Benny Jay
Milo's Page
No Blaise
Big Mike: Fight The Power(less)!
I knew I was a liberal after watching Bull Connors' thugs knock the crap out of civil rights protesters in Selma, Alabama in 1963. I was seven years old at the time. I knew I was a rebel after reading Mad magazine a few years later when I was ten. I knew where my sympathies lay after King was bumped off and and West Siders tried to light their shitty ghetto on fire in response. I knew whose side I was on when Chicago cops were fracturing skulls in front of the Conrad Hilton Hotel.
So I've known from the earliest age that I'd never, ever want to be part of the bully crowd, the gang with badges and guns and respectability, pillars of the community, the backbone, the bedrock, the silent majority of this holy land. From all I could see, those people could turn into mean bastards in the snap of a finger when, in their fever dreams, they saw niggers, broads, queers, and pinkos plotting to sap and impurify all their precious bodily fluids.
From the age of nine on, I knew that those in power had to be defied, ridiculed and distrusted. For my money, it was better to piss all over their shoes than to shine them. When I was fourteen years old, I found a voice and a face for my nascent philosophy. His name was Abbot Howard Hoffman of Worcester, Massachusetts. The world knew him as Abbie.
He was the fun guy, the sex symbol some said, of the Chicago Eight. The Big Boys in in Washington and Chicago (appropriately enough, led by a couple of Dicks — Nixon and Daley) needed to string some people up for wrecking the Democrats' bash in '68 and for saying what pretty much everyone else with a cerebrum knew, that the Vietnam War was nuts. So US Attorneys threw darts at a list of radicals and came up with eight names to persecute and prosecute. Abbie was the star of that cast.
The war, segregation, corporate oligarchies and the rest might have pissed him off, but Abbie rarely lost his mischievous grin. Once, standing before a mass march of some 50,000 anti-war protesters outside the Pentagon, he directed them to marshal all their "psychic energy" to levitate the building. It didn't work but he gave it a good try. Later, he and some cohorts stood in the visitors' gallery above the New York Stock Exchange and tossed handfuls of cash on the trading floor, causing a mini riot as people scrambled to grab the fluttering dough.
During the Democratic convention protests, he and Jerry Rubin nominated a pig — whom they'd named Pigasus — for president. The pig lost. I think.
J. Edgar Hoover's FBI file on Abbie ran to 13,262 pages.
Abbie mixed a joie with his rage. He was my hero. I even gave myself the nickname Abbey (yeah, I inadvertently misspelled it — sue me, I was 14.) I tried to grow my hair out like his — tough to do while trying to remain within the confines of a suburban, Catholic, college prep school appearance code. Had I been able to find an American flag shirt, I'd have worn it; of course, this was before wearing an American flag shirt became a statement for the entirely opposite reason.
When Abbie was found dead of a phenobarbitol overdose (he battled bipolar disorder) I mourned. The rabbi at his funeral said Abbie's life's work was to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.
That's why some recent news has made my ears turn red. A quartet of little masturbation artists was busted down in New Orleans for impersonating telephone repairmen and sneaking into Sen. Mary Landrieu's office. They wanted to tap into her phone system illegally. They say their little prank was justified for moral and ethical reasons. Landrieu's sin? She supports health care reform.
The four are part of a burgeoning movement of right wing college students who employ capers, hijinks, dirty tricks, entrapment, and guerrilla journalism to fight the forces who are destroying this holy nation. You know, those who push for universal health care, speak out against racism and sexism, and community organizers — terrorists of the worst sort.
You may recall one of the four as the guy who dressed up as a pimp and entered an ACORN office, phony street hooker in tow, looking for a small business grant. The ACORN representative, unwittingly (and suspiciously stupidly), went along with the scam. The right wing world, naturally, saw the isolated incident as a broad indictment of.., um…, I guess community organizations. You know, groups that try to help the little guy, the bastards.
Anyway, the financier behind this homunculus's campaigns, a wealthy right winger, has compared his work to that of Abbie Hoffman.
Those are fighting words. Look at the mugshots of the four and you'll see the faces of privilege. They're well-fed, smug, and awfully pale. They've gone to to best schools. They have bright futures in the corporate world — even if they now carry felony raps. They have as much to do with Abbie Hoffman as they do with Moe, Larry and Shemp (who, I recall, also impersonated telephone repairmen in one of their shorts.)
They're fighting for the bullies of this world, which in my book makes them uber-bullies. They afflict the afflicted and comfort the comfortable. I hope they enjoy their stay in state prison.
I'm still an Abbie guy, even if hyenas like the New Orleans four try to hijack his legacy.
At the ripe old age of 52, last year, as Barack Obama was being sworn in as 44th President of the United States, I realized I still walked the path with my old idol.
My feelings were mixed as I watched the inauguration. I was giddy that a brown human being had reached the White House. But I was also scared to death that some member of this nation's racial majority, some lover of status quo, some idolator of guns and badges, certain that pillars of the community and its leaders should have pale skin, would aim a rifle at Obama. If anybody bumps this guy off, I swore to myself, I'm gonna go out with a baseball bat and make some fuckers pay.
It's what Abbot Hoffman would have thought. Radical? Sure. Unreasonable? Hell no. Thanks Abbie.
Jim Siergey
One thing that particularly irks me…
The Third City's Tax Preparation Service: Hey, suckers, have Comrade Trump's new tax laws got you confused? If so, our tax preparation specialist will drop by to help you make sense of the new regulations. He'll drink your beer, smoke your reefer and raid your refrigerator. When's he's done, you'll still be broke, but you'll feel real good.
Helping the wealthy fleece the poor since the Herbert Hoover administration.
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