On this page
An excerpt from Hunga Dunga, Confessions of an
(He's got it happening on a Saturday, but it was Sunday April 20, 1969.
Aron Kay the Pieman says the concert was at the Rose Avenue slab, and
there were 20,000 people present.)
Exerpt from the Evening Outlook
of the next day, April 21
Exerpt from Tales of the Blue
Meanie by Allan Cole, describing another incident in the same
Apparently there was yet another incident in 1969,
when the Free Venice movement tried to have a parade on the 4th of July,
which was stopped by hundreds of police.
from Hunga Dunga:
Confessions of an Unapologetic Hippie
by Phil Polizatto
Saul, being more practical than I, was more
concerned with the Free Press concert happening that Saturday. It was
supposed to be a love-in/anti-war gathering. Right there on that expanse
of beach between Pacific Ocean Park and where Venice proper started. The
line up consisted of Spirit, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, and Taj Mahal, interspersed
with anti-war speeches. For a change, we would be on the stage itself
and not on scaffolds. Still, it was just more go-go dancing. And we'd
be doing it for free just like all the other entertainers. Saul said the
exposure would be good for us and the Free Press would mention our name.
Saturday morning I awoke to the sounds of
people walking, running, roller skating past the studio. Hardly unusual
except for the numbers of them. I peeked through my window and saw a steady
stream of bare chests, tie-dyed halter tops, beach towels, ice-chests,
picnic baskets, banners and signs. The concert didn't start til one, but
the crowds were arriving early.
My gang arrived around eleven. We warmed
up with sun exercises and calisthenics. Then we each took a half a tab
of acid and headed for the beach a block away. It wasn't Woodstock, but
it was as dense. The stage was about twenty feet from the boardwalk and
faced the ocean. A small crew was finishing up and a skinny, balding,
bearded guy was doing a sound check. On the far right were the pilings
of the pier and the skeleton of the rollercoaster silhouetted by the blazing
sun. On the far left was a massive, partially buried pipe. The part that
stuck out of the sand was a good three feet high. It ran from god knows
where in the bowels of Venice or Santa Monica to spill god knows what
into the ocean. In the hundred yards or so between the pipe and the pier,
the boardwalk and the ocean, were thousands of people arranging blankets,
putting on lotion, smoking pot, tripping out.
It was a real family affair. Nuclear and
otherwise. Lots of kids of all ages. Young hippie moms breast-feeding
their newborns. Young hippie dads sporting their tots on their shoulders.
Lots of short-haired liberals who sympathized with the drop-outs, but
hadn't yet themselves. Who maybe wanted to, but couldn't.
They were the people who had complied with
two of Leary's suggestions. They had turned on. They had tuned in. But
the dropping out was left to the hippies, the flower children. These were
the stoned, young, left-wing members of the establishment, who enjoyed
the fringe element of the freaks. Who counted on them to bring fun, color,
and diversity into the culture. And who would fight passionately for their
right to express themselves as free spirits. They knew that by securing
the rights of the fringe, they were securing their own.
These were the young blue-collar and white-collar
workers who relished the uninhibited cavorting but who were too shy to
cavort themselves. These were the modern politicos who wanted the freaks
to be the scene while they worked behind the scenes. These were the peacemakers,
environmentalists and civil rights activists who worked within the system.
These were the true revolutionaries who were the salt of the new earth
we were going to make. The pillars of the future society that would bring
in the Aquarian Age. The freaks, the hippies, the flower children had
already dropped out and were leaving the earth's atmosphere, creating
lifestyles, language, fashions and issues that would, they hoped, become
part of the mainstream culture in following years.
It was a wonderful day. Everyone was on
a high. Spirit really got everyone on their feet. Dancing. Swaying. Gettin'
down! The speeches were empowering and solidified the crowd's resolve
against the war. They knew that the threat from the outside was now and
forever a lie. They knew that the country had better start thinking in
a new way. And they knew that these rallies were meant to attract the
media and make people pay attention. They needed a venue where their opposition
could be clearly seen and loudly heard. So they rose to the occasion and
hooted and whistled and hollered at the top of their lungs in response
to buzz words that echoed through the loudspeakers. But the crowd was
there as much for the music as they were to make a statement. They were
there to have a good time and have some fun.
