The Battle for People's Park, an Only Slightly Fictionalized Account

Creating the park

The following is excerpted from a novel I am writing. This except is from a chapter about the battle for People's Park which took place in Berkeley in May of 1969. It is based largely on my own experiences as well as the memories of others who were there. (See video.)

I’d had two classes in the morning, studied at the library for two hours then headed over to People’s Park where I’d been helping for weeks with everything from putting down sod to tilling new gardens to serving food. I loved the park. It was a haven for a lot of us, but more than that it was an ideal. Located off Telegraph Avenue a few blocks from campus, the property was owned by the university but had fallen into disuse. A businessman named Mike Delacour who had a shop on Telegraph, conceived the idea of turning the land, which occupied the better part of a city block, into a place for concerts and, more importantly, where people could hang out and meet. Word spread and eventually on any given weekend day there would be up to three thousand people working at the park. No one got paid and no one was at all interested in a money. We were there to build something for the community. And there were all sorts who showed up: residents of the neighborhood, hippies, activists, students, professors and the curious. A few grad students in landscape architecture even came by to contribute design ideas. In addition to putting down sod and planting, we put up swings, slides, a sandbox and wading pool. We cooked huge pots of stew, people brought other food, there was booze and grass, people played music. I was involved almost from the beginning and I was amazed at how smoothly everyone worked together, despite the fact that so much of what he did was improvised. It was a form of activism without confrontation, without police, without tear gas, without throwing rocks. The whole vibe was positive and reflected the better aspects of the Telegraph scene. It was like a natural extension of the shops, bookstores, coffee houses, artisans and eclectic mix of people who hung out on the avenue. There was little opposition to what was going on. However, one of my housemates, Benny, and other Marxists, complained at first that workers didn’t need a park, they needed fair wages. Other activists objected to all the energy that was going into it given that the war and draft were still primary issues. But a lot of us felt that the park was a natural supplement to our anti-war efforts. I argued that we were making an important statement by repatriating an area that once belonged to Indians and using it for communal purposes, exactly as the native tribes would have. Benny, like many others, eventually came around to see the park as a positive force that brought people together for something that served the common good. There had been rumors lately that the university was going to take back the park and turn it into a soccer field. Some people saw such a move as inevitable and others claimed that if the university had let us get this far, there’s no way they’d risk the enmity that would come from destroying the park.

Sign from author's collection

Before dinner Benny and I watched the evening news. There were claims that two thousand North Vietnamese and Viet Cong had been killed in three days. Benny said, “if you add up the number of people we’re supposed to have killed over there I bet it would amount to the entire North Vietnamese population twice over.”

“Yeah,” I said, “and while we’re crediting ourselves with killing say a thousand of them, somehow there’s only like five or six U.S. casualties.”

“All lies and bullshit,” Benny said.

The next morning as I was walking to campus my friend, Rennie excitedly approached me.

“David, the pigs have fucked up the park and put a fence around it.”

“Fucked it up how?”

“They bulldozed it.”

“Assholes!” I was livid.

“We knew they were going to do something, but this is beyond what I’d imagined.”

“We can’t let this stand, this is complete bullshit.”

“We have to respond.”

Someone who overheard our conversation told us that the park would be the focus of the day’s noon rally at Sproul. 

As we gathered for the rally the anger was palpable. Around me people were expressing anger, disbelief and confusion, as well as a determination to take action.

The last of the speakers was student body president-elect, Dan Siegel, he captured the zeitgeist of the moment and rallied us when he said: "Now, we have not yet decided exactly what we are going to do. But there are some plans, I have a suggestion, let's go down to the People's Park, because we are the people. But a couple of things, a couple of points I would like to make. If we are to win this thing, it is because we are making it more costly for the University to put up its fence, than it is for them to take down their fence. What we have to do then, is maximize the cost to them, minimize the cost to us. So what that means, is people be careful. Don't let those pigs beat the shit out of you, don't let yourselves get arrested on felonies, go down there and take the park." 

The flood gates were open and en masse we started marching down Telegraph Avenue toward the park, chanting, “we want the park, we want the park!”

I was inspired, alive, adrenaline surging through me. I had no conception, nor even a thought as to what would happen once we reached the park, I was exclusively within each second and each step I took. I was awash in the righteousness of a cause and a determination to act in community with my fellows.

We were within two blocks of Haste Street, where you would turn left to get to the park, when the large police presence became evident. We had been a mellow crowd, then someone turned on a fire hydrant. The cops didn’t hesitate, they shot or threw — I couldn’t tell which — tear gas canisters at us. In response people threw rocks. The scene had changed dramatically in a matter of seconds. A peaceful march had become a battle. 

People screamed, people shouted in anger, people ran, people looked for anything they could find to throw. Many threw the tear gas canisters back. I was in a state of disbelief. They tear down our park and then when we march in peaceful protest they attack us. 

I snapped out of it and was overcome with anger. I joined a cluster of protestors on Haste just below Telegraph and like my compatriots threw anything I could get my hands on at the police. Police! They were truly pigs to me at the moment. I’d never thrown anything at anyone before but picked up a coke bottle and hurled it through the air. Then I found a chunk of brick and tossed that. A canister landed among us and exploded. I ran south down Telegraph.

I looked back and saw a woman in a nurse’s uniform being beaten by cops. I looked forward and saw someone leaning against a car just watching. A cop came up behind him and put him in a chokehold with his nightstick.

There were many types of police: Berkeley City Police, UC campus police. Highway Patrolmen and later, the dreaded Blue Meanies.

We drifted a block further down Telegraph to Dwight Way. A few feet from me someone I knew named Chris was felled by a blast from a shotgun. “They’re shooting birdshot at us!” Someone shouted. A protestor who’d been a medic in Vietnam tended to Chris.

The Blue Meanies had arrived and were shooting at us. This was new. This was an even greater violation. This was a war and we were unarmed. 

There was a malevolence to police actions as if these helmeted monstrosities were alien robots programmed for mayhem.

A girl to my right screamed “fuck you! Fuck you pigs!” With such rage and power that I was shaken at the same time I sympathized with her.

