SURVEILLANCE PELICANA
BY
DAN WEISMAN
The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/.)
Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)
Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The convention hits full stride as
Tyger embarks on guerilla protest. He spends a lot of time with
convention protesters and reveals all the counter-culture events
pertaining to the gathering. Much time is spent at the Yippie
Peace Camp — the abandoned World’s Fair parking lot where the
box of troubles burned — and other Yippie events. Details of the
convention are considered and explained, as well as pertinent
historical correlations. The novel ends with a wrapping up of
details concerning the leading characters and relevant events.
CHAPTER 29
“Pie in the Sky at Peace Camp”
‘
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By Wednesday August 17, Armor’s is mad as hell about events
pertaining to the convention. The utter banality of the proceedings,
coupled with the unbelievably unconstitutional nature
of unpublicized mass arrests convince him to take matters into his own hands.
Armor’s grabs Tyger by the proverbial lapel taking it to the streets. Guess who is driving.
About 11 a.m. on a typically hot and humid New Orleans mid-morning, Tyger climbs in the cockpit
of his muffler — not — bomb that somehow manages to navigate around town. Adjusting an
internal compass, he heads east beneath a cloudless sky for the streetcar line.
Armor’s mission is simple. Seek out Republicants wherever they land, preferably in groups
of three and smaller, and destroy them with well placed barbs.
In other words, engage the invaders in one-on-one dogfights
using the quick verbal zap technique before fleeing the scene.
‘Tis a classic guerilla campaign thanks to General Giap’s handy
training manual with a hardy assist from Joe Fine mobile Israeli tactics.
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This way, mobility plus intimate knowledge of the area
can be used effectively to overwhelm the confused target and
defeat it. Then, executing a timely escape enables the
guerilla to seek and destroy another objective. The tactic has a
certain charm, plus the additional safety first factor.
Targets must be chosen carefully.
Of course, it is easy to spot delegates and their fellow travelers.
They stick out like Cajun pig sandwiches — cochon d’lait for the goyim —
at a kosher supper. Repub delegates are the ridiculous fools wearing
jackets and dress suits plastered with ridiculous badges,
buttons, and symbols. Fellow travelers, as well, are costumed in
formal wear of the poorest taste. They all seem to be gunning for
Mr. Blackwell’s worst dressed list. Quite a few appear to be making it.
First up at 11:15 high, Armor’s blows reefer, as Tyger avoids
radio contact due to the need to concentrate on prosecution of
the offensive. First up is an insipid “well dressed man” right out of
“Blue Velvet.” He looks quite lost along the neutral ground just
past Napoleon Avenue. Josephine this, baby.
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Tyger checks right and left; nobody else in the vicinity,
no traffic behind him, all systems a go go, big brother. Tyger
slows his vehicle to a crawl, waiting until the man looks his way.
Then, Armor’s lets loose the initial volley of his personal guerrilla war on evil.
“Repuboscum faggot. Everybody hates your shitty guts,” boom boom boom.
Tyger speeds away, leaving the guy with a pissed off expression staring
at mother the car’s dust. Tyger checks in all directions. No one else has noticed.
Direct hit mission control. We bagged a dead live one. Armor’s is somewhat disappointed in his
initial encounter. The tactic works great, but he wants a more special brand of verbal abuse
for a special brand of inbred porkers. Another target about 11:30 a.m., 12 o’clock high
about 50 yards down the neutral ground. Looking bad, two Repubbubbly
women replete in hideous suit dress camouflage with tell-tale badges.
Tyger checks all directions, slows almost to a stop. Armor’s
attracts their attention by waving his right hand out the cockpit glass.
They take the bait, looking his way. “Hey bitches,” Armor’ yells.
“How many Contras have you fucked. Die, Repuboscums.”
The women appear highly disgusted in the rear view, leaving.
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Fun enough, but lame. While entertainment value
is high, verbiage, like snack rack, is a bit raw.