The vibes everywhere were great, and though
I and the other dancers had dispersed among the crowd, there was no need
to work it. So when the next band walked on stage and began tuning up,
I started back toward the stage and hoped the rest of the crew weren't
too stoned by now to find their way back. I was flashing my badge at one
of the security guys in front of the stage. That's when I saw them.
All along the boardwalk, from the pier to
the sewer pipe, stood an impenetrable wall of LA's finest decked out in
full riot gear.
Where had they come from? All of a sudden
like that? Didn't anyone see them approaching? Was it possible an entire
stadium-load of people could collectively be so oblivious to their arrival?
I followed the wall of chest-shielded, head-helmeted,
face-masked robots. They just stood there at the ready, most holding clubs,
some lightly bouncing them in their open palms. Legs slightly apart, solidly
grounded, black leather chaps catching the glare of the sun, they looked
like a thick wrought iron fence. I looked to the right and saw the crowd
begin to notice the fence extending quickly along the length of the pipe
almost all the way to the surf. A wave of bad vibes crashed upon the crowd.
The negative energy was palpable. It cut
through the crowd quickly like a scythe through grass. The panic in the
air was razor sharp. You could feel people working hard to keep their
acts together. Trying to be calm. Buddies continuing to drink their beer
and assuming forced poses of macho nonchalance. Boyfriends telling their
girlfriends to be calm. Mothers calmly gathering up their kids. Dads calmly,
but firmly, persuading them it was time to go. But the kids knew something
was wrong. Like a dog sensing an earthquake. Like a gull sensing a hurricane.
One of the anti-war speakers grabbed the
microphone. She tried to keep the crowd, now on the very edge, from falling
off. She tried reason. She tried humor. She tried sarcasm. Someone from
the Free Press was talking with a riot squad honcho. The cop had his arms
impatiently akimbo, while the Free Press guy used his hands and arms freely,
gesturing first toward the crowd, then to the police, then back to the
crowd, trying to communicate reason over mayhem. The colorful shirt he
wore made him look like a sailor flagging semaphore. I could tell he wasn't
getting anywhere when he threw his hands into the air. In the meantime,
the crowd was becoming more anxious and vocal. A verbal assault on the
cops was gaining momentum from the braver souls, while others were, as
inconspicuously as possible, trying to make their way off the beach. An
empty pop bottle soared over my head toward the boardwalk and before it
fell short of its mark, I saw the head honcho look toward his men, nod
slightly, and yell, "Clear the area. Now!"
Suddenly it was chaos. Clubs cracking skulls.
Kids screaming and being trampled by both the cops and the crowd. Some
people putting up a fight. Guys trying to rip the masks from the cops'
faces to get something to punch at. Feisty women kicking and biting their
assailants. Kids trying to hang on to, but then violently bucked off,
the bronco legs of police who were trying to pummel their dads. Lots of
bleeding. Lots of pleading. Lots of stoned, dazed acid-heads trying to
get a grip. People running every which way trying to escape. Many were
backed up to the ocean and more than a few began swimming out into the
water beyond the reach of the incessant swinging clubs. The rest scrambled
blindly trying to reach the pier or zigzag through the police to the boardwalk.
A typhoon of colors. A tornado of demons. A torrent of pathetic faces,
their expressions disfigured by anger and fear and panic. A tsunami of
nightmares in the blazing California sun.
I ducked under the stage and when the first
row of cops charged the beach, made a run for the boardwalk and ran as
fast as I could toward my studio. I looked behind me. Close at my heels
were another forty or so people and a half block behind them about 10
of the storm troopers. I fiddled with the keys and got the door to my
studio opened just in time, but not in enough time to prevent the crowd
from rushing in behind me. When we were all inside, we locked the door
and started piling everything we could against it. As we pushed the piano
into place we could see the silhouettes of clubs on the other side of
the painted plate glass windows.
The silhouettes got nearer and darker and
crashed through the glass sending shards and slivers everywhere. One of
the cops lobbed in a canister. The gas quickly permeated the air. People
were screaming. The cops batted the remaining glass out of their way and
entered through the windows. The people inside were either blindly confused
and tearfully running right into their clutches, or lying in a frozen
crumple on the floor.
At the first sound of the breaking glass,
I ran to the very rear of the studio, lifted the madras wall hanging and
scurried out the little back door onto the pier. I made my way as furtively
as I could to the Tilt-a-Whirl. To the car that had the loose seat cushion.
