Road Tales/Rode Tails - Take Good Aim

Take Good AIM

What sounded like a great idea – having two bands travelling together out west – didn’t turn out to be practical. We both hooked up with the Gary Van Zealand agency out of Madison, Wisconsin. Gary seemed to know every bar owner and concert promoter on the planet. We asked about the dual band tour. He said sure, no problem. However, when we got our itineraries from him neither band was ever near to the same city on the same date until an outdoor festival in San Jose, California on the Fourth of July. It was up to us to coordinate the tour with each other. We set up regular call points along the way to make sure neither was having troubles. The schedule also dashed any thoughts of my getting into Sandy Lindstrom’s knickers.

Dynasty would follow a route that took us through Eau Clare and Madison, Wisconsin on to Sioux Falls and Rapid City, South Dakota and then a 1400 mile drive through mountains and deserts to San Francisco about a week before the big concert. Gary also promised that he would set up more gigs in the Bay Area while we were on tour.

The Jerry Sheehan Express set out on a course that brought them through Minneapolis, Minnesota to Dubuque, Iowa City, and Des Moines, Iowa to Omaha and Lincoln, Nebraska, to Cheyenne, Wyoming and then the long stretch to San Francisco.

Our routes brought both bands through Salt Lake City, Utah, but six days apart from one another. We gave some thought to hanging around and waiting for them, but dismissed the idea of spending nearly a week in the Mormon capital of Latter Day Saints. There were no bars that anyone knew of, they probably didn’t even sell alcohol in their stupid state, and we weren’t into community barn building. Forget that notion, we’d push on and meet them in Frisco.

Our first tour stop was at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Clare, a campus mixer dance for incoming summer school students and freshmen getting a jump on their classes.

The next night found us playing the same sort of function at UW-Madison. The available tail was far greater at this dance, hundreds of beautiful college coeds away from home for the first time. They were in the mood to party and party they did. The beer flowed as did the lust. In the second set I spotted a cute dark-haired gal with pony tails. I sang “Love Me Two Times,” directly to her. She hung around the stage until break time waiting to talk to me.

“You’re really cute,” she said.

“You are gorgeous,” I complimented.

“Your band is great,” she said. “What are you doing afterwards?”

“No plans,” I replied. “We’re scheduled to play Platteville tomorrow night, but I’m free tonight.”

“Want to come to a party?” she flirted, brushing up against me with a boob.

“I certainly do. Where is it at?”

“Just off campus, we’ve got an apartment,” she replied. “I’ll show you the way. I’m Sylvia, Sylvia Goldman.”

“Armond Blackwater. Pleased to meet you, Sylvia Goldman.

We all walked with Sylvia and her roommates to the party at her crib that was going full bore when we got there. Kegs of beer, joints being passed everywhere, near naked chicks galore, this was my kind of party.

After a few drinks and many laughs Sylvia brought me up to her room. Clothes melted quickly away as we kissed and fondled each other. I was just about to slide into home when she stopped me saying, “No, not there. I don’t want to get pregnant. Come in through the back door. Do me in the ass.”

Say what? She wants me to fuck her in her ass? Did she just say that? What the hell, any port in a storm as sailor’s say?

Sure enough she rolled over and guided me into the back door. All of a sudden, Morrison’s version of Back Door Man took on new meaning. The old blues version penned by Willie Dixon was talking about the guy who would slide in the back door of the house to fuck the housewife as the husband walked out the front, thereby becoming a “back door man”.

“I am, a back door man

Yeah, I am, a back door man

The men don’t know

But the little girl understands.”

This little girl certainly did understand. I couldn’t tell if her shrieks were from pain or pleasure or a combination of the two. She seemed to be getting off from the back door action and it was fun for me, too. College girls!

In the morning, we pointed the van toward the southern Wisconsin town of Platteville and another extension of UW. The crowd was similar to Eau Claire with a smaller crowd and no party afterwards. I joked that we shouldn’t book that gig ever again.

Our next drive was a long one, all the way to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. We played a club there from Tuesday through Saturday. I don’t remember the name of the club or the Sioux girl I fell in love with at first sight on our first night. I talked her up quite a bit, but she wasn’t easy and left before we finished. The saying “girls all get prettier at closing time” was well known long before it became a song and proved true on that night. I went off with a fat gal and had lots of fun with her.

The next day Ted introduced me to another infamous saying when he asked me, “How was your coyote date?”