Armor’s spots three “young” Republicans lingering at the neutral ground.
“Hey assholes,” Armor’s yells at the short haired freaks,
“You like the Contras? Go to Nicaragua and die, chicken shit faggots.”
Boy should have been a military recruiter. Not. Slowing almost
to a stop, the masters of disaster elicits a direct gaze from the walking asshole.
Tyger pretends to be an ally flashing a wide happy face grin.
Armor’s turns his ass on the spit.
“No abortion,” Armor’s cries. “You should have been aborted GeoPig fat ass.
The world would be a better place. Abort this.”
Armor’s smacks left arm with right in the timeless fuck you obscene gesture.
Ker-boom! Bagged it mission control. Direct hit. Subject destroyed.
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
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Traffic thickens, worsening tactical advantages.
Time to return to home base, leaving well enough alone.
Repubs will vanish in two days, only so much passive-aggressive fun
to be had. The convention rolls through the next afternoon with the usually
sickening rhetoric heard by no one. Proceedings are not televised.
Conventioneers are disguised as empty seats.
Even if they were there, no one can hear anything due
to the failure of the recently installed $250,000 sound system.
It is, therefore, the perfect Republican gathing.
Nothing is being said.
No one is listening.
Sure beats working.
That evening Shrubby gets the coronation in a well orchestrated light comic opera.
An all-star celebrity cast takes over the ceremonial absurdities.
Charlton Heston recites the Pledge of Allegiance. Groovy.
Bob Dole, senior senator from Kansas and former Shrubby presidential opponent,
gives a kind of valedictory address.
“Four years from now we will say, thank God for George Bush,”
he screams to the deafened and dumbed-up listening audience.
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Joe Paterno pre-Sandusky disclosed child sex abuse scandal, and
Helen Hayes give Shrub seconding speeches.
“I’ll be damned if I sit here while people not fit to
carry George Bush’s shoes ridicule him,” Paterno says
of the nominated president who later refers to himself as Dr. Feelgood
while picking up young chicks in his post-presidential wheelchair.
Then, the artful dodger, Roger Staubach, keeping with the pigskin motif
introduces U.S. Sen. Phil Gramm who calls Democrats “amnesia merchants,”
talk about projection, adding that a President Michael Dukakis would
“wimp America and endanger world peace.” Enough foreplay, Shrub officially
“wins” the nomination Aug. 26, 1988 surpassing 1,139 delegates needed for coronation.
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At 11:08 p.m., future outrage George W. Shrubby Jr.
announces the Texas delegation’s 118 votes for dear old dad, ending all convention “suspense.”
The United States is officially doomed at that moment.
Tyger is not in the viewing audience.
He is on Frenchmen Street in the Faubourg Marigny joining the anti-matter
partying hardy at a Cafe Brasil benefit for the Yippie Peace Camp.
Late to the political — if it’s not fun is it a — “party,” Yippies have set up camp
at the deserted 1984 World’s Fair parking are underneath the Greater
New Orleans Bridge by the Robin Street Wharf.
(The place where the 1987 box of troubles burned to high heaven.)
Tyger takes Armor’s with him to the street party, looping along Rampart Street,
avoiding the French Quarter zombie night of the living dead traffic.
A right on Esplanade Avenue and Arrivederci Repuboscum GeOPig amnesia merchants;
yippie-ca-yay cayenne, howdy wowee zowee Yippies.
A sparse yet highly colorful group gathers on Frenchmen’s Street
more or less randomly milling outside the small coffee bar.
Only a few locally familiar faces present, present arms.
Congregants mainly hail from the national traveling circus.
Long hairs a’plenty, fit to be tie-dyed t-shirts,
somewhat grubby exteriors and mysterious interiors.
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Wandering lost souls listen through pained glass outside Cafe
Brasil to the Dadbaggies inside rocking and rolling.