I saw an elderly woman across the street knocked down by a cop. Demonstrators rushed to aide her. A man crossed the street to help. A cop told him to get back. “I’m a doctor, I want to help this woman,” he pleaded. The cop charged him, his baton raised. The doctor was lucky, he escaped. I saw some who weren’t so lucky. Most people who were caught, received beatings, sometimes from more than one officer. 

A jeep drove down the street spraying tear gas. 

Further down the street a police car was upended and set afire, sending thick flumes of black smoke into the air to mix with the white of the tear gas. Berkeley was resembling a battle field. 

Police and protestors were scattered all over the area. Protestors were in groups ranging from a two or three to dozens. The police seemed hell-bent on exacting revenge on everyone for the objects that had been thrown at them. There was a malevolence to their actions as if these helmeted monstrosities were alien robots programmed for mayhem.

I ran back toward campus, then returned to as near as People’s Park as I could. I ran west down Dwight Way then along Dana, then up Bancroft Way then back to campus. I didn’t know where I was going or why. I was filled with rage and confusion and was suffused with energy that had to be exhausted. I saw people who I knew were not involved being shot or shot at. I saw pepper fog machines indiscriminately spraying their foul and hurtful smoke. I saw protestors swearing and throwing rocks and bottles. I saw, to paraphrase Allen Ginsberg, the best minds of my generation destroyed by anger, raging, hysterical, confused. 

I came upon a tall young man who was bleeding from a facial wound. A medic from the Berkeley Free Clinic was tending to his wound. I heard someone say, “I did a tour in Vietnam and in a way this is as bad. At least over there the enemy was from another country.” 

Flyer from author's collection

Back on Telegraph I was filled with impotent rage, watching a girl being dragged along the ground by cops and a protestor being struck repeatedly in the arms and back by another cop. I saw Blue Meanies aiming and firing at people who were running away. I wanted desperately to do something. Something more meaningful and effective than throwing a rock. 

But there was nothing I could do, nothing. Nothing. I reared my head back and emitted a full-throated primal scream.

Hours after beginning a peaceful march down Telegraph, I was spent. Bone weary, hungry, thirsty and permanently embittered. I went home.

Benny and my other housemate, Rupert, were on the sofa relating their versions of the day’s events. I opened a beer and bag of potato chips and joined them. War stories. There was an odd mixture of giddiness and despair in our talk as the adrenaline that had been surging through us gradually began to dissipate.

“This cannot stand,” Benny finally said. “The pigs were as bad today as what people saw in Chicago. You were there, David, what do you think?”

“Chicago was different in a lot of ways but it’s the same basic idea of a police state in which the pigs act with impunity. There were people who were obviously not even involved who were shot.”

“The pigs went buck-ass wild today,” Rupert said. “I’ll never be the same, I’ve never seen anything like it.” Rupert’s usual bravado was gone. It was as if he was suffering from shell shock.

Benny said, “I heard a guy got shot in the stomach on the roof of a building on Telegraph. He was a bystander. Another dude nearby got shot in the eyes and may have been blinded.”

That night fucking Governor Reagan imposed martial law. We heard on the news that there was a curfew from ten at night until six in the morning. And perhaps most chillingly of all was the announcement that: “No person shall conduct or participate in a meeting, assembly, or parade or use a sound or voice amplifier in or upon the public streets or other public place in the city of Berkeley, including the campus of the University of California.”

“They’ve declared war on the people,” Benny said.

“This is truly a police state,” Rupert added.

The next morning it was chilling to have the national guard in Berkeley. Troops stood in formation at downtown intersections. How intimidating it was to see armed soldiers, bayonets at the ready, ammo-filled bandoliers across their chests, trained to follow orders and attack when called upon. Large trucks filled with soldiers rode the streets. We were living in an occupied city. 

They really meant to quash us. The seriousness of the situation was overwhelming. They had already beaten and shot us and now the army was here.

Yet there was no way that we were going to comply with the dictates of our fascist leaders. The people assembled that day at a peaceful noon rally on Sproul Plaza. But the cops eventually forced us deeper into campus. Later we massed in front of city hall. There was no violence by either side. After the events of the day before, it all seemed serene, tranquil — assuming you could ignore the thousands of rifle-bearing national guardsmen in the streets.

I was numb from the previous day’s carnage. I had long ago aligned myself with the far left and against the establishment powers, but today, for the first time, I realized that as much as I disliked them, they hated me. They hated what I stood for and what I represented. I was a threat, an enemy and they’d just as soon see me in jail or dead as walking the streets. But I also felt the power of a community of brethren, people who shared my belief in the park, stopping the war, ending racism, spreading peace and love. I had chosen sides and I knew mine took the righteous path. 

I was so overcome by feelings that night I could do little more than listen to music and flip through magazines. I ended the evening numbly watching television.

I called Ronnie in San Jose and told him what was going on in Berkeley and how I felt. “Now you know what it’s like to be black in this country. You’re scared now, we're scared all the fucking time. Cops always trying to mess with us. Welcome to our world.”

Ronnie’s brutal honesty was revelatory, if not comforting.

James Rector

Two days later we learned that James Rector, who had been shot by the police on what was now being called Bloody Thursday, died. Previously the police had claimed they’d only used relatively harmless birdshot, but the doctors treating Rector removed lethal buckshot. The cops were killers and liars. 

We massed for a rally in Sproul Plaza then began a mostly silent memorial march destined for downtown. We marched under Sather Gate to the Campanile, then turned west toward the city streets. But at Oxford Street, where the campus effectively ended, national guard troops blocked our path. We were forced back toward Sproul. Sather Gate was now blocked by soldiers as was the campus entrance at Bancroft and Telegraph. While people were allowed to enter the plaza, no one could leave. It began to dawn on us that we were trapped. There was growing confusion that was metastasizing into anger and, in some, fear.

Then in the distance we heard a helicopter. Initially this did not strike me as unusual, but as it grew closer we saw that it was coming directly over us. I looked up at it.

Large plumes of tear gas came wafting down from the helicopter. Our own fucking government was spraying us like we were so many insects. 

