Dark Side of the 60's Moon - Mike Marino (best novels to read in english .txt) 📗

On the road to Woodstock the highway was paved with rolling papers, song and our six dollar a day festival tickets.  Myrika, always blue eyed and smiling,  busted out her trusty Gibson guitar as we folk sang our way onward to mirth, music, mud and art in a soon to be farmers field of mud and rock and roll dreams. To borrow a phrase from the song, “by the time we got to Woodstock” which is actually Bethel, New York, we were mired in a traffic jam to equal the embassy evacuation of Saigon at the wars “peace with honor” big kick finish.

When we  arrived at Alice’s festival wonderland, we spent an hour finding a berth for the camper where we would headquarter in between a Jimi Hendrix waa waa Star Spangled Banner and a Joe Cocker arm flailing gonzo extravaganza, interspersed with Wavy Gravy clowning around and Chip Monk’s deep as the ocean voice warning us about the brown acid while preparing us for the musical assault of The Who.  Christ, good thing we brought our own….deep grape purples, orange sunshine and strawberry….if acid were a fruit, we were organic as hell before it was popular among the Granola Generation of today.

All went well, even during the rain deluge cast down upon us sinners had descended on us. Rain chants, rain chants, cowbells,  tambourines, bongos, and bongs... keep the rolling papers dry at all costs. Don’t let Carlos Santana get electrocuted before “Soul  Sacrifice” and Ten Years After blasts off with “Going Home”....I still do a pretty mean air guitar rendition of both on my invisible highly prized 1947 Gibson I can’t afford. I can dream can’t I?

Elsewhere during that August we  saw an increase in protests against the war fire up across the so called LBJ bullshit Great Society of the  United States in urbane New York City, lights, cameras, action Los Angeles, the American Beltway Reichstag of Washington D.C, and other urban concrete jungle  battlefields to demand that the United States withdraw from its attempted rape of Vietnam.

The National Mobilization Committee, the Student Mobilization Committee, and the Socialist Workers Party were among the groups that helped organize the demonstrations, while Quakers held sit-ins at draft boards and committed other acts of civil disobedience in more than 30 cities across the Woody Guthrie empire from sea to shining sea.

In Vietnam, Ray Kopek, another friend of Mickey and Joey’s from Detroit was in the middle of a fierce firefight near the border of Cambodia. The rain had been torrential for days, and keeping your sanity while fighting blood sucking leeches and mosquitos the size of B-52’s was draining. The foxholes were filled with thick mud and the blood and bodies of the not so grateful dead. RPG’s were ripping the jungle and bodies apart as neatly as a butcher slices a fine lean cut of meat. Later we found out, much later, Ray had checked out that same day, one of many KIA  body bag casualties of American democracy’s misguided efforts to force feed a country a political philosophy she barely understands the mechanics of herself.

Myrika and Kaylee, this fine day, (for us anyway, not Ray Kopek and company) were sexy,  stoned and curious, not oblivious and wanted to make love in the mud. We did have our tent set up and Danny Two Horse and I decided, why not.

“Can you keep it up in the storm,” Myrika shot at me with a Berlin grin.

“I will be King Arthur’s sword. Just call me Excaliber!” I exclaimed and claimed bravely.
Then added, “Do you want an erection as strong as the Berlin Wall or merely  to cream in your bootleg American jeans?”

Kaylee couldn’t resist jumping in as both her and Myrika had bonded  with a volcanic girl  crush intensity recently. Close quarters in a small camper removes all inhibitions, in fact can spawn a decent level of exibitionism for we hedonists in sheep’s clothing.

Danny Two Horse, who could enter and leave a spiritual realm at will shape shifting, or so he claimed,  wondered aloud adding to the growing sex as comedy routine.

“Ever fuck a Communist? You know, one of those Moscow mama’s?”

Myrika, no stranger to living on the other side of the wall from Communist East Berlin had a ready answer.  “Das Kapital is not exactly the Kama Sutra and the ABC’s of the KGB do not add up to a capitalistic romp under the hammer and sickle bed covers. You could have a go with a steamy Socialist from the Ukraine,  but a vagina from the Volga will out perform a Democratic Socialist every time.  The Communist lover does it for the party!”

I get it, I added, “Your hammer and her sickle can make sex one of the most exciting experiences since East Germans tried to jump the Berlin Wall to freedom. Does the Communist girl  use protection, like red star sponges  to block the little sperm spies from  her Motherland Motherland?”

“Look Mickey,” Myrika chastised sarcastically,  “if you’re hot to Trotsky for sex in the Kremlin...you may find a willing Commie in a closet..but until then you’ll have to find red star gold star vaginas in Vietnam….North Korea...China...or Cuba...oh...or Madison, Wisconsin!”