Yes comrades, welcome to the ultimate outside at the inside
experience. Those for whom the benefit is staged, refuse to
attend. Just a habit picked up through many years of exclusion
from the system. How is that for purity of spirit.
A familiar soul wanders up to the Tyger-Armor’s connection
filling them in on the current scenario. It is Ralph, a well-known
local validator of significant experiences.
What it is Ralph? “Isn’t this typically funny,” he observes.
“The Yippies are down here for the convention but there is
nothing happening around town, as usual.”
“Yippies eh?” Tyger notes with interest. “Didn’t think there were any left.”
“Oh yeah,” Ralph states. “Over there is the former editor of
Overthrow magazine, the former Yippie newspaper. And over there,
that fat guy in the tie-dye,”
“Which one?” Tyger asks. “That one,” Ralph points. “Do you
know who that is?” “No.”
“That’s Aron Kay, the pie guy. The guy who pied Phyllis
Schafley, John Haldeman, Henry Kissinger, Hubert Humphrey, Norman
Mailer, and a cast of thousands.” “Very impressive.”
Armor’s busies himself schmoozing with a better dressed man
as the Dadbaggies display a curious blend of rockabilly mixed
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with art rock noise. Tyger approaches the pie guy cautiously. You never know.
“Hey dude,” Tyger greets. “Heard you’re the guy with the pies. What’s happening?”
“You heard right,” he replies affable and ever not so humble pie.
“I’ve pied all the rotten celebrities and politicians of our time
from Merv Griffin and Charo all the way down to Spiro Agnew and John Mitchell.”
“I used to read the Pie Times supplement to Overthrow Magazine,” Tyger says,
“What’s your secret to success?”
“Simple,” replies the huge as a wildebeest bearded pie throwing artist.
“Pick your spot, get a nice cream filled pastry, plaster them right between the eyes.
The bigger they are, the harder they take a pie in the face. It’s an educational device.”
Very down-to-earth in your face approach to practical politics.
“Pied anyone good recently?” Tyger asks.
“Got Mayor Koch the other day,” Pie Guy says. “Nice coconut cream job smack in the kisser.
Had a bad attitude about it though. Some people just do not know
how to take a pie. What a waste.” The former editor of Overthrow Magazine,
a thin aging Yippie with long straggly grey hair is dancing like a Turkish dervish,
whirling in the black night with a blanket around his head.
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A little girl, about six years old, mimics his motions like a small Javanese shadow puppet.
“See that beautiful maiden dancing there,” Aron pie Kay guy asks.
“That’s my daughter Rainbow. What a sight. A new generation growing.”
Short attention span theater takes a break-in to higher consciousness.
Aron joins the dancing fools on the sidewalk.
Tyger, now feeling quite at home with the visitors, approaches another fellow traveler.
“What is the deal with that long flat bed truck with the loudspeakers on the corner?”
“Oh yeah man,” answers a long hair. “That’s the Peace Truck. We own the cab, rent
the flatbed. We have been taking it around to Rock Against Racism rallies.
Our plan is ssimple. We stage heavy metal, and rock and roll performances
from the truck to attract the younger crowd of kids. That is where our future lies.
We bring them in with the music, then give them a good old political re-education.
You would be surprised at how receptive they are to our message because we tell it like it is.
Those Reagan fuckers might think they have won the battle, but we will win the war.
Reagan shitheads don’t even realize that they have already lost.
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Their greed and hubris has already sown the seed of their ultimate defeat.
The future belongs to the righteous purveyors of truth.”
“If you say so,” suspends Tyger disbelief.
“We must be strong,” Sir Yipster continues. “Solidarity in numbers.
One person can make a difference. You add one plus one to get two
Two plus to two to get four. Four plus four to get the idea until so forth
and so on and so forth, numbers vaster than ocean waters, overwhelming
any land-stuck obstacles in their way. Greed eventually turns upon itself like a worm,
entirely consumed by truth. Our day will come.”