I’d never been so dumbstruck in my life.

People around me panicked and ran, many screaming. I stood still for a few seconds looking up in utter disbelief before I too sprinted out of the lower plaza. As I did the cops started shooting tear gas canisters at us. Marchers were running helter skelter as if injected with a deadly cocktail of fear and confusion. I managed to keep my cool and decided I was going to run back toward Oxford and get the hell off campus and go home. 

But it wasn’t going to be easy. Police in full riot gear including gas masks were scattered about grabbing and arresting whoever they could nab. By keeping my cool, looking where I was going and taking evasive action, I made it to West Crescent Lawn, a large grassy area that ended at Oxford. Lining the street were cops eight to ten feet apart. I stopped and watched as fleeing protestors were grabbed as they tried to break the line. But I saw an opportunity. I picked a spot between two cops and when someone ran between them and they descended on him I ran through the gap thus created.

I got to Oxford where there were a line of paddy wagons that were quickly filling up. A cop emerging from one of them made a grab for me but I turned and ran up Oxford towards University Avenue never looking back. I didn’t stop running for several blocks, by which time the cop had given up the pursuit. 

I went home where I found Benny and Rupert in animated conversation. Rupert had missed the day’s activities and Benny was filling him in. Benny and I compared experiences. Rupert told us that he’d heard that tear gas had been carried by the day’s breezes all over campus, into neighborhoods and to both a nursery school and junior high. It had sickened many in the area including small children.

Two days later Rupert and I were heading downtown in  another march. It was calm despite the heavy police and national guard presence. But I’d only had a bowl of cereal for breakfast so as we neared Shattuck Avenue I decided I needed to get something to eat. I broke away from the march with plans to rejoin it after having a snack. I ended up going to a place called Top Dog and having a hot dog and soda. A friend of mine was working there and I talked to him for awhile. I headed back down Shattuck Avenue and saw a mass of marchers all crowded into a Bank of America parking lot, surrounded by cops and guardsmen. There was no way to access the group and it soon became evident that they were all being held for arrest. I could see Rupert among the several hundred people so trapped. I stood by helplessly as they were loaded into waiting vans and, as I later learned, driven thirty miles to the county prison in Santa Rita. As it turned out among those arrested were dozens of bystanders who had been out shopping or running errands. I felt both terrible for Rupert and greatly relieved for myself. I went home feeling depressed and defeated. 

“It’s beginning to seem hopeless,” I said to Benny.

“That’s understandable, great struggles are like that with depressing low points. But remember what Marx said: ‘The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win.’ We cannot give up or let up, we’ve got to push on.”

I admired Benny’s faith that the people would some day rise and that there would be a real revolution that would cleanse the country of capitalism, but I couldn’t share that optimism. Not now, not today, not with Rupert arrested. Not with soldiers in our streets.

The next day Rupert told us how brutally he and the other arrestees were treated. “When we got off the bus at Santa Rita, I made the mistake of looking around and so was taken aside and forced to remain kneeling for hours. Others who did the same or spoke out of turn suffered the same fate. I saw a kid, probably high school age, dragged by his hair and beaten. Someone else was forced to lean his head against a post while the cops beat on the post. He began bleeding, I’m not sure from where. They were beating people for anything and nothing and cussing at us and threatening more. The lucky ones, who were not beaten, had to lay on the gravely ground for hours, some where hit with nightsticks or even punched for any kind of movement. I have never felt such hatred or fear in my life. There were times I thought I was going to be killed or suffer permanent injury. It wasn’t until ten that night that we were led into the barracks, but we couldn’t sleep because the pigs kept making noise and getting us up to exercise. The sadistic bastards were actually having fun. I was called everything from an ‘asshole’ to a stinking hippie.’”

Benny’s family lawyer had bailed Rupert out.

I’d known Rupert for nearly a year and in that time he had always been implacable. Always grinning, making wisecracks, teasing, I’d never seen him shaken and sullen and dispirited. He was that morning. 

In the coming days there were more rallies and marches, there was an ecological teach-in and on Memorial Day tens of thousands marched peacefully through the streets of Berkeley in support of the park. But the cumulative effect of Rupert’s story, my nearly being arrested as well, the helicopter attack, James Rector’s death and Bloody Thursday had worn me to a nub.

Rupert and Benny tried to coax me into joining the Memorial Day march but I stayed home and studied and sipped tea and listened to classical music on the radio. I even passed up an invitation to a barbecue. I needed a goddamned break.

Presenting: Vibes 'N' Stuff -- 52 Years After I Found it, Someone's Lost Jottings

In the early Spring of my sophomore year in high school I was walking on Shattuck Avenue, Berkeley’s main downtown street, when I saw a small red notebook on the ground. I picked it up, saw that it was someone’s jottings and further noted there was no way of identifying the person or locating him (it clearly had belonged to a male). I have held onto the notebook for fifty-two years and am today publishing it’s contents verbatim.

In seven days of "jottings" the author managed to give a snippet of the Haight Ashbury and Berkeley, particularly the Telegraph Avenue area. Tis indeed a slice of history and a good representation of the types of people who wandered into and around the Bay Area -- particularly San Francisco and Berkeley -- in the Sixties.

The author called himself Dutch. As you will note he was from New York. I guess that he was in his early twenties although he could have been in his late teens or in his thirties. I still, to this day feel bad that he lost his notebook, an account of his first visit to the San Francisco Bay Area, and that I had no means to locate him. 

I’ve hung on to the notebook giving myself only vague reasons why I should. Within a few years of its discovery, it was already seeming to me to be  an interesting cultural artifact from the Sixties. As it happens I am currently working on a novel set in Berkeley in the Sixties which reminded me of the notebook.

Where is Dutch today? Did he die later that year? Last week? Ten years ago? Or is he alive and well? Did he settle in the Bay Area or go back to New York or somewhere else? Did he continue to use drugs? Did he become an addict? Or did he quit all but alcohol in the coming years?