The seat was hollow and I used to hide my stash there sometimes when I
had a paranoically large amount. I scrunched in and fiddled with the cushion
until it fell back into place. About a half hour later, I heard two cops
walking around, talking, turning over barrels and crates. Then silence.
I stayed in my hiding place until late that night.
I had never before referred to cops as "pigs"
even though at the time it was a perfectly politically correct thing to
do. We are all divine. I always tried to remind myself of that. I made
a habit of saying it to myself when I got mad. The same way other people
counted to 10, that's how I said we are all divine.
We are all divine. We are all divine. We
are all divine. We are all divine.
I worked hard not to slur anybody. But this
night, I learned the meaning of the word "pig" and knew many
things would have to change before I stopped using it.
I sneaked back to the studio but was afraid
to turn on any lights. I leaned my mattress against the wall and stuffed
a narrow piece of foam under it. There, in that little cave, I huddled
until dawn, wondering how the world would react when it learned of my
early retirement from The Dance.
It didn't take much light of day to see
that practically everything was destroyed. The piano, the stereo, the
few furnishings. All my records lay smashed and strewn across the floor.
If I stared at them without blinking, I could imagine they were part of
the design of the tile. I threw a few pieces of clothing in my backpack,
walked to the highway, stuck one thumb north and the other thumb south.
That's how I ended up spending the night in Laguna with Josie.
Evening Outlook Monday,
April 21, 1969
Cutline of the photo says:
Venice Officer Struck By Bottle A Venice division officer falls to the
ground holding his head where he was struck by a thrown bottle as police
moved out thousands of "hippies" and other beachgoers following a disruptive
"love-in" in Venice.
Beach 'Love-In' Police, Hippies Battle in Venice
By Dave Berman
Police cleared Venice Beach from the old POP Pier to
the Pavilion of 14,000 people Sunday, arrested 108, and thwarted a possible
gigantic public orgy in the process. The crowd was present for the Los
Angeles Free Press' free concert and "love-in." Capt. Robert Sillings
of the Venice division said intelligence information indicated the largely
"hippie" throng had planned a "clutch-in" or a "cluster.
The plan was for people to form a huge circle around a couple on the beach
who would have intercourse. Slowly, other couples would join in, Sillings
said his reports revealed. One couple was arrested for lewd conduct after
the girl danced topless while her partner fondled her, police said. The
girl reportedly was told to put on her top several times and was arrested
when she refused. Sillings said there were "numerous incidents" of girls
peeling off their bathing suits. Six officers were injured by flying rocks
and bottles and at least a dozen other people were hurt in fist fights
and by broken glass. A dozen ambulances went to the scene during the day.
The violence broke out late in the afternoon when officers attempted to
arrest several individuals on suspicion of possession of marijuana and
Crowds formed around the arrest scene and hurled insults and objects at
the arresting officers. Police, with drawn night sticks, moved the crowds
back. Skirmished continued to take place, mostly in the area between POP
pier and the foot of Rose Avenue, and finally at 4:48 p.m., officers mounted
a huge concrete drain cover - on which a phalanx of sound equipment
Turn to Page 10 (Webslave note: which
we don't have)
Tales of the Blue Meanie
by Allan Cole
CHAPTER EIGHT: Riotous Behavior
Although I hadn't known the details, I'd heard there
was going to be a big to-do in our neighborhood. Builders had been busy
on the opposite corner of Washington Boulevard and Ocean Avenue, where
a mini-mall had been in progress for several months. There was a state-of-the-art
Laundromat and cleaners, several restaurants, trendy boutiques, a wine
merchant, a Thirty One Flavors ice cream parlor, etc. All aimed at the
upscale crowd already gathering at the new yacht harbor in Marina Del
Rey - whose completion by the Army Corps Of Engineers was scandalously
overdue and over budget.
About half of the mini-mall was owned by a couple of
Venice eccentrics whom I'd recently profiled in my column in the Outlook.
One guy called himself Fish Face Sam and he'd made his fortune in Alaska
- a fortune he'd since grown even bigger by buying and selling the Sizzler
Steak House chain, the proceeds of which he was now investing in mini-malls,
which were called "vest pocket malls" back then.