Such is the promise of karma. Such the opposite effect of hubris,
a sin Ray-Gun junkies possess in spades and is used with a spade to bury them forever.
Figuratively speaking.
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Peace Camp numbers are small, yet they possess the ultimate power
to stand one day stand above the Repub’s shallow graves, dancing John Belushi style
through the sands of time overturning. Hooray for the triumph of the spirit
signified in a small counter-cultural bash for the people
while the evil ignorant ripoff artists toast themselves in perceived victory
even as they are being soundly defeated in the street
by powerful forces invisible to their blind eyes.
Or so it seems one hot summer day Dadbaggies beating bummers.
Armor’s is swept away by the moment. He springs
like a Mexican jumping bean on top of the Peace Truck
“Fuck you Repubpscum loser Nazis,” Armor’s cries.
“We will bury you in the shit you pooped.”
Or not.
About 25 goodly souls facing Mecca politely applaud.
“Sometimes your buddy Armor’s makes a lot of sense,” Ralph says.
“Sometimes is a great notion,” Tyger replies.
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“Not often,” continues the tall lean Ralph machine, “but sometimes.”
“You got to give the boy credit,” Tyger adds extra. “When he is right, he is awesome.”
If only. Armor’s now stands silently, right fist skyward, saluting eternity
frozen like a Grecian urn in time. Yippies fill Tyger in about the final day’s activities
commemorating the convention’s dead end. They plan to take Peace Truck over to Peace Camp,
bivouac there. Strange as it may seem to outsiders, Peace Camp is indeed
the safest spot for dissent in all of the Crescent City. Cops don’t even bother because
why should they. Peace Camp is well out of sight and out of its mind.
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More power to them for they know not what they ignore.
Fine for the righteous, as well who, not bothered by authorities
unconcerned, live in joyous anarchy taking LSD and smoking reefer
until they are crunked bent; sharing food and raising political consciousness.
Tyger will be there manana. But first, another sleepy
night must pass and day follow as it always does.
Tyger awakens about 10 a.m. still joyously hung over from
the night before. He briefly retraces his guerilla neutral ground
sorties zapping along Jackson Avenue before turning around towards
the home hangers. He claims a few confirmed kills before stopping
at noon for the “All My Children” update. A good day for a good day
is well at hand. The cool spirit flows despite stifling heat. Repub subs
should be well on their piggy ways within 24 hours. Life will return to
what passes for normal in the Big Easy. Given Mardi Gras training,
Tyger can do the remaining time standing, like Igor, on his head.
College junior repubs hand out “Get out of Jail Free,” cards
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that at the bottom add “compliments of Michael Dukakis,”
referring to the Massachusetts prison furlough program
soon to be immortalized by Shrub’s Willie Horton demagoguery.
The Repubs are completely hung over by their stay in the Big Easy.
They now wallow in smug self-congratulations.
“The system works,” exclaims John K. Wu, a delegate from Delaware beware.
(“Now, aren’t we pleased with ourselves,” observes the wise Church Lady.)
“Wednesday was the day the party pooped,” notes Susan Brenna of Long Island New York’s Newsday.
“A combination of rich cuisine, abundant watering holes, the stimulation of star-mingling with senators,
Pat B(o)one and too many free feeds, Wednesday’s schedule included
118 pre- and post-session fetes finally had its effect on the Republicans.”
Even New Orleans Mayor Sidney Barthelemy, an African-American Democrat supposedly
is swept away by the “good” feelings. “It was very important to pull this off,” he notes,
apparently referring to pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes, selling out the city,
“to show that the public and private sector could work together. I think we’ll reap the benefits
of this for years to come.” (Think again. History shows this to be the last such outing
at New Orleans as the city hits rock bottom during his maladministration.
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The good mayor is too busy taking trips financed by developers, records
and news accounts show, to look after the interests of his constituency.)