I transcribed every word of the notebook without editing. Any mistakes in punctuation, spelling or grammar are the original author’s, not mine. ( I also did not subject the reader to a succession of parenthetical "sics.") I did make two minor changes, once he accidentally put ’68 instead of ’69 I fixed that and his misspelling of Berkeley. In any event there wouldn’t have been a lot to change because Dutch was clearly a good writer and his grammar and spelling weren’t bad. Thankfully he also boasted excellent penmanship and I didn’t have to struggle to ascertain so much as a word.

Some questions come up when reading the notebook. Most notably, why was he “kicked out” of the crash pad? He offers no explanation. Maybe it wasn’t worth noting or perhaps he was embarrassed by something he’d done. I'll leave the reader to discover and contemplate other questions that arise

For barely a week’s worth of entries there are a slew of Runyonesque sounding characters, to wit: Jailhouse Mike, Baby Sonny, JC and Weasel. 

I’d love to have discovered a month or more’s worth of Dutch’s writings but then again I’m glad he lost only the one week. (The entries start on a Monday and end the following Sunday). I hope upon the sad discovery of losing the notebook he immediately bought a new one and kept better care of it. Maybe he fashioned his entries into a book. 

So many questions and so much to ponder. Here it is:

Inside cover:

Property of Dutch

“Vibes ’n’ Stuff”

The mental meanderings of a frustrated, paranoid, smoke freak and acid head

24 Mar. ’69

Frisco - first impressions

Hit Frisco today hung around Market st for a while. Too much like Times Square don’t need it.

Wended my way up to Haight. One of my first impressions was that good breathing air is in plentiful supply. Haven’t checked out the whole scene yet but Haight st. is nice. Found a groovy park where everyone seems to while away the daylight hours.

Green, free and groovy. Shirts don’t appear to be mandatory and if the man is around he doesn’t make himself evident kids, dogs and sunshine just the way a park should be…people just grooving on life and living, with congas for background and overhead Hip American’s contributions to the space race, frisbees whirl and dive.

It is good here, I think. I’m going to like it here.

                                              More Goodies

Things are looking up sooner than I had anticipated. Met Cici this afternoon, haven’t seen her since last June in New York she’s just as gorgeous a she ever was. She turned me on to some people who could help me get a place to crash. She tells me I can expect to run into more people from New York and there are more coming.

It is rumored that a coming earthquake will send the Bay Area sliding into the sea. I, for one, feel that it’s probably a good thing. It’s about time San Francisco seceded from the Union, anyhow.

Am now ensconced in a Haight St. coffee, tea and palate delectation emporium called Brother Juniper’s Inn. Place is staffed by young people in monastic garb. Prices are reasonable and there does not appear to be a limit on how long one may mull over a cup of tea, but then I haven’t really tested their tolerance here yet, either. The atmosphere is conducive to thought and discussion, with the strains of classical music echoing gently of the wood paneled walls.

Since I have only just arrived, I haven’t met anyone to sit and discuss things with, I shall have to, for the time being confine my activities to thought and jotting my thoughts down in this here little notebook to pass the time.

Hmm, I may have a guest at my table. I was right. Mayhap something will develop. So far nothing is developing. Well, if this gentleman wishes to remain intellectually deprived, that’s his business. He blew it. He just got up and left. The evening is still young, tho who knows what could happen?

Aha! The chick who works here has been in New York recently. I thought she looked familiar. Let’s see what happens now. 

Hmmm, let’s see now. She used to work in the Gaslight and her old man is still there, he’s a dealer and his name is George. The description gets kind of graphic so I won’t bore you with details.

Well the sleeping arrangements came through so I’ll see you in the morning.

25 March 69

Well the place where I crashed last night is full of gay people which presents a bit of a problem. I think I can handle the hassle if I can get it through Larry’s head (it’s Larry’s pad) that I’m not the least bit interested in his particular scene.

I met a pretty cool dude today. He’s a biker named Jailhouse Mike, Mother’s Mike’s 2nd cousin, a very righteous dude. Want to hear a mindblower? Jailhouse is Baby Sonny’s legal Old Man. Sonny’s in L.A. on the strip and we may trip down there and say hello. Found out something else interesting. While I was checking out the S.F. Switchboard Mail list I discovered the name of one Dominic V. Love. So evidently he’s been here and might even still be here.

26 March 69

Spent the night in the back seat of a friends car. Somehow managed to sit on my shades and smash them all to shit, oh well. Jailhouse turned me on to a Phone Credit Card No. Might as well try it out by trying to call N.Y. and tell people what’s happening.

The Credit Card works but the damn phone didn’t and lost my dime. Oh well I’ll try again some other time. Spent most of the day running around and try to cash Mike’s fuckin Tax return check only problem is it’s a check and trying to cash it is like pulling Lion’s teeth and the lion has bad breath on top of everything else. We did bump into an old friend of Mike’s named Josh and we went over to his place and got turned on to some very groovy people and dinner. We smoked some and then one of the cats had to go to Berkeley so Mike and I went along to check things out. We are now in Berkeley at the Free Church, drinking tea and waiting further developments.

Just went for a walk and couldn’t believe how groovy this place is. I just hope it looks as good in the daylight as it does in the dark. I thought Frisco was nice but this place stands head and shoulders above it, so far. I had better get in touch with Celene and see if I can talk her out here.

27 Mar 69

Approaching the end of my first day in Berkeley and while I didn’t accomplish much I still had a pretty good time. I met a few people and we rapped and got stoned. Stoned shit, I haven’t been so wrecked since I left New York.

Read the War Lover this afternoon to kill time. Not a bad book but the flick was sure different.

Pretty cool scene out here. I can get established I’ll have it made.

28 March 69

Shades of the East Village, spent the night in a crash pad covered with wall to wall people got thrown out and am now ensconced in the same hotel in my own pad, mine and Mike’s.

Checked out Telegraph Ave, called Celene she’s fine and copped some Acid, some purple stuff, good shit.

29 March 69

Well, as you can probably tell from yesterdays final entry I was pretty fucked up when I tried to wrote it. Man, was I ever?! Things were pretty much a hassle last night besides.

