Tag: hippies

Take The Long Road Home (by J.T. Hilltop) pt2

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road

Where There’s Hope…

When I thanked the sheriff for the ride it occurred to me he may have had an ulterior motive. He wasn’t saving me in the name of Jesus, he was getting me the hell out of his Dodge. I was a hindrance, a public relation nightmare. If some of his people were to engage me in a game of full contact Red Rover and leave this New Yorker dead on the side of a road in his jurisdiction the repercussions to tourism would be staggering. The mother fucker left me off in the middle of nowhere, full on darkness and a stretch of road so straight and lonely it begs tires to rotate as fast as they can in an audition for NASCAR status. The side of road across from me was dotted with a few little shacks, a general store, and a pub advertising a pool table. My side of the road was a fucking swampland. Nothing but marshy woods mainly due, I would soon find out , to the fact that you can’t build a decent structure in mud. The only thing that could survive this side of the highway was Swamp Thing or some genetic mutation thereof. But there was life somewhere because I could hear a deafening din of some kind of amphibian-like croaking. A group of frogs are called an army and this sounded like The Amphibian Marine Corps out on massive combat maneuvers. They shocked and awed me! I had never heard so much ear shattering croaking in my life and the voices in my head were nice enough to remind me of the intimidating alligator congregation so the level of fear intensity was through the roof. I was imagining killer frogs and mutated swamp things waiting for me to take one step too many. Nothing to do but start walking and hitchhiking with my back turned to whatever went whizzing by in the hopes that another pearl white Chevy truck would come my way and not a gaggle of goose stepping backwoods hicks looking for some boot practice. Well it was neither, after the first ten vehicles raced past without as much of an acknowledgment a foghorn drowned out the incessant croaking. An eighteen wheeler was barreling towards me not signally a ride but letting me know in no uncertain terms would it slow down or move over for me. A tense decision, either close my eyes and hope I’m not road kill or take a few steps into frogland. The thought of some Appalachian chef dicing me into human roadside stew swayed me and removed my fear as I stepped into the marshy terrain. With my eyes closed as tight as I could I felt the cold muddy substance on my feet and the most amazing thing happened. The fucking frogs clamed up! I mean like every last one of them.
It was downright spooky, the silence would have been laughable if I had even a scintilla of laugh hormone left in my body. The truck blew past me so fast it kicked up a wind that forced me to dig into the mud to maintain my balance. A header into Hellswamp would have been the end of my existence for sure. Feeling ever so slightly angered tempered with being scared shitless I decided to listen to the voices this time. To hell with it all! I stuck my middle finger up as high as was humanly possible while he blew past down the road and shouted out a resounding FUCK YOU! Even the army of frogs were taken aback and remained silent allowing only a smattering of croaks, mostly from deeper in the marsh where I promised never to find myself. It felt surprisingly good until my reality check bounced. I’m alone on Swamp Boulevard in the town of “Deliverance”, there’s a tavern back about a half mile that’s probably filled with inbred cousins of the gorillas shit kickers from Camden and their drunk ass selves would be piling out of that bar stinking drunk in a few very short hours looking for something, or someone, to do. Being a New Yorker would definitely not work in my favor under those circumstances. My pace tripled as I power walked down the road just hoping to find a somewhat safe area.
A new game for me, step off or become road kill. It took me a good two hours to get past this stretch of hopeless landfill and find at least a bit of road with some shoulder to it. Every time any vehicle came by I just stepped into the marsh and with my back turned with my thumb out to begging for salvation. Nary a ride. But I was past the worst, at least where I ended up had a hint of human civilization to it. Feeling completely exhausted, hungry and dehydrated, and having come down with a chronic case of hopelessness I spotted a tiny abandoned gas station surrounded by wood. I had little to no strength and the station offered at least a modicum of cover so I went around back to find the door open. I always try to see the bright side of things but this was really challenging. Well I can add hobo to my resume? Didn’t cut it, but there was a tiny sparkle of bright. The garage was empty, smelled a tad rancid but not overwhelming, and none of the local anarchistic militia truck drivers will find me. As unsettling as the garage was it was still a haven. I settled in, laid down and began to contemplate where the fuck I went wrong in life and how I ended up tired and starving in some tiny backwoods southern town where not one soul knows I’m even alive. Hopelessness came out in tears of self pity so I gently cried myself to sleep.
“Cold ground was my bed last night, rock was my pillow too.” A line from the Bob Marley tune “Talking Blues” that had become my reality. Not sure how long the burning sun had been shining the full force of its ultraviolet rays on my face acting on behalf of the alarm clock association but it was long enough to impart the slightest hint of reddening discomfort. I woke up with an aching body wishing I was home in bed, feeling dejected, tired, and hungrier than I ever remember. I found a water faucet in the back of the old store and gave myself a hobo shower giving some extra splash to my face to compensate for my lack of caffeine. I chanted a positive mantra to myself in the hopes it would renew my luck and perhaps withdraw a touch of good karmic returns from my good deed bank. I needed something.
I set back out on highway 22 convincing myself that the sleep and light of day would bring me fortune. The third car past me was a small Volkswagon Karmann Ghia with a young long hair college boy with a full beard and the idealistic life outlook that had been missing since I began this ordeal. He drove me all the way into Myrtle Beach chewing my ear off about politics and the southern “head up the ass” mentality that prevailed with most of the young robotic clones in South Carolina. It was like Karma jackpot, someone I could talk to and who understood, perhaps even viewed me as a sort of Kerouac’s Dean Moriarity type character. He claimed not to have much money on him but when he dropped me off on the outskirts of town he bought me a soda, or pop actually, and a buttered roll. Then he gave me the half a pack of cigarettes he had. “Well its sure been a pleasure chattin with Y’all JT, in I hope Y’all fine what it is yer searching for. I’m meeting my Mom and Pops up in Columbia so this is the end of our road. This here’s Myrtle Beach, that a way down there is Conway, a lot cheaper place than the beach and up that away is North Myrtle Beach which is touristy but more for camp like tourists. Make sure y’all check out the boardwalk and be careful.” I didn’t want to leave, almost suggested I go to North Carolina with him but this was my new path, I was going to find out what Myrtle beach South Carolina is all about.
What is it all about? Unfortunately Jonas the preaching sandwhich maker was right, it’s all about money. You can get whatever you want if you have enough money but if your looking for a helping hand its not here. Everywhere I went people tried to hustle me until they discovered my finances, then they would dismiss me with contempt. I was getting more and more hungry by the minute and was walking in circles. I could feel the dust had formed a film of dirt on my face. I was a mess, again busted disgusted and can’t be trusted. My stomach had gone from growling to downright snarling and I couldn’t barely walk any further. Weak from hunger and almost completely dehydrated I took a chance on a KFC.
My feet were filthy, my flip flops had flopped, and I was too exhausted to even formulate my puppy dog eyes but I knew I had to give it a shot, I desperately needed some water. I entered the Kentucky Fried Chicken getting in line behind one other person. When I got up to the counter a young African American boy looked at me curiously saying, “how can I help you sir?” I gave him the readers digest condensed version of my plight pleading, “Please, all I want is some water, this is my first time in Myrtle Beach, I’m trying to get back home to new York and I can’t even get a drink of water anywhere.” The young man gave me a look that said okay but he said, “one minute sir.” and started putting together an order for the drive through window. I was thinking he was dismissing me and was about to leave when he returned, looked me straight in the face and placed a box of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, a biscuit, and a large soda in front of me. “Thank you very much sir, have a nice day’” and then he winked at me. I could see behind his eyes, it was a genuine caring for another human being and he was likely going to end up paying for the meal himself. I grabbed the box and with tears of gratitude in my eyes and thanked him.
As thankful as I was gratitude had to be put on hold for a second, because at the moment I was a wild animal who had finally found his quarry. I found a patch of grass in the back of the building and crouched down with my kill, glaring back and forth from side to side ensuring no other hungry varmit was going to make a play for my fried chicken and bisquit. I ate like a starved vulture nearly choking on the bones as I was not going to let anything palatable remain in the box. If the napkins were edible I would have chewed them. When I had finished my meal, the absolute best meal I’ve had in well over a month, I sat like a sated lion, overseeing my parking lot pride as I leisurely finished my large pop. Time to formulate a plan now, where to go and what to do next but this time with a full stomach. I glanced through the window and saw the young man who had so selflessly given a total stranger, one who looked like a psychotic serial killer than a desperate human a meal. No, not just a meal, that young man gave me far more than mere food. He had given me a renewed sense of good, of the best that humanity can be, a renewed sense that there are things in this srtinking world that can rise above the stench of inhumanity and not only cover it up, but totally obliterate it, if only for a while. I promised I would never forget that young man, his face will forever etched in my memory, and every time I do any good deed, I will remember him and his incredible gift to me. The gift of hope! But for right now I’ll just have to settle for finding a friend ans getting back home.
TBC