The pre-packaged media presentation actually loses viewers
during the week. Only 18.4 million Americans — 40 percent of
those watching the boob tube at the time watch Shrub’s acceptance
speech, a decline of nearly two million from opening night
festivities. Popular dude, Herr Shrub.
In the equally moronic acceptable to Repuboscum fake
protester department, one Jack Defandorf, if that is his name,
claims to the media newsflakehounds: “The thing that bothers me
is where are the people of New Orleans? I don’t know if they’re
afraid the CIA is taking pictures of them or what, but I know
there are a lot of people who don’t agree with the policies of
the Republicans. Where are they hiding?”
Peace Camp, that island of serenity set among tall weeds and
broken glass that once — teemed? — with World’s Fair non-traffic
as that developer’s bonanza went bust. (Oh, developers
boomed along alright making gobs of money after the taxpayers of
Louisiana were forced by then Gov. Edwin Edwards to bail the
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financiers out with state funding.) Damn wham thank you ma’am.
Why won’t they get the government off our backs? Hahaha. The laugh is on us.
Peace Camp is the one place in the City that Care Forgot
where the Bill of Rights — among those rights, freedom of
expression — actually is cherished. It is the only place locally
where the July 4, 1776 Declaration of Independence rings true. We
would be a lot better off if the Republicans knew what was
declared in the document. It begins:
“We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are
created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with
certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty
and the Pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these Rights,
Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers
from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of
Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of
the People to alter or abolish it, and to institute new
Government, laying its foundation on such Principles, and
organizing its Powers in such Form, as to them shall seem most
likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.”
Ring a bell libertarians? Hell, we have already witnessed
the fate of anyone muttering the previous sentiments while
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walking towards the Superdome within four blocks of that facility.
They get arrested. Comrades in search of an accurately recalled
Declaration of Independence and Bill of Rights must conclude that it is
not in vogue during the last week of August 1988 circa New Orleans.
The American flag lapel poseurs have replaced the shining
light of truth with their squalid imitation of death-in-life just
like any run-of-the-mill tinhorn dictatorship.
These free floating spirits at Peace Camp dance in pure joy,
even as the Repubs conclude their exercise in cynical deceit
for public consumption. About 50 survivors of the previous
psychic holocaust have passed through to the other side, left by
the forces of oppression in splendid isolation to lay the karmic
foundation for a coming coalition of truth and justice.
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Peace Truck as centerpiece is outlined against a red-and-orange background stretched
half a football field in length. A local dog and pony duo butchers Bb Dylan songs
while tiny groups of suddenly best buds mingle, sharing philosophical discourse, food,
drink, acid, reefer, and laughter. “Safest spot in town,” reiterates Sir Aron of the pie toss.
“Isn’t a cop within miles.” All smiles. Well dressed suit and tie type festooned with badges and
politically incorrect buttons stands out in the crown not caring.Who is this guy anyway, a police plant?
“Hey, what is the deal with the get-up?” Tyger asks as he approaches the suit.
“Why, don’t I look nice. Aren’t I with it? Isn’t this great?” rat-a-tat-tats the cheshire cat,
grin only showing. “Don’t I make a fine Republican delegate?” “Say what?”
Pie guy, ever the scoundrel, joins the conversation. “You look great. How’s it going pal?”
bear-hugging da suit who smiles brightly; responding,”Going much better inside the convention.
You know, they have air conditioning, free food and everything.”
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Tyger begins to buoy along in the drift. “Wait a second,”
he stops time. “You aren’t really a delegate…are you?”
“I’m not? I have all the proper credentials.”
“Come on man. Come clean. You a Yippie, right?”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t attend the convention. I am a Yippie Republican. Yay!”
Laughing laughing nitrous fit subsides finally as Tyger
looks over the Yippie Republican’s, er, credentials.
“These are fake, right?” he concludes.
“Well, no one has stopped me from going anywhere I want yet.
I certainly have not been arrested.”