Mike and I came home last night with the intention of rapping a while with a biker buddy of Mike’s named Guy, from Detroit and his Buddy, Ray from St. Louis. That part was going along as planned and then there was this rap on the door. I went and checked it out and it was this cat JC from the Free Church telling me about a couple of spaced out needle freaks who needed a place to crash. I wasn’t too hot on the idea at first but then I found that one of the dudes, a cat named Weasel had O.D’d on smack and needed to be off the street but bad so I let them in. We laid Weasel out on the bed so he could crash and then spent the rest of the night in a bullshit session. I crashed for a couple of hours and woke up in time to bid adieu to Weasel and Bill, his buddy, who were setting out to reclaim their stash. Me and Guy rapped for awhile, JC and Ray were gone and Mike was asleep and after a while me and Guy went up on the roof where I was shown scenic points around the Bay Area. Then we decided we’d go up on Telly Ave. and freak on the freaks we did that for a while and I figured I should bop back down to the hotel and catch up on my notes, which I am now doing. In a while I’m going to head up to the Church and see what’s happening. Oh yeah, they had services at the Church last night and it was really great, a dynamite trip. They had a band which was great and Communion and the whole thing was fantastic, especially when you stop to remember that I was tripping through the whole thing.

Am now in the Free Church in the Switchboard Office with Mike. They put on a free feed her tonite, rice beans and potatoes, not bad.

Right now they’ve run everyone out as preparations are being made for a play. This should be interesting. 

The play was funny as hell man, the only thing was, I kept falling out in the middle of it. Finally I went home and crashed.

30 March 69

Went down to the Church early this afternoon, not much happening. Wandered down to Provo Park and dug the band that was playing. They were pretty good and ever body was stoned.

Fucked around some more between the Church and the Ave. It’s getting late and I’m going to make it home in a little while.

Film Quotes Returns!

Paul Newman in The Verdict

Last Spring I revived the film quotes feature on this blog after seven years of dormancy. Since then I've compiled lists of quotes from foreign films, movies from the 1970s, Marx Brothers movies, Preston Sturges films and  my all-time favorites. In days of yore I had a list strictly from Woody Allen movies, and one with quotes strictly from female characters. Today I present another generic list with quotes from all genre of American films from the 1930s through last year. Enjoy!

Damn right I'm done. I'm going to ask for a mistrial. I'm going to request that you disqualify yourself from sitting on this case. I'm going to take a transcript to the State and ask that they impeach your ass! — Paul Newman as Frank Galvin in The Verdict (1983) Lumet.

I'm a connoisseur of roads. I've been tasting roads my whole life. This road will never end. It probably goes all around the world. — River Phoenix as Mike in My Own Private Idaho (1991) Van Sant.

It's no use, Schulz, you might as well come clean. Why don't you just tell them it's me, because I'm really the illegitimate son of Hitler, and after the Germans win the war, you're going to make me the Gauleiter of Zinzinnati! — William Holden as Sefton in Stalag 17 (1953) Wilder.

I didn't want to be born. You didn't want me to be born. It's been a calamity on both sides. — Bette Davis as Charlotte Vale in Now Voyager (1942) Rapper.

Here, taste my tuna casserole and tell if I put in too much hot fudge. — Woody Allen as Larry Lipton in Manhattan Murder Mystery (1993) Allen.

Frances McDormand in Nomadland

We be the bitches of the badlands. — Frances McDormand as Fern in Nomadland (2020) Zhao.

Carriages waited at the curb for the entire performance. It was widely known in New York, but never acknowledged, that Americans want to get away from amusement even more quickly than they want to get to it. — Joanne Woodward as the narrator in The Age of Innocence (1993) Scorsese.

I feel sorry for you. What it must feel like to want to pull the switch! Ever since you walked into this room, you've been acting like a self-appointed public avenger. You want to see this boy die because you personally want it, not because of the facts! You're a sadist! — Henry Fonda as Juror #8 in 12 Angry Men (1957) Lumet.

This country is run on epidemics, where you been? Price fixing, crooked TV shows, inflated expense accounts. How many honest men you know? Why you separate the saints from the sinners, you're lucky to wind up with Abraham Lincoln. Now I want out of this spread what I put into it, and I say let us dip our bread into some of that gravy while it is still hot. — Paul Newman as Hud Bannon in Hud (1963) Ritt.

Now you listen to me. If we lose this place, then you're goin' back to beggin' for every single meal. Mr. Will, They're gonna put you in a state home. And I'm gonna lose what's left of my family. I'm not gonna let that happen. I don't care what it takes. I don't care if it kills me. I don't care if it kills you. I'm not gonna give up. And if the two of you do, you can go straight to Hell! — Sally Field as Edna Spalding in Places in the Heart (1984) Benton.

Micro changes in air density, my ass. -- Sigourney Weaver as Ripley in Alien (1979) Scott.

Gene Hackman in The Royal Tenenbaums

I'm very sorry for your loss. Your mother was a terribly attractive woman. -- Gene Hackman as Royal Tenenbaum in The Royal Tenenbaums (2001) W. Anderson.

Ever since you moved in here you've been causin' me grief. Nobody wants to hang around you. You don't drink, you don't smoke. You don't do anything you're supposed to do! -- Shelly Duval as Millie in Three Women (1977) Altman.

It's for sure a white man's world in America. Look here: I raised that boy since he was the size of a piss-ant. And I'll say right now, he never learned to read and write. No, sir. Had no brains at all. Was stuffed with rice pudding between th' ears. Shortchanged by the Lord, and dumb as a jackass. Look at him now! Yes, sir, all you've gotta be is white in America, to get whatever you want. Gobbledy-gook! — Ruth Attaway as Louise in Being There (1979) Ashby.

Aww, what's the matter? You afraid I'll tell Jim Morrison you were dancing to Paul Revere & The Raiders? Are they not cool enough for you? — Margot Robbie as Sharon Tate in Once Upon a Time in Hollywood (2019) Tarantino.

My life is like a maze that I continually think I've gotten out of only to find another corner right in front of me. — Emma Stone as Abigail in The Favorite (2018) Lanthimos.