His partner in the enterprise was "Circus Saul"
Blumenthal, an eighty-something former carnival strongman who owned half-a-dozen
pizza franchises and one fairly decent bar and grill near the Santa Monica
Pier. They made a weird pair: Fish Face was six foot six or so, and admitted
weighing over 350 very pudgy pounds. "I tried the Slim-Fast diet,"
he told me, "but doggone it, I could drink three or four of those
suckers and a couple cheese burgers and an order of fries and I lost nary
a damn pound." Circus Saul was about five foot four or five, weighed
close to 200 pounds and there wasn't a lick of fat on him. Even at plus
eighty he was solid muscle with biceps you could bend bars over - a feat
he'd once performed for Barnum and Bailey back when it was just Barnum
- or maybe it was just Bailey - but he had the pictures and press notices
to prove his claims.
Circus Saul and Fish Face were radical capitalists -
that's what they called themselves, anyway. They hated LBJ, despised Richard
Nixon even more and had pledged ten thousand dollars each to the newly
formed organization "Businessmen For Peace." They also vowed
to stage various concerts up and down the state to raise awareness and
funds for their cause.
So, although I was thrilled when Jan told us Country
Joe was going to appear at the mall opening, I wasn't exactly surprised.
It was the sort of a gesture I might have expected from Circus Saul and
Fish Face Sam.
After checking the details, I made sure the entertainment
editor got a little notice plus a file picture of Country Joe - provided
by yours truly - in Friday's paper. Unless you take a peek back at the
times, you can't understand what a big deal this was. The editorial policy
of the Evening Outlook was somewhere to the right of Attila the
Hun. However, the Funk Brothers passionately coveted the zillions of greenbacks
being spent by that magic age group, 18 to 35. In other words, my ge-ge-
generation. So the entertainment editor, who was fatter that Fish Face
Sam and just as short as Circus Saul, reluctantly agreed to post picture
and item. The result was that on the day of the concert half of Venice
turned out, jamming Washington Boulevard from the beach all the way to
Lincoln Boulevard and spilling over onto our street.
Thom and Stoner Tom - whom I mentioned before - had recently
moved into the corner unit. Both were former medics back from a tour of
duty in Korea. Thom was a reporter for the Daily Breeze, some ten or fifteen
miles south of Venice, and Stoner Tom was an orderly at a local hospital.
The upstairs master bedroom of their two-story apartment overlooked the
square where Country Joe and the gang were due to perform. With all their
windows open we had the best seats in the house. We also had plenty of
food, drink and a generous quantity of various inducements - some straight
from the medical locker at Stoner Tom's hospital.
About twenty of us crowded into the apartment, including
Thom and Tom's girlfriends; Roger and Jack; the lady artist and her latest
lovers, a stunning black girl and a young blonde Viking boy; me and Carol;
my brother Charles and his girlfriend Lori Prang, a budding actress of
much talent; and many, many more, including Marita, whose eyes were a
dazzling Benzedrine blue. We had Jason propped up in his high chair to
witness the historic occasion.
The Jefferson Street Jug Band struck up its first number,
a rousing rendition of "Big Bad Bill."
Big bad Bill don't fight any
Now he does the dishes and he mops up the floor.
Well he used to go out, jus' lookin' for a fight,
Now he's got to see his mama every night.
Big Bad Bill is Sweet William now
Jan and Alita looked marvelous in their sexy little white
leather outfits and were just starting to really get into their go-go
girl act. But before anyone got very far, I spotted a phalanx of LAPD
cars pushing through the crowd, forcing themselves up to the outdoor stage.
The crowd took immediate offense and loud voices were heard over the jug
band's amplified music. I could see this could get ugly really fast and
instead of a joyous occasion we might be served up a riot, courtesy of
the "Protect And Serve" boys of LAPD.
I raced down the stairs and was out the front door in
seconds. I caught up with Bob Smith, the Outlook photographer assigned
to cover the rally. Smitty, a tall, heavyset man who could twist himself
into impossible positions to grab a shot, was one of the very best all
around news photographers in Los Angeles County - if not the state. Back
in early August Smitty and I had been the first news people on the scene
of the Sharon Tate murders, later to be known as the "Manson murders"
when old Charlie and his girls were busted.
Smitty had shot the first pictures and I'd filed the
first story, complete with the identities of all the victims, which no
other news outfit got straight for nearly 24 hours. Smitty was also without
par when it came to feature shots that described key moments in very human
terms. And so when I caught up with him he was coming up behind the cop
cars, snapping pictures of the angry faces of the crowd as the tension
I tapped him on the shoulder and waved for him to follow
me. "Hide the camera," I said as we weaved through the crowd.