Take The Long Road Home (by J.T. Hilltop) pt1

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hitch

I haven’t written any excerpts from JT’s great American novel about growing up in the 60’s in a little town of Centerlawn in awhile so the journey continues as he gets out of jail in the deep south.

Long And Winding

Thirty three days in jail may not seem like much but it certainly frees up your time to reflect on a good many things. What I had to reflect on in my final day at The Aikon County South Carolina Correctional Facility was the fact that Max and his junkie girlfriend left me down and out in bum fuck South Carolina with nothing but the clothes on my back and…..well tactually that’s all I had. I was busted, disguted, and couldn’t be trusted. No money, no extra clothes, food, not even any cigarettes as I left the half pack for my cell mates to fight over. I was dejected and alone, nowhere near home, and it seemed like I had not a friend in the world. But then a thought hit me, “JT my boy, what about Rhonda? Yea, that’s what I need, ‘You gotta Help me Rhonda, help help me Rhonda.’ Rhonda Harris. Rhonda was a friend from high school whose family moved to Myrtle Beach at the end of the eleventh grade. We weren’t what you would call close friends but close enough that she’ll remember me and right now I needed somebody, anybody to talk to. I mean we talked a few times probably even flirted some but the plain cold truth is other than Rhonda Harris the closest friend I could think of was some six or seven hundred miles away back on Long Island. Forget family, no one I could or would talk to about my failure here. besides Myrtle Beach was a mere one hundred and fifty miles from this boondock town of, of wherever the Hell I am. After a quick calculation and a group meeting it was decided that me and the new voices in my deranged head that had adopted me during the correction phase of my stay would hitchhike to Myrtle Beach and look Rhonda up in the phone book.
So we pointed ourselves in the direction of Myrtle Beach, stretched out the faithful old hitchhiking thumb for some digital exercise, and began walking down the highway feeling happy, free, and positive that a car would come along any second. Well maybe any minute. Any hour? In fact it was almost two hours before even one car came by going my way and it zoomed past like I wasn’t even there. I checked my thumb to make sure that it was still working properly and satisfied my hitchhiking digit was in order my thumb, the voices, and I plodded forward. Four cars, one bus, and a dump truck later my first potential ride pulled over. A nice pearl white Chevy pick up had stopped and the driver rolled down his window. “Where y’all headed man?” Comforting. The front cab was full with four hippie looking young southern dudes. He motioned towards the back as I called out, “looking for Myrtle Beach man, thanks for the lift. How far am I from the beach anyway?” Driver dude smiled, “We’re heading up to Raleigh but we can get you about halfway up to Camden man. Then Y’all only have roundabout another fifty miles east. Ain’t no more room up here Bro, jump in the back. We’ll let ya know when we get there, maybe an hour or so.” Feeling grateful and happy to have a place to sit awhile I jumped in the back with a big ass smile on my face. The voices were happy too.
After the third or fourth huge bump my huge ass smile fell out of the back of the truck and I wondered if I would ever see it again. My new metal palace was in constant motion as if I were a crash test dummy taking the shock absorbers out for stress diagnosis. I bounced up and down, rolled left and right, and every so often the side of my new surroundings gave me a body check into the wheel well. But fuck it man, I was free, I was on my way to finding a long lost friend, and I was grateful. Hungry as all hell, but grateful to be getting as far away from Aikon County South Carolina as possible. When my savior in the pearl white Chevy pulled over at a gas station an hour later to refuel he came up to me. “here ya go man, this here’s Camden.” I was almost disappointed. He continued, “If’n y’all take 22 East ya run straight on inta Myrtle Beach. Ain’t no more’n hour an a half away. We be headin’ on up north here. Good luck.” I thanked him profusely as I took stock of the many new bruises I had acquired during the ride. Ith a hint of sadness and some serious hunger pangs I watched them take off. Now if only I could find something to eat. I had come to a sort of small bridge, both literal and metaphoric. I equated it to Dorothy stepping out of the black and white house into a world of wonder and colors. Yea, the way I figured it I was heading to Munchkin land, Utopia or Eden, but halfway across I looked into the slow moving rivulet and a stinging wake up call shook my very foundation, and when I answered it said, “No yellow brick roads here in River Styx, just a crickfull of danger. ” Sloshing around in the water beneath the bridge was a congregation of razor toothed alligators. Apparently congregation is what you call a group of alligators and this congregation was holding high mass, or maybe even celebrating baptisms. I was impressed with the smoothness grace and speed with which these parishioners swam and regardless of the fact that I was up here and they were down below a wave of paranoia swept over me. I ran across the metaphoric bridge as if they were chasing me to the other side. I made it over without incident but slightly disillusioned. Nothing changed, but at least there were no wicked witches or alligators with ticking clocks in their bellies. The other side of the bridge was nothing more than the other side of a bridge. To make things even worse, the running only made me more hungry.