Oh, and you're ten times worse than he is. At least he had some excuse for kicking me around. He was in love with another woman. But you double-crossed me for the sake of a newspaper. Well, marry the paper and be the proud father of a lot of headlines. — Jean Harlow as Gladys in Libeled Lady (1936) Conway.

Cut it out! Cut it out! Cut it out! The hell's the matter with you? Stupid! We're all very different people. We're not Watusi. We're not Spartans. We're Americans, with a capital 'A', huh? You know what that means? Do ya? That means that our forefathers were kicked out of every decent country in the world. We are the wretched refuse. We're the underdog. — Bill Murray as John Winger in Stripes (1981) I. Reitman.

Zero Mostel in The Producers

How could this happen? I was so careful. I picked the wrong play, the wrong director, the wrong cast. Where did I go right? -- Zero Mostel as Max Bialystok in The Producers (1967) Brooks.

I've heard a lot about you, too, Doc. You left your mark around in Deadwood, Denver and places. In fact, a man could almost follow your trail goin' from graveyard to graveyard. — Henry Fonda as Wyatt Earp in My Darling Clementine (1946) Ford.

You go back and tell that fake Svengali I wouldn't wipe my feet on him if he were starving, and I hope he is.— Carole Lombard as Lily Garland in Twentieth Century (1934) Hawks.

You're my father again now, are you? And what were you when you encouraged me to throw my life away? Silly schoolgirls are always getting seduced by glamorous older men. — Carey Mulligan as Jenny in An Education (2009) Scherfig.

Yes, I'm an author of a young adult series. It's disturbingly popular. I like your decor. Is it, shabby chic? —Charlize Theron as Mavis Gray in Young Adult (2011) J. Reitman.

Now listen to me you benighted muckers. We're going to teach you soldiering. The world's noblest profession. When we're done with you, you'll be able to slaughter your enemies like civilized men. — Michael Caine as Daniel Dravot in The Man Who Would Be King (1975) Huston.

Then why did God plague us with the capacity to think? Mr. Brady, why do you deny the one faculty of man that raises him above the other creatures of the earth, the power of his brain to reason? What other merit have we? The elephant is larger, the horse is swifter and stronger, the butterfly is far more beautiful, the mosquito is more prolific. Even the simple sponge is more durable. But does a sponge think? — Spencer Tracy as Henry Drummond in Inherit the Wind (1960) Kramer.

Let me explain something to you. Um, I am not Mr. Lebowski. You're Mr. Lebowski. I'm the Dude. So that's what you call me. You know, that or, uh, His Dudeness, or uh, Duder, or El Duderino if you're not into the whole brevity thing. — Jeff Bridges as The Dude in The Big Lebowski (1998) Coens.

Lots Here: Silly Streaming, Act Fast! The Dangers of Telegrams, Please Reply, Nix on the Trespassing, Brit vs. Yank Lingo

Occasionally I pop over to Hulu to watch one of their offerings. First I get the main page which simply has their  name on it. Then I select myself, as opposed to a family member as we all share in the account. Then I get a message asking me to wait “while we gather what’s new.” Huh? Did I catch them by surprise? Were they totally unaware I might pop in on them? They had to hastily get dressed and then go around gathering the new shows and movies they’ve added since my last visit? And I have to cool my heels in the lobby while they do so? I could save them the trouble. I’m rarely interested in “what’s new” and if I am it’s cool if they don’t have it “gathered” for me. If it’s up next time, that’ll be fine. Also, how exactly do they go about “gathering” the new shows? Are they strewn about like wildflowers? Makes no sense to me. Speaking of streaming services, good ole Netflix sent me one of their emails this morning informing me that they had a list of what people in my area are watching. Like I give a fuck. What do they think? I’m going to note that people in my area are watching “Bosco and the Giant Lemmings in the Mystery of the Missing Clavicle Bone” and think, shit if everyone else is watching this IN MY AREA, then I’ve got to check it out. It’s like they’re always telling you “what’s trending.” I don’t want to be left out, I wanna watch what everyone else is into because I don’t have a mind of my own. Even the revered and sophisticated Criterion Channel is now informing viewers what’s “popular now.” Come on Criterion, you’re better than that. Criterion, like a lot of bookstores, has “staff picks.” I’m okay with this. If you work at a bookstore you’re presumably well-read which means your opinions on books at least carry a little bit of weight. Similarly if Criterion employs you, you’re likely a cinephile. If not, lemme know, I am a cinephile and wouldn’t mind a gig there. I just took a look at Netflix’s main page and it raises some questions. In addition to “trending now” there’s “Top Ten in the U.S. Today” and “Popular on Netflix.” Excuse me, but wouldn’t these all be the same fucking thing? 

I regularly receive emails from The New Yorker magazine informing me that I can order x number of months for fifty per cent off. But there’s a catch. I have to act fast!!! The offer expires in x days. I subsequently receive countdowns about this sale right up until it ends. Oh well, I blew it. Didn’t take advantage of this incredible offer. But then….a week or two later there’s a similar offer and when that expires, if I’m patient, there’ll be another and another. I singled out The New Yorker (a very good magazine, by the by) but other publications do the same thing. In actual fact I wish them well, we need a free and vibrant press and especially news outlets and magazines that skew towards the truth. There’s enough slanted news out there these days. But don’t think I’m taken in by these soon-to-expire once-in-a-millennium offers.

Recently I started reading a book called Lincoln on the Verge (it is justifiably called a page-turner as one has to turn the pages to read it — books can be like that). It’s principally about Lincoln’s journey as president-elect from Springfield to Washington D.C. before his inauguration. It was fraught with peril as many, many people preferred the Great Rail Splitter dead. Anyhoo, much is made early in the book about the recent influence on national affairs of the telegraph. Along with the wonderment and joy of being able to spread news and share messages in record time, there were serious concerns about the nature of some of the messages and let us say “fake” news that was being disseminated. Thus this is not the only age in which false narratives and outright lies have been spread by a new form of communication. The more things change….

I should henceforth end emails as follows: “the favor of your reply is requested.” 