People have strange reactions to news cameras, live or still. Sometimes
they'll preen, or clown around. Sometimes they'll turn away, hiding their
faces. Sometimes they'll become sullen and act out against the camera
as if it were a tool of all they feared. At this particular moment, it
was my professional opinion that if the crowd erupted any cameraman in
sight would be fucked big time. There were rumors, mostly true, that undercover
cops and federal agents were posing as news photographers.
The cop cars came to a stop, doors slammed open and the
pigs took up various threatening positions as Captain Emory, the fearless
commander of the Venice Division, climbed out of the lead car to confront
Fish Face Sam and Circus Saul, who were poised in front of the bandstand,
as if shielding it from attack.
On the stage, the washtub bass player - a tall, lanky
young man with a pixie-like grin - leaned over and cranked up the speakers.
Although I didn't know it at the time, the pixie was Kerry Fahey. Meanwhile,
Jan and Alita shouted encouragement and shook it up so hard that their
various parts were in danger of flying off into the crowd. The main thing
was that the louder music and boob and butt shaking worked its charm,
momentarily diverting attention from the rude intrusion of the cops.
Captain Emory shouted something at Sam and Saul. Both
men shrugged and made motions - we can't hear you. Emory shouted louder,
his face purpling with effort. Still, no dice. Frustrated, he reached
out - he badly wanted to grab someone by the shirt front. His hand started
toward the behemoth that was Fish Face, thought better of it, and veered
for the much shorter - and way older - Saul. Mr. Blumenthal grinned an
innocent grin and took the captain's hand as if it were being offered
for a shake. Then, with no noticeable effort on his part, he squeezed.
Emory's face turned white.
At first he tried to match the handshake man-to-man.
But soon he was so far outclassed that his jaw dropped and he tried to
come in closer to relieve the pressure. Circus Saul stepped back and tightened
his grip. I thought Emory was going to drop to his knees. None of his
officers had any idea what was going down - they were too busy falling
in lust with Jan and Alita. Emory's left hand came around, trying to claw
for his gun or club, but everything was on the wrong side.
I slipped forward, my press badge raised high. I caught
Fish Face's attention first, who nudged Circus Saul. When Saul spotted
me he smiled a pearly denture-white smile and released Emory's hand. Emory
stood there gasping in pain and humiliation and he honest-to-God tried
to get out his gun with his freed right hand but it was so numb he couldn't
maintain a grip on the butt.
Then he spotted me and my press badge and I could see
the conflicting emotions running through his brain. Could he or could
he not get away with really hurting some people? Maybe he could break
my head as well. On the other hand, I was the press. And as that registered
I saw that he was starting to wonder if this might be a setup.
I made motions at the deli/wine shop, which was only
a few yards away, and mouthed the words: "Let's all go talk."
Emory hesitated, then nodded. I led the way and soon the four of us were
behind the thick glass doors of the deli, the music and crowd sounds reduced
to a mere roar. With no orders, the police officers were just standing
around enjoying the show. The crowd soon forgot their presence and everybody
just got down and grooved, as we said in the days when vinyl records had
grooves to accept diamond-tipped needles.
Emory got to the point. "This is an unlawful gathering.
Shut it down voluntarily, or I will do it myself."
Fish Face guffawed - a belly laugh from a protuberance
King Kong would've envied. "Why, shucks, sheriff," he said in
a mock drawl. "What's unlawful about folks jes' havin' a little fun."
He shook his head. "Shoot, I 'member the time in Juneau when the
whole town turned out for a drunk that lasted a week-and-a-half. Nobody
hurt, 'cept some greenhorns who fucked with some sleepy sled dogs."
"This is not Juneau, Alaska," Captain Emory
growled. "This is Venice, California, where crime and drugs are rampant.
Why, as I exited my car I smelled the distinctive odor of marijuana."
In a thick Bronx accent, Circus Saul said, "Are
you sure it wasn't the barbecue you were smelling, officer? We're barbecuing
the hamburgers and the kosher hot dogs and the beef ribs. This is a day
of music and food and celebration."