“Tell me about the inside of the convention,” Tyger asks the
Yippie infiltrator. “What is it like being outside on the inside?”
“Weeeeeeelllllll, they are very comfortable. Food is great.
Can’t hear what’s going on, but no one cares. I have been inside
every day, observing their sheepish behavior. Bah bah bah. Freaked out rabble.
l fit right in, but of course I have to be blasted out of
my mind with acid and marijuana to appreciate the completely
horrific ambiance. Overall, I have enjoyed myself. It has been fun.
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Hope to attend the next one too. Maybe bring along a bomb or something,
just for an additional thrill. Ker-boom! Hahaha. That will shake em
out of their lethargy some.” Tyger laughs his ass off as well dressed imposter,
pie guy, pie guy daughter, dance to the next group;
what do you know, the Dadbaggies again.
Guess the New Neanderthals couldn’t be bothered for such a politically correct event.
Roots and Heave are around some nowhere land pretending they are “Democrats,”
Good, just keep out of the way of the real event.
Hypes like them give Repubs the excuse to give liberals a bad name.
Sign reading “Evil U.S. Empire out of the Persian Gulf,”
prophetically hangs from the elongated Peace Truck
sound system flatbed. Two young acolytes stroll around
distributing small pieces of paper to all who desire.
Tyger checks it out and, yes comrades, it is indeed LSD.
Not just any acid either, but the purest acid
America’s finest somewhat secret San Francisco scientists
ever have developed. Outasight. Outamind.
Take another hit, immediately appreciating the awesome purity of acidic perfection.
Wowee-zowee, finally having fun, yes.
Quick surveillance of the scene reveals the total ecstasy
of unfettered by authority monumental anarchy of the highest karmic moment.
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Former editor of Overthrow walks in a straight — for him — line towards the bridge.
Pretty girl walks the opposite direction south to a portalet left behind by a wayward
construction crew knocking off work early. Small groups of countercultural types maintain commos,
smoking blunts, passing around a wine-skin, trading literature and free expressions of opinion sorta
promised by the Declaration of Independence as codified by the U.S. Constitution. African-American
rastaman sells Tyger a colorful peace symbol cloth suspended from a silly string that Tyger
slips around his neck. The guy also hands Tyger a flyer for a group called U.M.O.N,
“United Mankind Organizing Naturally.” Tall thin man, about 30 years old with
long grey Elijah the Prophet beard and countenance, sits on a car passing out
orange pamphlets to the ever-curious. Meet Calvin Peterson from Kansas City, Mo.
Tyger trades internal New Orleans gossip for Calvin’s great work,
titled”The Truth Has Been Thrown To The Ground.”
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The name of Calvin’s game is that he is sick of the U.S. Government’s oppression
of its people in general and himself in particular. He feels “the government” naturally
wants him to leave the country, and he wants to leave. Only catch, he ain’t got no money.
Therefore, he has been walking around town looking as grungy as possible trying
to sell his pamphlet to GO(im)P(osters) based on the premise their contributions will get
him out of their hair sooner, which is what everyone wants. The ingenious tactic
is not working very well, so he has a lot of these pamphlets left. He is trying
to hawk to those at Peace Camp to those perhaps are a bit more amenable to his message.
“I hate the God of the Easter Bunny,” rails Calvin to Tyger listening with acidically amplified attention.
“This is the nation of the Easter Bunny, of Santa Claus, of the false symbol. We have forgotten
our past and substituted the fake for real. I have given the matter of searching for the truth of my life
a high priority. I tell you Tyger Williams, the God of the Easter Bunny is a false prophet.”
Alrighty then. Tyger thumbs through the 50-page anti-tome. It’s inevitable conclusion:
“If everybody that loved this country sent one dollar, thousands of my people could be set free to live
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some place far away from your great society where you would not have t look upon them again.
They would not sleep in your streets anymore, or panhandle for your change. Could you think
of a better way to spend what is your labor than to send the homeless, the poor, the lame,
and those in captivity far away from you. Send you payment today,so we leave immediately without delay.