I had often heard the phrase “There’s no such thing as a free lunch”, but to tell you the truth when you have dirty clothes, long stringy wind whipped hair, and a Yankee accent down south there isn’t a free anything except for advice! Most of the advice consist of things like Y’all should jess git yer Yankee ass back to new yawlk, woncha git that thar girly hair cut like a man, or take a bath hippie, y’all stink like a got damn angry polecat in heat. I was definitely not feeling the love of that southern hospitality I heard so much about, and frankly I would have preferred a bottle of Southern Comfort right about then. I was walking down highway 22 when I spotted an oasis in this backwoods hell, a small Salvation Army building. I walked inside and poured my heart out relaying my story of misuse, abuse bad luck, abandonment, incarceration, dehydration, damnation, degradation and to top it off getting scoffed at asking for a morsel of nourishment. The young man, Jonas, listened intently, offered me some apple juice and a peanut butter sandwich, told me I could take a shower and then we could talk some more. I accepted happily and even though I put a clean body back into those dirty rags I felt like a new man. Feeling fully refreshed and ready to talk more about my trials and tribulations I joined the young man in a sort of guest room.
The talk he referred to was not about me but about a much higher power, the lord. I was the beneficiary of a two hour lecture on God, Jesus, sins, repentance, and scriptures. It was all I could do to keep my eyes open but I remained grateful and awake. At least I wasn’t in jail anymore! When Jonas, finished his sermon he asked me why I was going to Myrtle Beach. Not wanting to get involved in anymore lectures I opted to explain how I had heard so much about what a wonderful city it was and wanted to experience it. Apparently Myrtle Beach was either the Sodom or Gomorrah of the south because I earned myself another thirty minutes of lecture which ended in advice to cut my hair and go back to New York because Myrtle Beach is about nothing but money and sin. I refrained from saying “My kind of town” and instead thanked him and meandered back out onto highway 22.
When I was a kid I loved playing neighborhood games, especially tag. Hitchhiker tag however isn’t quite as much fun and a lot more one sided. With the sun going down and dusk setting in another pick up truck pulled over, but this one was an old beat up rusted out model with three boys in the cab. Being a fast learner I ran up and started to climb in the back but instead of asking me where I was going the dude rolled down his window and snarled, “What the Hell you think you doin’ boy?” He then proceeded to pull the truck up about ten feet as I fell to the ground. I stood up noticing the rifle rack in the back of the cab and the Deliverance image made a brief reappearance inside my head. The loud guffaws of condescending laughter riled me a bit. After a second time the voices said to me, “ Fuck them, lets kick their asses, we can take them” Fortunately I paid the voices no heed this time as the funny truck driving asshole yelled back at me, “Hawhawhaw, I’m sorry man, we was jess kiddin’, c’mon git on in the truck.” I weighed my options, didn’t want to piss them off and certainly didn’t wanted want to get fooled again so I moved forward with some trepidation. Slowly I moved towards the truck and that’s when the game of tag ensued. After four more antagonizing times I just said “Nevermind man, I don’t need no fucking ride.” He slammed on the brakes and both doors swung open. I gulped and thought, “Fuck me! No wait, I don’t mean like literally I meant please don’t fuck me, please!!” The three amigos walked towards me and I felt like this was gonna be even worse than the beatings I got from my favorite jailhouse guards, Billy Boy and Jimbo.
“Whatchoo mean Y’all done want no ride, we aint good enough foe yo dirty stinkin hippie shit ass? Maybe you needs to learn a little manners ya pig fucking longhair.” I tensed up to brace myself for another order of southern fried ass kicking when an authoritative voice broke through, “Now come on boys, Y’all know better’n at stomp this young lad fer no reason.” I opened my eyes and walking behind my three wannabe ninja’s was a huge figure of a man with an impressive trooper looking hat. The boys looked disappointed as they had been forced to reseal their cans of whip ass. Having feared the cops for most of my immature adult life I wasn’t sure if I was being saved or enslaved. I had visions of being taken to the basement of a police station naked and hogtied with a red ball strapped inside my mouth while some huge half witted yokel prepared to jam his self amused hard on up my digestive aperture……. Sorry, I’ll give you a sec to get the image out of your mind.
After a few minutes of the boys apologizing to the sheriff and swearing they “Was jess gonna have them a little fun, wasn’t akchully gonna hurt im” the would be assassins got back in the truck and the sheriff came over to get a closer look at me. I braced again, this time for handcuffing or Billy club enlightenment but the sheriff must have been a follower of Jonas from the Salvation Army because he spoke with the same God preaching condescending tone. “Praise the Lord I got here in time here boy. Now son y’all really need to watch out for yourself in these parts, where you from?” I took to telling him most of my story, leaving out the jail part but telling him I was abandoned in the night by my one time friends and was just trying to get back home to NY. He listened politely and then began practicing empathetic lecturing on me and leveled some tried and true southern advice on me, to cut my hair, take a bath, and go back home. He offered to take me to the town limits on 22 where he was sure I would get a ride. I told him I was much obliged and I actually praised the lord out loud for his coming around when he did. Like I said, I’m a fast learner.
TBC