“I got it,” I lied poorly, “The next time I  run into a commie bombshell..don’t say Fuck You….say it loud and say it proud...FUCK ME!!!”

Now I had this acid fantasy of fucking Myrika in Red Square during a May Day Parade!

After three tie dyed spare change days of Woodstocking we fired up the V-Dub “Flashback” camper for  the long, jam packed highway back to Michigan and ultimately our Canadian Island enclave. We’d been away too long and had to get back to work. Fighting against the draft and neutralizing the American war machine was not a 9 -5 Brooks Brothers suit gig you know. It was torn frayed  jeans and faded army field jackets.

We made it to Detour Village in Michigan’s UP, stored the camper in Danny Two Horse’s garage and fired up the Johnson outboard on our Chris Craft boat and wound our way through the bass laden maze of Michigan’s  Les Cheneaux Islands to the sanctuary of our island in the Canadian Manitoulin island chain. There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, even if that home was an anti-war stop over assembly line for on the run political enemies of the state, or the Commonwealth of Canada, or even Scotland Yard.

Kaylee’s brother and some of the other members of the Michigan chapter of the American Indian Movement kept watch of things while we were in the spirit world of rock and roll...Gimme an F!!! We had them  especially keep a wary eye on Joey and the mysterious Paul he brought with him.

After the usual “thank you’s we’ll take over from here” social graces were given, Olivia came running down to the dock to greet us. Baby China was in her arms smiling and drooling as babies will do. Wino’s do that too after a night with the Pink Lady of Sterno. So do mental patients  suffering from one too many alien abductions and anal probes.  

“Are you worried, and thinking what I’m thinking?” Danny asked. “I don’t trust that Paul dude. Out of the blue he shows up. He asks too many questions from what I was just told as far as I’m concerned.”

“I know what you mean, but, it’s Joey who worries me too. Damn junkie gonna get us all busted one day. Paul? Dunno yet. We’re back now so  we’ll dig a little deeper then figure out what to do.” Paper or Plastic? Bullet or Bludgeon to death?

Myrika, ever the optimist was a gentle Japanese wind chime in the breeze of of trust compared to my “fire when you see  the whites of their eyes” sarcasm and wariness.

“Olivia, where’s Joey? I thought he’d at least bring a beer or two for the wandering gypsies,” I queried masking my suspicious nature.

“He and Paul went to the mainland for supplies and probably a pub or two. They do like Canadian beer,” she replied. Hell who doesn’t I thought to myself.

Myrika took Baby China in her arms and reminded us we had work to do.
“Remember, we have a rehearsal now of the two new plays you wrote. First show is in two weeks on St. Joe’s during the Saturday Fest you know. Go on, go...grab the others and go. Olivia, Kaylee and I will get us unpacked.”

We rounded up our motley crew of hangers on draft dodgers who came and decided to help out around the place and act in the productions,  and believe me it was welcome help indeed. Within a month we’d have to get them to Canada as winter was coming in a few months and we couldn’t risk getting a lot of “passengers” over. The lake would freeze but wouldn’t be safe for an army of snowmobiles for awhile yet. Besides, we only had two old Arctic Cat machines that needed fixing up. Our winter transportation to and from the U.P.

By late afternoon we were, scripts in hand, thespians awaiting the smell of the greasepaint and the roar of the crowd. They plays had subtle anti-war messages we were trying to impart disguised as “art” for arts sake.

The rehearsal curtain rose, tattered and faded we had commandeered from an old movie theater in Sault Ste. It had weathered many performances but they had taken their toll on the fabric and it was not a brilliant hue anymore. The actors had taken their positions according to direction and the vision and were ready to breath life into the script, giving wing to the words they spoke that spilled forth from the keys of my typewriter. The Sixties was a stage show of sorts, a hallucinogenic lightshow , colorful..tie-dyed peace and love giving  birth to a sexual and political revolution although it was changing rapidly.
A factor of violence was emerging and soon  gunpowder and pipe bombs were becoming the latest leftist fashion statement. Our plays were to extol a peaceful revolution...an evolution if you will. No bombs….just bongs..

Rehearsal was under way when suddenly we heard the sound of an outboard motor of an RCMP boat patrol. At first I thought it was Joey and Paul in our only other boat. Surprise!
Danny was the first to intercept them. Cops….great. At least they were Canadian cops. No itchy trigger finger. Calm, reasoning, trustworthy. Lt. Sayer, was the first to holler a “hello” in greeting.

“Lt., we weren’t speeding were we,” in my