Cause, cousin, I ain’t been favored with replies to most emails I’ve sent recently. The vast majority of these have been regarding my book, usually to someone representing an organization. I’d prefer someone write: “buzz off, not interested,” then nothing at all. It’s downright rude to leave a person hanging. It doesn’t take but a few second to reply, “no thanks,” and hit send. Oh I know, people are just so “busy.” No one is that goddamned busy that they can’t send a quick reply. It’s not like I’m being rude or pushy. Usually I’m merely making them aware of the book, offering a quick synopsis and asking if they’d like me to send them a copy. If they like it they can in turn recommend it to their brethren. I don’t expect everyone to come begging for the book. I imagine I’m barking up a lot of wrong trees. But if I am, tell me. Nobody likes the silent treatment.

I don’t understand “no trespassing” signs. For one thing, how do they work? Do potential trespassers see them and say, “shoot, better not trespass here, they don’t allow it.” And what about us non-trespassers? If there’s no such sign on someone’s property, do some among us figure, “no sign here, guess I’m free to trespass.” In a few rural areas I’ve seen signs that read, “absolutely no trespassing.” This seems to suggest that at other places there’s some wiggle room about trespassing but not on the “absolutely no” properties. In any event, I think I’ll continue my decades long policy of not trespassing (self-imposed since the end of my drinking days. You don’t wanna know).

You’ve doubtless noticed the differences in British and American English. Car boot or trunk of car. Elevator or lift. Chips or fries. Some of it is spelling and while I have no trouble with the British spelling, sometimes the differences are silly. Why the u, for example, in humour? Why the s at the end of math? But the worst is how they spell tons. Tonnes. Come on! Two ns and a superfluous e. That’s going too far.But among the many things I prefer about British methods, practices and modes, is their sports coverage. I watch a lot of English football (soccer, to you Yanks) and the difference between English sports announcers and commentators is as a very bright day versus a very dark night. There is so much more sophistication and erudition on the other side of the pond. There is none of the “gee whiz ain’t we stupid” false modesty and hominess that aw shucks, Americans foist on us. 

While Americans will say: “they’re trying to tie this sucker up.” The English might utter, “they’re looking to get back on level terms.” More examples:

American: it was two-to-one Chicago when these two teams met here last season.

English: Arsenal scored the odd goal in three in last season’s corresponding fixture.

American: Johnson has been on fire recently.

English: Johnson has been very much the man in form.

American: The crowd is going crazy.

English: Boisterous scenes here at the Emirates.

American: They sure screwed up on that one.

English: A shocking defensive lapse.

It's Time Again for that Beloved Feature, I Look at the Day's Headlines

Olivio Rodrigo's album debuted at number one

Last Summer I started printing headlines from various news sources and writing comments about them that were either pithy, snarky, wise or brilliantly on point (or a combination thereof). The response was so overwhelming (thank you, Brutus Lancelot of Midnight, Mississippi) that I have made this is a regular feature -- to enthusiastic acclaim. Here then is the latest edition of this critically-acclaimed monthly feature.

From the New York Times:

Disputing Racism’s Reach, Republicans Rattle American Schools

Yes, those unrepentant bigots on the right want to pretend that slavery wasn't so bad, that Jim Crow was an okay guy, if you got to know him and that institutional racism is a liberal fantasy. In other words they want to re-write history to make white people seem pretty okay after all. When I was a wee lad history classes glossed over such unpleasantries such as slavery, the genocide of Native Americans and the mistreatment and exploitation of immigrants -- particularly those of color. In my later high school years and then in college and through my own reading I began to get a fuller picture of the land of the free and the home of the brave. A new correct version of American history is being taught in schools and to borrow from a popular film, Republicans can't handle the truth. The right is doing a lot (see voter suppression laws) to sadden and anger intelligent people these days and this is one of their worst moves.

Biden Suspends Drilling Leases in Arctic National Wildlife Refuge

Good. Reversing some of the heinous acts of the Trumpy years is one of the most important things Biden can do. The previous administration's disregard for wildlife and our natural beauty in favor of moneyed interests is one legacy that cannot be allowed to last. You go, Joe!

Biden Assigns Harris Another Difficult Role: Protecting Voting Rights

It may be difficult but it is absolutely essential and the Veep very much needs to rise to the occasion. The right is serious about subverting democracy via voter suppression laws. It is obvious to any simpleton that conservatives do not speak for the majority of Americans, they do not have a message that resonates so the only way they can win elections is by limiting who votes. It is also glaringly obvious that they are trying to limit African American votes because, of course, they're racists.

From the BBC:

Florida bans transgender athletes from female sports

Because in addition to being racists, the modern conservative is homophobic. They're all about straight, white people (no Jews, please) having all the power and all the access. Seriously, fuck those people.

Xi Jinping calls for more 'loveable' image for China in bid to make friends

This would be rib-ticklingly funny were it not for the horrible record of human right's abuses perpetrated by the Chinese government. This is a country that inhibits freedom of religion, has no tolerance for its LGBTQ community, does not tolerate dissent either in the press or via assemblage. They want to seem soft and cuddly? Try acting it.

Fears of environmental disaster as oil-laden ship sinks off Sri Lanka

Oh for the love of God....

From CNN:

Pelosi floats Democrat-led probe into January 6 after GOP derails outside commission

By all means. Let's get something done here. Republicans are afraid of the truth, especially when it will doubtless reflect negatively on some of its members. Let's get to the bottom of the attempted coup and punish the guilty. We can let this happen again.

Anheuser-Busch to give away free alcohol if US hits Biden's goal of 70% of adults with at least one Covid vaccine shot by July 4

That should be incentive for a lot of the reluctant to get their vaccination. Apparently giving free donuts and lottery tickets to induce people to get their shots has worked. Whatever it takes. Let's get over the seventy per cent target by July 4th and really get into some normal.

A hiker died after falling 500 feet from a mountain summit in California's Sequoia National Park

A few stories below this was this headline: "A missing hiker has been found dead after an apparent fall near Telluride, Colorado." These are not uncommon types of stories. Recently three hikers fell to their deaths in Yosemite Park. Here's a thought: if you're going to hike in areas with high peaks, deep chasms and slippery waterfalls, BE CAREFUL. I mean a lot more careful than many folks are. People who are dying while hiking are not only losing their own life but they are leaving behind widows, fatherless children, bereaved parents, devastated friends and on and on. This may seem harsh, but that's a dumb goddamned way to die.

