed by four more hours of laughter and manic munchie mania.

Myrika and Olivia looked perfectly beatific in the light of the campfire. Angelic warriors, and I wanted to make love to both of them right there, except for the fact, Olivia had fallen under the spell of mescaline mind massage and had taken a liking to one of our new friends at the campground. A likable enough good looking young Navajo young man from Arizona.

Danny and Kaylee were visibly getting ready to ‘skin the buffalo’ as Danny liked to refer to sex. They’d be rocking T-Rez all night long...I had no doubt. Even the two AIM guards who came along seemed to have connected too with a pair of two thin like Twiggy thin paleface twins, they later recalled referring to them as the Pick-up Sticks.

The fire’s embers were glowing...voices reduced to murmurs and everyone appeared paired up for the night. Myrika was already wet where it counts, I could tell by her musky scent that always rose from between her thighs and gave her away. When it came to that scent I was a bloodhound on her path. She could tell I was ready to lay down with her in an opium filled hillside on the way to the Emerald City!

Tomorrow was Thursday, the night of the March of Death preceding Saturday’s Moratorium Mother Fucker of a march on the White House. As Myrika and I let our naked bodies sweat merge with each other as her moist loins became a river of no return I was about to navigate, I had to wonder. Was Richard Nixon fucking Pat Nixon this fine sensual night or had his campfire expired long ago? I wonder if Pat had a river of no return...or was she the Bonneville Salt Flats? Not sure, but pretty positive Henry Kissinger was doing the Beltway Bop with some southern Senators debutante daughter impressing her with hand puppets and pop corn. I could hear him now, “If vee fuck now, I gif you lollipop!”

 

 

Chapter 46 - We Blew It

Todays Gen X for the most part aren't looking for answers anymore that might be blowin' in wind my friend. Bob Dylan has been reduced to the status of an interesting icon and curiosity of an era of protest when music by the bards lit the path of protest from Joe Hill and Woody Guthrie to Phil Ochs and Bob Dylan. Today, they occupy space on the protest pedestal as "a before my time" scraggly old folkies whose "folk you" days are long gone. Dylan and Ochs and Baez and Seeger are as interesting to today’s youth as my collection of vinyl records is to a visitor from outer space. OK, I admit it, maybe the vandals did steal the handle.

Or so my Casey  Jones riding my train high on cocaine thoughts were racing along Thursday as we busied ourselves getting ready for tonight’s March against death just hours away. We had no idea what to expect. Would the cops start beating our heads bloody like ripe  melons? Would Nixon surrender and turn himself over to us for judgement? Would Henry Kissinger actually admit he was Adolph Hitler’s illegitimate love child from a tryst with Hermann Goering? Would Gen. Westmoreland, or as we affectionately referred to him as Waste-more-land,  admit he was a Viet Cong secret agent and liked to lead the troops in battle in drag dressed as Jane Fonda? It’s America...anything is possible.

All day we prepared for the “March against Death,” which would begin as the sun began to set on  this fine revolutionary evening. We joined the crowd of 40,000 plus rucksack revolutionaries for the big parade of which not one of 76 trombones were visible. We were  as silent as surreal serial killer Richard Speck was when stalking student nurses in a Chicago dorm as we made our way  down Pennsylvania Avenue to the war machines White House. We were each handed large placards with the name of a dead American soldier or a destroyed Vietnamese village written in bold letters. We were symbolic pallbearers now.

Christ, first there was the death of hip in the Haight, now the march of the living to honor the dead by placing the placards  in makeshift coffins. All quiet on the Beltway front that Thursday, but the winds changed on Friday when all hell broke loose. Not even sure how it happened… what sparked the chaos...whose fuse was short. When we reached DuPont Circle that Friday evening the police bomped us with tear gas and charged the crowd.  The weirdest part was that we also marched without problems Friday afternoon to the White House to see if Tricky Dicky wanted to come out and play...Red Rover, Red Rover, Let Nixon Come Over. I guess the cops only like to bloody up the peace queers in the cover of darkness.

Myrika was first to notice a very unusual sight. She nudged me and Danny Two Horse pointing in the direction of some uniformed cops flashing peace symbols on the inside of their jackets in a show