Days Too Often Forgotten

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forgotten

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it -George Santayana-

Does any one remember when a hopeful generation
Of compassionate human beings made a peaceful presentation

Hell no
We won’t go
Break down barriers
Free Jim Crow
Stop the fighting
Stop the draft
Join the army
Get the shaft
No more murder
No more bombing
No Agent Orange
Stop Napalming

Give us your poor and tired huddle masses
Seeing the world through our rose colored glasses
Bending down to raise the downtrodden
These are the days too often forgotten

Now our friends bicker bitch and moan
Sit at the computer their internet throne
Haters behind the mask of the keypads
Yelling at liberals to put on their kneepads

Heads up their asses those conservative clowns
Those god damn liberals will destroy all the towns
Old white Republicans want us to live in the past
Communist Democrats want rebellion to last

Too many days we have forgotten
Too many riches were ill begotten
Better we let those days remind us
Not let political parties define us

The once united
Counter-culture
Has become
A money vulture
Failed policies
Failed schism
Failure to every
Fucking ism
Anarchy
Breeds not sanity
Are any choices
Left to me?

A decree to jog the memory

Let us not forget
The barefoot, pregnant, and silent
Bought them needle and thread
Chained them naked in bed
Don’t let them vote
Let them clean the house instead
It wasn’t easy but we learned we could find the way
You’ve come a long way baby to get where you are today

Let us not forget
The sight of fibers hanging from branches
People crucified for taking chances
The sound of chains
The promise of pain
That was then this is now
That’s no reason to disavow

How easily we forget the war over cotton, these are the days too often forgotten

Now streets are alight burning with hate
Disingenuous rule makers holding out bait
Its always them against us or us against them
When the hell will this hatred end

How is it we traveled across many so generations yet still can’t stop warring against other nations

Foundations like United Nations taking donations to ease frustrations and improve relations
But continued accusations and insincere declarations bring condemnations from all congregations
They hope deportations and allegations will prevent confrontations by becoming celebrations
Will anything lead to sensible conversations?

The taste of anguish so bitter it makes me cry
We’ve forgotten how and forgotten why
Once we stood a rebellious culture united
But money is the root of all the shortsighted
We need to remember the peace we desired
And go back to being a nation inspired

Condemned to a world dank and rotten if we allow these day to be forgotten

Where are those brilliant minds that forged a union
Who stood firm against wrongs in peaceful communion
Youth’s banded together demanding a voice in their world
While defying all inequalities under a banner unfurled
A nation of families spreading blankets of peace and love
Sharing respect and integrity in the utopia they dreamed of
Days once filled with promise of the best of humanity
When those days are forgotten we’re left with insanity

Capitalism is tradition
Revolution is a mission
Hatred must cease
Increase the peace

PEACE

The Birth Of A Hippie Thanksgiving Tradition

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rest

If you say Alice’s Restaurant to an old school hippie around Thanksgiving you will most likely elicit a huge smile and happy reflective eyes. Why? Alice’s Restaurant is a Hippie tradition, and just about anywhere you go in the country you can find a radio station playing Alice’s Restaurant Massacree at 12 Noon on Thanksgiving day. It’s a song by Arlo Guthrie based on a true story about a hippie commune celebrating love and life on that day and the hilarity and banality of events after it to an at the time unpopular group of peace loving peoples called hippies. It’s sung by Mr. Guthrie in his trademark style, with a monologue center guaranteed to bring tears of laughter to all true hippies. The tune lasts for 18 and a half minutes and for many of us it goes way deeper than just a tune on a day, it’s a memory of an era. A golden memory. Many others have a tale similar to mine so lets just reflect on my first epiphany on how much this song really means.

As soon as I turned 18 I made good on my threat to move out of my parents house so I wouldn’t have to follow all the ridiculous rules while I was “Under my roof” in the authoritarian gospel according to Dad. So now I’m on my own, my hair is not an issue under my roof, and its okay to indulge in activities that I had to do by an open window while burning incense. But I still had to go to Thanksgiving dinner at home because I didn’t move far enough away, and you just couldn’t say no to Mom. I was at the age where family get togethers were more of a torture once you’re no longer sitting at the kids table. That didn’t mean I had to go there unprepared.

I invited my best friends over for a pre T-day dinner soiree to get us all in the right frame mind to combat the inevitable bevy of put downs. So I told some friends to come on over around 11,we’ll smoke a few bowls and listen to Alice’s Restaurant. That’s how I sold it and the response was overwhelming. Eight of my closest friends stopped by and each had their own version of temperament enhancing herb. So we sat in the living room of my basement apartment, which of course was also my bedroom, rumpus room, den, and dining room. We sat around on milk crates and bean bag cushions passing chamber pipes, chillums, sticks of Thai, and even a well weathered meerschaum pipe. We were all feeling exceptionally good and listened to Alice’s Restaurant on our rock station. As usual it had us all laughing and grooving without any thoughts to what lay ahead with the family function. Each of us had reasons to not want to go to our homes for thanksgiving, most because we would get the litany of when are you gonna cut your hair?, what college are you going to?, why do you dress like that?, you call that music?, anything to put us down in front of the family. Not wanting to make the convergence into fake family fun all of my friends stayed until 2 o’clock and left my humble basement room feeling like we could take anything our families had to give. As each person left we swore to do it again next year, same time.