Olivia Rodrigo's 'Sour' debuts at the top of the chart

I don't anything about her or her music but by including this story I get to use the picture of a pretty girl in this post. (I hear she's a really nice person and a helluva talent.)

From the Washington Post:

To build a crowd for a pro-Trump rally, Nevada GOP consultant sought help from Proud Boys

Of course they did. And look at who you're in bed with here. The fucking Proud Boys, a bunch of brain dead bigots. What a sad state of affairs and doesn't it tell you something about your "cause" when you need help drumming up people to show up to your event, even one supporting a former president of the United States, if a disgraced one.

Republicans aren’t ‘looking forward.’ They’re stepping into a Jim Crow past.

No kidding. Since even before the days of Reagan they've longed for the good ole days of white picket fences, gays in the closet, blacks "in their place" and the levers of power controlled by old white men who bend over backwards to support big business. 

Arizona plans to execute prisoners with a lethal gas the Nazis used at Auschwitz

You cannot possibly make this stuff up. 

Lots of Cool Things in One Post Like, What's a Start-up? And Asking People What They Do For a Living and Sunglasses and Walt Whitman

Yours truly wearing new shades, mentioned below.

“He’s working for a start-up.”

“What is it starting up?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said it was a start-up, but not what it's starting up.”

“I don’t know, for sure. I think it’s a non-profit.”

“So he’s got a new job at a new place that isn’t making money.”

“Yup."

“Cool beans.”

I’ve heard this one before. Someone you know of got a new job at a start-up. You’re not told what the person does nor what kind of enterprise is. I find this weird. Supposedly it’s enough to know that it’s a new business.

When I was working at a newspaper in the seventies I was at a gathering at which someone I barely knew and hadn’t seen in awhile asked what I was doing. I said working at a newspaper. He asked, “what outfit?”  That’s the last time I heard the word “outfit” used to describe a place of work. It was odd even then because the person who said it was about my age. The only people still saying “outfit” back then were older people.

Before my time people used to ask, “what line are you in?” This referred to your line of work. Don’t hear it anymore. In movies from the thirties people use the word “racket” which presumably means that people in “real life” used the term back then as well. Usually — at least in films — racket referenced something illegal or shady. But not always.

Of course asking people what they “do for a living” is a common question upon meeting them for the first time. It’s a natural conversation starter. But not in all societies. Some cultures consider it rude to ask a veritable stranger what kind of work they do.

When you do find out what someone does it’s only natural to use that information to start coloring some things in about the individual. A lot of people have lower opinions of those in certain professions. Some people don’t like lawyers, or cops or United States senators. Also, some jobs are more intriguing than others. Meeting an accountant and meeting an actor are two very different things. You generally don’t have a lot of follow-up questions for an accountant. (Maybe if it’s near April, you’ll say, “busy time for you, I guess.”) But you’re bound to ask an actor if they’re in movies, TV or theater. Based on what they say you could have a million more questions. Or not. Depends on what they’ve been in and your level of interest in acting.

As a teacher I always get: “what do you teach?”  When I was teaching middle school I occasionally got questions as to my sanity or was offered sympathy or lauded for my bravery. Inasmuch as I’ve got two novels out I’m going to henceforth say that I’m a writer. I’ll be asked, “what do you write?” Or in some cases, not. I’ll watch as eyes glaze over when I go into great detail about my novels. Fun.

It’s always interesting to note that some people don’t ask follow-up questions. You could say that you’re an astronaut and in reply get, “nice.” Or you could tell someone you lead expeditions in search of rare flora and fauna in New Guinea and receive in response, “interesting.” 

When I was a newspaper reporter a few people — younger ones — actually asked if I got paid for writing. I could never figure that out. No one asks a carpenter if they get paid for building houses or shelves. 

Not to change the subject (which is precisely what I’m doing) but yesterday the missus and I went in search of a new pair sunglasses (for me) at a place called the Sunglass Hut. The store was small so calling it a hut is appropriate. Plus they carry sunglasses so that’s two-for-two. Upon entering we were introduced to the person who would be helping us “today.” I both find it strange and nice that we were immediately on a first name basis with Robert. (Something can be both strange and nice, I looked it up.) He laid down the ground rules for us and then let us free range around the store. He hovered, but not obtrusively. Robert was fastidious, friendly, polite and, like of sales people in your better clothing and accessories stores, gay. (How do I know? Come on!) I’m not going to get into a thing here about how gay men tend to make the best salespeople, they just do. And if someone wants to accuse me of homophobia or stereotyping…well, they say it’s a free country, so have at it. But I’m not going to waver on this one. Facts is facts. I can also say that a higher percentage of lesbians play sports than straight women and know I’m speaking the truth and in no way belittling my gay brothers and sisters. 

I found a suitable pair of aviator-style which the wife said make me look like Joe Biden. I guess I could have done worse. 

The better half then went into a clothing shop and I slipped into a bookstore and accidentally bought a book (happens to me all the time). Then we stopped to get a bite to eat. In truth there were a helluva lot of bites involved. We ate inside an establishment. Last week we dined out, but had our meal under the sun. It’s nice to start gradually getting out more and doing what are called “normal” or “pre-pandemic” activities. It’s also nice to walk outside without a mask on. I like it when things are nice. I prefer when things are fantastic or stupendous or absolutely super, but I’ll settle for things being nice. 

Upon returning home I watched a film. Gotta be true to you.

I will now conclude this blog post by wishing one and all a terrific Walt Whitman’s birthday. That is why today’s a holiday — isn’t it? Or is it because today is Aida Valli’s birthday? Both? Either way suits me.

P.S. If during the last paragraph you said, "who's Aida Valli?" see me after class. If you also asked "who's Walt Whitman?" we're sending you back to the third grade.

P.P.S. It's also Rainer Werner Fassbinder's birthday. Like the previous two, he's "no longer with us" (i.e. dead).