When the list of those who donated to send us away is published, would not you want your name
to be on there so your friends and neighbors can see you sent those ungrateful people
far away from your presence, you had a hand in ridding those people from your places.
Send your farewell gifts to: CALVIN PETERSON; P.O. Box 17634; Kansas City, MO 64123.”
Tyger nods his head in agreement as he looks up. “If you say so Calvin. I just gave my last dollar
to the rasta guy for the peace symbol cloth. But good luck.”
Bless his soul, Calvin understands. “Yeah, it is tough getting out of here,” he says.
“You would think the Republicans would want us to go in the worst way. But, they don’t seem to care.”
“No shit, Sherlock. it’s a strange world.”
Moving on, a box flyers squat unattended near Tyger’s mother the car.
He asks the closest person nearby, a girl with short sandy hair,
who belongs to the stack of attacks. No sale.
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They are titled: “BUSH IS GUILTY!… THIRTY YEARS OF DIRTY TRICKS & TREASON.”
Watergate: Bush, implicated in dirty tricks as head of Republican National Convention,
narrowly escaped being named unindicted co-conspirator; 1980: Bush, one of two or three principals
who actually flies to Europe to negotiate Treason: In return for assuring Reagan’s election by holding
the hostages an additional three months, the Ayatollah gets a better deal than the one
being offered by Carter. On behalf of U.S. Intelligence, Bush promises to facilitate
both the arms and heroin business interrupted by Carter. Other charges include various Bush
dealings with Panama strongman Manuel Noriega, tax breaks for associates, and various involvement
with other drug-related activity. Tyger places the flyers in his car, remembering he has
a time-worn mini-cassette recorder previously used for insurance investigating in the glove compartment.
He retrieves the tape recorder in order to record the final moments of Peace Camp as Dan Fail
is nominated veep and the convention winds down.
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What follows is a partial telling of the tape:
“They are probably starting to play baseball in some distant stadium.
But here, the peace truck rallies on proving that you can’t have too much fun
at a place like this except when you’re …
Look at he colors; orange, red pink, on the wharf, it is
approximately 7:35 (p.m.), sun is setting, so it is actually
an incredibly beautiful vista. Kid you not.
And that guy is not even waiting to use the porta-let.
He is just kind of using whatever is available, I suppose.
The former editor of Overthrow Magazine is speechifying. Let’s listen.
‘I want to explain for a minute a couple of banners we have
up here,’ he begins, long grey hair flowing in the evening breeze.
‘It wasn’t me that came up with this evil empire business,
after all. It was Ronald Reagan. He said that anyone who shoots down a civilian air
liner is an evil empire. You qualify if you shoot down a civilian airliner.
So, either the United States should quit acting like an evil empire
in shooting down those civilians or they should get out.
And this other thing over here on the end of the cab is a personal message
to you from Peter Tosh who came up with the design before he unfortunately lost his life
in a dispute over the music business which in Jamaica can sometimes can be fatal.
But his idea, this symbol — we’re trying to popularize it.
The idea was that we don’t think the government can solve anything.
We are the only people who can solve things and that is by taking
our own lives into our own hands. And we just happen to believe
that herbs are safer than refined chemicals. Rock Against Racism
brought this truck and this concert to this parking lot tonight in order
to celebrate a significant event, the self-annihilation, the suicide if you will,
of the Republican Party, who at this time across town is finishing the nomination process
to elect as their nominee just about the most unpopular guy in America in political life.
So, the only good thing we can say about the Regan years is
it’s over. Thanks God they didn’t blow up the world, although they really
fucked up the ozone layer. But we will have to deal with that
under the next guys.'”
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The event rolls to a conclusion within the endless tape loop
with which we have grown familiar. The final band scheduled to play,
a lame punk rock outfit called the Scandals, disagree with the Peace Truck banners.