Thanksgiving dinners became so much more bearable that day and the tradition continued the following year. By year three, two of the group had moved away, I had moved four towns away, and life began to just sort of happen. By year four it was two friends, each of us with our girlfriends, and after five years all of us had gone our separate ways but promised to keep up the tradition wherever we were. This year two of our original group have passed away, two are just missing without staying in touch, one doesn’t speak with me anymore, and of the other three I am still in touch with one, but every year since then I have listened to a radio at noon wherever I was and reflected on my eight friends. These days I no longer reflect on the eight revelers in particular, but all my friends and acquaintances from that era, many whom I have reconnected with on social media. So every year, I celebrate the epoch of the best people that ever lived, my hippie friends from the early chapters of my life. My radio is set, and today the tradition will continue. Peace

Woodhenge: Behind The Music 3 days of hunting, gathering, and celtic rock

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woodhenge I

Woodhenge: Behind The Music
3 days of hunting, gathering, and celtic rock

For three days in the hot period of 3969BC nearly half a million young nomads attended the Woodhenge Music and Arts Festival. It was the most celebrated and peaceful gathering of the Mesolithic period which took place in an area of The Island Britannia which was known as Witheridge. It promised to be a weekend of nomadic tribes enjoying music, love, and peace. But it was not so peaceful for the three promoters, Artemis Field-of-corn, Joelius Rosenthorn, and Micah Langspear. Artemis: “I was as petrified as some of the fossils there. It was like..someone is getting burned at the stake for killing 20,000 people man, and that someone was gonna be me!” Joelius: “I had never seen so many hunters and gatherers in the same place man, it was like Bedrock bedlam. Sex, crazy smoke, weird tablets, and just people everywhere. There was no way someone wasn’t going to get jousted or have their eye poked out with a stone sling man, it was just a crazy scene.” Micah: “I wanted to have a nice small mass of a few thousand, you know, like to share some gathering strategies, new hunting techniques, and maybe exchange some cultural art, which was coming off the cave walls and onto rock trinkets. I never dreamed that so many people existed let alone would come to our festiva1”
It was a troubled era, the end of the 3960’s, the BC’s most turbulent decade. Protests over The Cola Wars pitted tribal leaders against the youth, Neolithic Counterculture protests and civil disobedience gatherings fighting for the rights of crossbow arrow hunters, Gatherer Libbers burning their breast straps, and the assassination of some young leaders of the Liberal Cave Party. It was the Stoned Age, and kids were puffing on crazy smoke and getting stoned all over the European countrysides. Lutes and pan flutes replaced the strings and reeds in music, the female gatherer sheepskin body covering got higher exposing more skin and hunters began braiding their hair. In the middle of the decade the Greek Olympics had become marred with inter species showering and the new event, javelin fondling. It was the beginning of the sexual revolution and attitudes were changing fast. There were female hunters, stay at cave Dads, and manskin arrow handling attitudes were being redefined. The ice age was still on the minds of the older generation but the youth just told them to chill out. The times they were a changing. As the cultures moved out of the caves and into tents a variety of artistic expressions evolved. Young tribal members found new and interesting uses for the blowpipes. Gatherers used them for self gratification and the hunters found they could entice more gatherer groupies by using blowpipes to make new more melodic sounds while others modified the pipes to use as a multiple user smoking tools. The strange new phenomenon of nasal powder sniffing through the tubular blowpipe increased as well as young nomads searched for new ways to get “that feeling”. Power powder, mood tablets, and crazy smoke were sweeping the meadows. A countryside turned on, tuned in, and dropping LCDVII tablets to hallucinate. The time seemed right for three young visionaries to create a gathering, build a monument, and change the flat world forever. But was the Pagan community ready for a Rock and Rumble monument? When we come back, some were building monuments, others jotting down notes …….. (long pause for effect)

It was Joelius Rosenthorn who first had the vision, peering across the huge land mass of grazing Harecleum, the oversized bovines that populated Witheridge. Joelius saw an abundance of milk the gatherers could use to make cheeses and yougurts, and bovine skins to make come do me shoes and negligee’s. The huge animals were prime for prime rib. Giant steak ladden bucks for the hunters to kill and butcher and a wide open area to share and exchange idea’s. Joe had the dream but not the backing. Artemis Field-of-corn, an old friend of Joes who played the cave bear femur flute in his band “The Rolling Boulders” had connections but they came with conditions as well. “I told Joey I could get him enough sheep wool and wolf pelts but we would need to make some monuments for a few Gods, Thoth, Musagette, Cernunnos, and Tzets. A few nice stone pillars all connected like a dais, a table of stone for the Gods, ya know. We could use it as a stage! I had connections for some Granite and Bluestone from Sarsen. That’s when we brought in Michah. Micah: “I had a sweet rock quarry in Sarsen with the perfect stones for making monuments. Only problem was they were huge, hard to move.” The three visionaries had come across their first challenge, moving these two ton slabs of stone some five hundred miles to Witheridge. They went to their old friend Axle Roads from the rock and rumble band Bows and Bouquets who had invented the original Goodyear. Axle: “Micah and I used to race in reverse, we go back a long way. For some back monument passes and a few bags of crazy smoke I promised him my newest invention I called the flatbed could get the boulders to the site. Man he has good weed, haha” Axle delivered but became part of the problem from drinking to much solution. As treacherous as that was it would end up becoming the least of their problems. When we come back, Shepherds State Thruway shut down as thousands leave their chariots to walk to the Woodhenge Festival…….. (Another long pause, even more effect)