Emory said, "I don't care what you're serving. There's
too many people here. It constitutes a mob. And on private property no
Fish Face snorted. "This here's our private property,
sheriff. And if I have my druthers, you'll get your ass and your deputies'
asses off our range pronto."
"Don't call me sheriff," Emory roared.
Saul waved an admonishing finger at the giant who was
his partner. "This fellow was never elected by anyone, Sam,"
he said. He turned back to Emory. "If truth be told, and I always
tell the truth, I didn't even vote for your boss - Mayor Whatchamacallit."
He was referring to the less than honorable Mayor Sam Yorty. "But
I did take the trouble to visit City Hall and get a permit for this event."
He nudged his big buddy. "Show him, Sam."
Sam grinned hugely, pulling out a large document and
shaking it in front of Emory's face. "Shit fire and save the matches,"
Fish Face said. "Seems this here ain't no unlawful assembly after
Emory's face was expressionless. Sam said, "But
you knew this already, didn't you, Captain."
Emory nodded. "It's unlawful if I determine that
a riot might occur," he said. "And that's my determination as
of this minute."
While he'd been talking, Smitty had slipped into the
deli and was recording the whole tension-filled scene with his motor drive
Nikon. Captain Emory suddenly realized that he was there.
"Who the hell is he?" he roared. "This
is a private meeting. Official police business. Anything happens here
is off the goddamned record."
Smitty paused to adjust his angle, then kept on shooting,
except he'd turned on his flash so it was going, pop, pop, pop - illuminating
the rage of the good Captain Emory.
I said, "I'm sorry if you misunderstood, Captain,
but I never mentioned anything about this being off the record."
I indicated my notebook, filled with many pages of my frantic scribbling.
"But I have to wrap this up pretty quick and get outside before the
Emory stiffened. "Riot? What riot?"
Ignoring him, I turned to Smitty. "Looks like things
are going to get pretty hot when Captain Emory starts arresting people.
Maybe you ought to call in some backup."
Smitty nodded. "That's what I was thinking,"
he said. He looked around, spotted a pay phone by the door and headed
for it. "Shouldn't take long," he said.
I fixed my attention on Sam and Saul, ignoring the livid
commander of the Venice Division. I said, "We've got a stringer for
Time Magazine on the photo staff. Add Country Joe MacDonald to the equation
and you guys are guaranteed national coverage." I paused for effect,
then added with unconcealed glee, "Congratulations, gentlemen. Through
no fault of you own, you and 'Businessmen For Peace' are about to get
a couple of million dollars worth of free national advertising."
"Free," Fish Face said. "My favorite word."
"I like free and national advertising better,"
Circus Saul said. He turned to Emory. "Be our guest, Captain. You'll
be doing us a big favor when you start that riot."
Fish Face said, "Kinda odd, you know? Over in little
old Woodstock, New York, the cops there just oversaw thousands of kids
havin' a good time for themselves. Listenin' to music, dancin', doing
things kids do in the summertime." He shook his head in mock sadness.
"And here we are in sophisticated Los Angeles, with a bitty crowd
at a vest pocket mall tryin' to hear some tunes. And the cops are about
to start a riot." He looked at the heavens. "Have mercy on him,
Lord. He's just a poor ignoramus."
Once again I saw a look on Captain Emory's face that
made me wonder if he was going to shoot us all. Instead, he growled an
oath, turned on his heels and stalked out the door. A moment later all
the squad cars peeled away.
Then there was loud applause for the opening band, followed
by wild cheers for the featured act as Country Joe MacDonald and his band
mounted the platform.
Joe roared into the microphone: "Give me an F."
The crowd shouted "F!"
"Gimme a U."
"U!" "Gimme a C."
"Gimme a K."
"What's that spell?"
"What's that spell?
"I can't here you!"
I still can't hear you!
Then he and the band broke into the Vietnam Rag:
"And it's one, two, three
What are we fighting for?
Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,
Next stop is Vietnam.
And it's five, six, seven
Open up the pearly gates,
Well, there ain't no time to wonder why,
Whoopee! We're all gonna die
The crowd sang along in a thunderous voice the gods would
And it's one, two, three
What are we fighting for?
Don't ask me, I don't give a damn,
Next stop is Vietnam."
© 2005 Allan Cole, used with permission
Webslave's note: Tales Of The Blue Meanie
can be obtained here.
Check out www.acole.com for further
information about Allan and his books and screenplays.