They refuse to perform. The rally disintegrates in anarchy and darkness.
So it ends and begins on the same blank page, comrades, of
what can be set down about Tyger Williams’ life and times
between Christmas Day 1987, a good Friday, and the last day of
the Republican National Convention on Thursday August 18, 1988.
Shrubby and his minions finish their dirty little business
at the Superdome, blasting into outer space, fleeing the Big Easy
as if a fire alarm suddenly has been sounded. Tyger, under cover
of nightfall, returns to his Uptown apartment, catching Cubs-Padres from the West Coast.
Cubs win! Cubs win! Cubs win! Americans lose! All is as it always is with the world of 1988.
Time continues to flow beyond the range of our thick file on a small portion
of subject Williams’ activities. An accounting never can be completely made as he,
and associates timelessly walk the earth engaging in their various trials and tribulations.
This much can be appended to the public file for the purposes
of a summation on a need to know basis;
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Armor’s is the first of that old gang of Tyger’s to evacuate these hallowed shores.
He has had it with the urban lifestyle, retreating to a life of quiet contemplation
in rural California at the foothills of a national park that shall remain nameless in
order to preserve his privacy. Shortly thereafter, Mac takes his world to the quiet little
burg of Barataria — the resting place for the pirate Jean Lafitte — southwest of New Orleans,
past the national park just off Lake Salvador.Mr . Milty disappears suddenly one fine night,
loading up a moving van — sort of like the Baltimore Colts — eventually
emerging in the Texas Hill Country where his Belt of Tools band
becomes a local sensation. He is heard from only on special and surprising occasions.
Sandy Alexander, along with wife Mary Ann, relocate to the mountains of western
North Carolina, so they can raise a family in a friendly hard-working place, the total opposite
of the steamy and lazy Big Easy environment. More power to them. Dorothy LaFleur has
a bouncing baby girl whom she dresses in lovely pink ribbons and pretty flowered dresses.
She assumes the role of working mother-housewife as Jack rises to a position of
small importance in her father’s warehouse business. Fine, and Joe Fine?
What of the Super Sleuth, one wonders. Who knows.
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He disappears from the known universe possibly
maintaining a useful undercover existence that he finds
personally satisfying. Perhaps, he finally snares the evil Bingo
LeBeouf. No telling, although one can only hope.
And the other extras, heroes and villains alike, considered
for these purposes in the same breath. To the heroes: Well done.
We have psychic medals in the closet should you come over for
brunch. To the villains: Who cares. Get fucked. You suck.
Tyger, Tyger, what of the centerpiece around whom the others
revolved? What of the dear boy with whom we have sat surveillance
these wonderful, awful, groovy, horrible moments, and all that
could be cited in-between? What of the Tygermeister brewery of
consciousness drunk deeply?
Well comrades, he is well. As noted earlier, all is well
that is well ended. Tyger gets by for those who try and never
quit, never say “enough,” never give up the ghost, never die.
As John Heisman — after whom is named the trophy signifying
the best player in college football — told his Rice Institute
(now University) football team at half-time in a 1924 game they
were losing: “A team that won’t be beat can’t be beat.”
And the Fighting Owls flew out that second half and kicked
some sorry Longhorn butt, dominating a squad from the much larger
University of Texas, 19-6.
Yes, Tyger Williams and all he stood for, sat for, wished for,
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lived for, lives on in your well wishes and the memory
elicited through these long pages. We leave him for now as we found him,
a figment of the mind’s eye imagination, a surreal out-of-body, place and time
existential presence sitting by the lake at Audubon Park, flipping pebbles
into the placid waters, watching circles crop, expand and disappear.
He dreams of a beautiful dancer, of that equally beautiful time
when all of God’s slaves are free.
Only you can make that happen, comrades of the sacred moment.
You have Tyger’s best wishes as forever you strive,
succeeding through that striving,
regardless of final outcome.
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