Woodhenge, Behind the Music, Three Days of Hunting, Gathering and Celtic Rock

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woodhenge II

Part II
After months of planning and hard work the monuments were set, the invitations sent by marathon messenger service, and the weekend was set. The monument would be the stage for a huge array of rock and rumble bands, The Rolling Boulders to Crossbow, Stills, and Gnash. The problem now was finding enough pelts to pay the performers. The trio had gone over budget in the construction of the stage/monument. Rosenthorn: “Man I was like what the fornicate else could go wrong man? More pelts for the bands? I mean this was an opportunity, a chance to perform in front of a mass of hunters and gatheres that could pay off huge in their futures, but half the bands were greedy, expecting extra pelts. And the special requests were like off the branch man. Band members wanted crazy smoke, power powders, their own personal dressing caves, and one even requested a discreet affair with a Welsh sheep. I mean shit man, we couldn’t even get them to the stage let alone worry about finding a prostisheep. Hunters and gatheres came from everywhere man, like exotic places like Germanland and Pastaville. Fuggettaboutit! So many people showed up that they shut down The Shepherds State Thruway. People were abandoning their charriots right there in the paths. It was as if they knew instinctively this was the happening of a lifetime. Hell the happeneing of an entire epoch!” Rosenthorn was right, Pagans from as far away as Kazrockistan were there. Crowd control hadn’t even been conceived yet and the crowd was way out of control. Throwing off their animal skins and copulating right there on the fields. Something had to be done to calm the masses. That’s when Wavy Ravey, an entertainer and peace activist took the stage. “Holy shit man check it out man, there must be 200 thousand of you fornicaters out there man, The Shepherds State Thruway is closed man, hahaha. Lotta freaks, hahaha. We’re just about ready to get this show rumbling, are all you hunters and gatherers ready to rock?” The crowd stirred nervously not knowing what to expect until Wavy Ravey yelled really loud, “I said are you Mother Copulaters ready to rock and rumble?”
The crowd roared its approval as a dark skinned former hunter took to the stage with his horse hipbone and strings guitar and began playing music. It was Richmond Havenshire and he kicked off the show singing about freedom. It looked as if everything was finally going smooth, but back in the Mesolithic era, nothing ever stayed smooth for long. When we come back, Alexander the Great threatens to send in The Macedonia National Reserve jackbooted soldiers as the party crazed hunters and gatherers discover bronze, and the Kama Sutra….. (Insert pause here)

Woodhenge was in full flight, the bands were playing as the attendees let loose. Stoned out stone agers dancing naked, swimming in tiny waterholes, and making some noise. Too much noise according to neighbors of the sites owner, Maximus Yazgurian. “I’m a farmer, and I can barely speak to twenty other agriculturist at a time let alone half a million nomads, but they proved to the world that young people could get together for hunting gathering and music and have nothing but hunting, gathering, and music. I just wish my pain in the ether region neighbors saw it that way.” Here’s what the neighbors had to say, “Those hunters were disgusting, swinging their reproductive things all over the place, screaming and yelling. It was like watching a charriot wreck, disgusting yet I couldn’t take my eyes off of them!” ….. “I don’t know whats the matter with those kids, all hopped up on crazy smoke and Thor knows what else. I was scared, properly frightened for my life.” ….. “Someone should do something, come up with a multiple person explody thing or get word to the authorities. I went to feed my sheep and caught five young hunters engaging in a sexual act with them. I’ll tell you this, if my sheep end up giving birth to some kind of sheeperson or something I’m headed straight to the Enquirer. Somehow the news had gotten to an authority in the name of Alexander The great, who was well known for being jealous of anyone having more sex than he was. Alexander sent his fastest marathon messenger to Artemis who was proper frightened. Atremis: “Holy Isis I was shitting pottery squares, I mean Al the Great man, he don’t fucking play. One seriously mean mother humper. It wasn’t until I saw the falcon flying that I finally chilled. I knew that could only mean one thing, The Alchemist had traveled from the deserts of Egypt and if anyone could change Alexander’s wrath into fear it was The Alchemist.”
The Alchemist had indeed traveled to Woodhenge and not only had he brought relief to the festval co-ordinators, he had come to introduce the hunters to a new metal he had discovered in his search of gold. Bronze. Bronze would revolutionize not only hunting, but warring and and art as well. New protective gear could be made from this bronze, newer and more efficient killing utensils, and some tools for digging up earth. But what the Alchemist really intended the new metal for was for metal bands. He brought bronze sculpted musical instruments which would change the course of Rumble and Roll music forever. More versatile and more sounds from his bronze rams horn blower than the traditional ones, bronze saucers for the drumming rock kits, and a more durable and easily replaced bronze lute so band members could trash their instruments on stage. The first one to use these new bronze instruments was Ozzinald Ozzbourne, using the heavy metal instruments in his loud band, “Black Churchday” .. Ozzinald, “I was like I’m the fucking prince of darkness, that’s why the the the the the the alk, alchemist ghghghghh gfgdgdg the broze shit man. I’m the fucking prince of darkness.” Ozzinald’s mumbling was hard to understand and honestly we have no idea what he was saying but when he sang he sang beautifully and the crowd was mesmerized by Black Churdays new sound. In the very near future just about every rock and rumble band would be playing in bronze. But that wasn’t the most significant contributiuon The Alchemist made. When we return, Jefferson Airplane heads to Macedonia as the festival rumbles on. (Yup, another effective pause)

Like most others of his ilk The Alchemist had trained his falcon well. Quickly replacing the marathon messengers falcons all around the Nile were a much faster and more efficient means of communication. The Alchemists falcon, called Jeffersonm Airplane was one of the fastest, and fiercest. With a message and bag of gold nuggets Jefferson Airplane flew to Macedonia to pay a visit to Alex the Great. Artemis was relieved and gave The Alchemist some extra special crazy smoke to enjoy. “Man it was awesome, The Alchemist was so stoned he just sat there with a huge smile on his face. The bands were finally getting to and from the Woodhenge stage without effort and the crowd was under control. Then the mighty Thor made his prescence known with a loud crack of thunder followed by heavy rain. Neil Young Dude and the Kings Krazy Horses were on stage chanting no rain no rain which caught on quickly with the crowd. That was the first known sample of a rain dance and instead of ruining the ruins the crowd embraced it. They invented new games, mud wrestling, naked mud wrestling, and mud sliding.
The new game naked mud wrestling didn’t go unnoticed and was ripe for being exploited A stange Hindu reveler was amonst the Celtic Nomads by the Vatsyayana. He had recently published a codex of sexual acts he called The Kama Sutra, and he saw this as a golden showered opportunity for great publicity. His codex was a set of pictures and descriptions of many unusual positions that would bring smiles to both the hunters and the gatherers, with special tips on arousing the arrow tips of the hunters. “Holy Cow it was a dream come true. The young kids were so stoned it was easy to make them get in my strange poses like the downward spiraling anaconda thruster and my upward facing reverse holy cowgirl. And my god Vishnu they were more than willing to try every position in my codex. My sales would be through the Himalaya tops.” The sexual revolution ready to explode and before the end of the decade gatherers would be stripping, dancing around maypoles, and giving lap ceremonial maneuvers. Spider webcams would be popping up hidden in caves and hunters would be popping up underneath their loincloths. The Mesolithic era was becoming the Meso lick it era.
In the end history would forget Woodhenge and be replaced by the mysteries of the monuments ruins. But at the time revelers surprised the world by leaving peacefully, contented and educated, and they even cleaned up as they left. Three days after the fesival there was little evidence that a half million nomads had gathered, listened to Rumble and Roll music, experimented with sexual positions in the fields, partied their asses of and left. All that remained was the monument. Artemis: “When the three of us saw how weird it looked, no longer looking like a stage at all with just the monument stones standing in a circle Micah had an idea.” Micah: “Maybe I was still high from all the drugs sex and rumble and roll but a thought occurred to me and I laughed. What if we just never tell anyone else about this and in time everyone forgets. People will come here and wonder what the intercourse is this? We laughed for hours wondering what strange explantions they may come up with. Imagine what a goof that would be, hehehe.” Strange explanations indeed, the “goof” as they called it was prophetic as history would scratch its chronologic head for centuries to come wondering how and why these giant monoliths appereared out of no where. They still stand today but the Legend Of Woodhenge will be forever lost. Except by us hipsters anyway! I’m Marksamus Goodman and this has been an eMp Tee V music channel exclusive.
Peace

Increase The Peace

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peace

Can’t bomb for it or buy it if you want peace just try it
Don’t kill and deny it or don’t just drive by it
Declare peace and cry it

No shout it don’t doubt it declare peace and tout it
Plant peace and we’ll sprout it from mountains we’ll shout it
Peace how about it?

The liars deny it deniers won’t buy it if you love war decry it
War is a riot so come on supply it don’t sit and be quiet
If you want death apply it

But if you want peace just crave it or war will enslave it
No matter who gave it its our planet lets save it
Road to peace lets all pave it

Can’t trap or ensnare it if you want peace declare it
All this killing I can’t bear it now come on declare it
Its our peace lets wear it

Wear you peace proud shout it out loud no haters allowed
Just a peace loving crowd showing we vowed
Peace as our shroud

Make hatred decrease and the killing all cease
Break hatreds lease let tensions release
Just increase the peace

Jerome John Garcia (Aug 1, 1942-Aug 9, 1995)

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da boyz

Reluctant Guru and voice of the psychedelic generation, Jerry was complicated and human despite the seemingly superpower ability of moving so many of us to amazing heights during his incredible career. With his guitar he transformed an entire arena of fans from the mundane and often tedious world into a world filled with constant joy and pleasure in an indescribable Jerry zone. So indescribable that back in the day most of us fans would simply proclaim our mantra, “There is nothing like a Grateful Dead concert” And that’s truly the only way to explain it, you needed to experience the transformation yourself to fully comprehend how insanely phenomenal it was. His voice and guitar wrapped us up in a protective cocoon and in mid show taught us to spread our wings. A concert hall full of beautiful butterflies mesmerized by one common theme, peace and love. I miss the privilege of watching them perform and most specifically being fortunate enough to allow Jerry to take me away with him on his improvisational jams. One day a jazzy set, one day Latin influence, tribal beats or maybe a deep Elem blues set you never knew what to expect from the genius guitar player from California. We miss you Jerry, thank you for the years of intense pleasure. Following is a tribute to what you’ve meant to many of us in general, and me in particular. It’s composed of many references to songs we loved and memories implanted or just improvisational word association in the sprit of the king of musical improv.

GOD DAMN UNCLE JOHNS MAD

When the song is done
The strings are unstrung
Songs go unsung
An empty feeling in the air
Ticketron memories remain
Waiting in vain
Our mission in the rain
Outside the concert halls
Kids climbing the walls
For a chance to get inside
All fried and wide eyed
To see a band beyond description
Jehovah’s favorite choir
But no matter how they prayed
The encores have all been played
No more road trips
Or fools ships
Searching for tix
Off we bounded
At risk of being grounded
Getting home late
Scamming to get through the gate
A simple twist of fate

No more mountains on the moon
No soothing tune
Toking one last bowl
To rock my soul
Where the river sings sweet songs
Flow big river flow
Cuz his words still glow
Like gold
Like a Ripple through still water
No pebble tossed
Ten million eyes glossed
And the Hunter is lost
Partner and friend
To the end
Who now has the time
To call his soul a critic
As we wait outside the lazy gate
Of winters summer home
Alone

Peeking through a lace banana
With a silver kimono chalice
This broke down Palace
Free of all malice
Unbroken chain
Mission in the rain
We hold you in the attics of lives
So
Fare ye well and so long
The river sings your sweet song
And fills the air
With that Jerry flair
To rock my soul
By the riverside
Fare the well
Saint Angel
Who can the weather command
Our favorite band

Take up your china doll
Its only fractured
In rapture
Magic wand in hand
Strumming his lightning bolts
My heart full of electric volts
Fragile peals of thunder
Took me under
He Shreds and rips
That Captain Trips
Took us away
For the day
Filled our hearts with emotion
With one searing motion
Strangers stopping strangers
Just to shake their hand
A giant of a man

But all that’s left is a trace
Of his inspiration
Yet still it flows
Suggesting rhythms
That shall not forsake you
But the song is sung and done
Thought We’d only just begun
I’ll meet you on the run
At the jubilee
Seldom turns out the way it does in the song
On a trip strange and long
But not long enough

William Tell has stretched his bow
Till it will stretch no furthermore
What for written on the morning sky
I shrug and say good bye
Lady fingers dipped in moonlight
Counting stars by candlelight
Only one is bright
Light a candle curse the glare
The choice of The Bear
And his magic elixir
In the dark
Light the songs with sense and color
Hold away despair
Talent so rare

Must be getting early
Clocks are running late
Gone to where the wind don’t blow so strange
Like a steam locomotive
Rollin down the track
He’s gone
He’s gone
Nothings gonna bring him back
He’s gone
And these spaces fill with sadness
The obvious hidden
In the shadow of the moon
And We’ll all be there real soon
To where the compass always points
Heavens mutation
Terrapin Station

If you could
I know you would
Dust of those rusty strings just one more time
And let it shine
Let the broken angel sing
From your guitar
One last Dark Star
But it all rolls into one
And one man gathers what another man spills
Thrills
The pills
The smoke
Laughing when their ain’t no joke
Was all part of the show
The magic show
The grateful scene
Best I’ve ever seen
Or ever will
The last rose has pricked our fingers
Its time for us to sing our own songs
But your music never stopped
For me it never will
I carry it with me always

Rock In Peace Jerry Garcia

Underneath the warmth and openness we all felt from Jerry lay a deep well of an understaning, that we all have a dark side. Jerry used that dark understanding like many atrists to create, and what jerry created was some of the most haunting, real, and downright ornery riffs and vocalizations in all of rock. There was a near eerie connection between Jerry and the collective consciousness of his fans which flowed through his fingers, dancing along his guitar strings and into our souls which lifted us up taking us away with him to wherever his trip was headed that particular evening. If only for a few hours we all existed in a utopian world led by the pied piper who tapped in to our every emotion, from the highest elations to the darkest corridors of our minds, pain and grief, fear and despair, or just plain euphoria and by the end of the evening returned us safely to our memories. It was an unexplainable esoteric bond that can only be wrapped up by saying because of Jerry‘s unique ability to convey through his essence how great life can be, there was nothing like a Grateful Dead concert, and sadly there will never be again. Rock In Peace Jerry, we miss you!

Where Have All The Flower Children Gone?

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The Decade That Was
Once upon a time, there was a creative thought, which blossomed into a fine young idea. That idea was nurtured and guided so it became a sound and just suggestion . As it grew it evolved into a brilliant well thought out concept. Because the concept had such universally beneficial implications it rose up into an action. The action was pure an meaningful and reached so many other open minds that it morphed into a movement, and it was the most glorious movement the world had ever seen. It was a movement dedicated to equality, world peace, harmonious existence, and awareness. Seeking a better world through music, inclusive lifestyles, positive politics, and the ability to question injustices perpetuated by governments. Like most good things authorities believed it needed to be compartmentalized so it was labeled a decade. The decade became turbulent and pushed our tolerance to the limit. The decade ended. Time passed, and the decade was reduced to a memory of drug induced youth protesting without direction, and the memory began to fade.

Only wanted to live in peaceful bliss
World peace love and happiness
Place the hate down a deep abyss
That’s the utopia we all should miss

No one cared about your race
Accepted all in loves embrace
We were in such a happy place
Until it fell and crushed our face

Now so many years gone by
Often times I wonder why
Did the movement have to die
Was the decade one big lie?

Looking back we had a goal
Drugs sex and rock and roll
Scuse me while I light a bowl
Get high on the grassy knoll

But in the end the dream is done
No more flowers in the gun
Flower power was on the run
If nothing else we sure ha fun

Quest for peace replaced by greed
The hell with what poor folks need
We all have our own mouths to feed
Don’t have time to hear them plead

But take a minute and reflect
At all the rights we keep in check
And thank a Hippie what the heck
For trying to make this world correct

PEACE….FOR EVERYONE..IMAGINE, NEVER STOP DREAMING

Still Rock And Roll To Me

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DeadTopper

Rocktober is here. That’s what we call it here in the northeast, partially because we so love our rock and roll, and partially because we want a distraction to the oncoming brutality winter can dole out. Radio stations play tapes from pre-recorded live shows, or repackage their programming to appear as if it were different than usual. But real rockers won’t waste our time listening to bullshit radio stations that pose as hip intuits of rock, we know the DJ’s today are just corporate sponsors who may have once been cool, but have sold out to commercialistic radio bent on repeating songs so often it makes our inner ears drip blood. But hell who cares about that we know our rock and we have things like Pandora, Spotify, and iTunes, and even many of us hippie have given in and replaced our once bulky milk crates of music libraries onto tiny little ipods with killer earbuds. We choose our music.
So true rockers listen to FM radio only as an alternative to having no soundtrack whatsoever for life. We play what we want on ipods and/or CD players. Because rock and roll is central to our existence. The last two weeks have been extremely stressful and trying for me, and at times I had lost my Zen. And like David Banner would say, don’t make me lose my Zen, you won’t like me when I lose my Zen. But it happens and self medicating is not an option during the workday.
Luckily a friend of mine who often burns me CD’s for me stopped by two day’s ago with 4 new disks of sweet rock and roll because he understands how profound a gift of music is. He knows what music reaches me and that’s what be burned, my favorite tunes live at familiar venues from my crazy party days. Yesterday I had to o a lot of running around so I spun 2 of those discs while driving and erranding and the music was so soothing. Rock is comfort food for the ears and the soul. The car filled up with not only incredible sound, but with memories and good feeling, and most important, a shitload of Zen. Whether it was an uplifting fast tune that got me bopping, or a bluesy and easy tune that held my ego and id in check, it just soothed my soul and removed the stress. That’s what music can so for us.
So today I have a message, not like the ones coming out of area 51, or the one Moses had sent over his tablet, but one from a humble servant of rock and roll. The message here is this, if you lose your Zen remember, it can always be found in rock and roll music because rock and roll never forgets. Thank you Rick Verso, a brother, kindred spirit, and friend for life. Rock on Y’all. Listen to the music play