“Coyote date? What’s that?” I asked.

“That’s when you wake up with your arm around a chick and you’d rather gnaw your own arm off than risk waking her.”

I laughed at that image so hard that Ted could tell that he’d struck a nerve. “No, I poked her awake,” I said. “She promised me that she’d be at the club every night.” She was my coyote date for the week.

On Sunday, we drove west to the small town of Rapid City, South Dakota where we were gigging at The Clock Tower Lounge. The club was really cool, a chrome testament to the Nuevo chic of the 1940’s.

I was happy to be among Sioux for the first time in my life. Even though they were Lakota, I felt a kinship with them. I got to know several of them quite well in a short time. They seemed like long lost relatives and maybe they were.

One Lakota (I won’t use his name out of fear for his safety) told me of a group forming down at the Pine Ridge Reservation to protect local Sioux from the GOON’s, who were Indians that were being paid by the US Government to keep other Indians in line and on the reservation. GOON stood for Guardians Of the Oglala Nation. Who it was that came up with that stupid name I don’t know, but others approved of the name, and no one lifted a finger to stop the use of the oddly appropriate name.

I rode down to Pine Ridge the next morning with my new Lakota friend to see their reservation for myself. The scene was indescribably depressing. My knew friend – ok, let’s call him Running Bear, though that was not his name – introduced me to several of the men organizing a group they called American Indian Movement, or AIM.

I met one woman who housed and fed 32 young Lakota whose parents had either been murdered, committed suicide, or drank themselves to death. She housed all of these kids in one small trailer. She was 42, but looked 82.

I talked with the leaders. Told them of life on the Red Cliff Reservation, which was better by a small degree than what I saw at Pine Ridge Reservation. They were distressed to hear that I was playing in a bar. They were trying to eliminate alcohol from their reservation. They saw booze and drugs as a large threat to their people. This would have been a good time to heed the advice of my elders.

The leaders also cautioned me about my own safety. Never go anywhere alone. Never go outside at night alone. Don’t trust the wasicu and never, ever trust a GOON. They explained that although there were less than 20,000 people in the area that the murder rate was eight times that of Detroit, which was known as the murder capital of America at that time. I was stunned by the numbers that they quoted and the seriousness of the situation they described.

“Do you have a gun?” I was asked.

“No,” I replied. Do I have a gun? I wasn’t planning on hunting during our tour. The thought of bringing a gun never occurred to me.

“Get one,” they advised. “Something small and easily concealed. We know a guy who can fix you up.”

I purchased a .380 Beretta automatic pistol from their guy. The weapon was small, easy to conceal, and looked to be of WWII vintage. I received three clips and a box of shells with the gun. I didn’t mention the purchase to my band mates, not wanting to freak them out. I carried the pistol the entire time that we were in Rapid City.

I also made a donation of $50 to the AIM group. They assured me that the money would be used for medical supplies and food for the children of Pine Ridge. There was no reason to doubt these sincere, honorable men.

My new friend then drove me to Wounded Knee where the US Army murdered over 300 Lakota women, children, and old people on December 29, 1890. The young men of the tribe were off hunting at the time of the massacre. The 7^th Cavalry had finally exacted revenge for us wiping out Custer and his men. I could feel the spirits of my Sioux ancestors, felt their pain, and anguish coursing through my veins.

I related to Running Bear the story my grandmother told me. News of the massacre at Wounded Knee spread like a prairie fire, news that caused my grandmother’s tribe of Nakota to strike their encampment and move north into Canada during a blizzard to escape the murdering wasicu soldiers. They saw the blizzard as a blessing from the Great Waken Tanka that would hide their tracks.

“What I need you to understand,” Running Bear stated flatly, “is that they haven’t stopped killing us. The FBI has declared war on the Oglala Nation. Fucking J. Edgar Hoover won’t stop until we are all dead. They are still afraid of us, even now, 76 years later.”

We then rode down to the site in Montana where the tribes of Sioux, Cheyenne, and others came together for the Sun Dance ritual near the Little Big Horn River. On June 25^th of 1876 Colonel George Armstrong Custer attacked what he thought was a small village of Sioux. In reality, he was leading his troop of 257 unfortunate men into the midst of over 3,000 Sioux and Cheyenne warriors. The battle is notoriously named Custer’s Last Stand. It had long before become a favourite touron destination. The tourons snapped pictures of each other in front of grave markers and the great obelisk that memorializes Custer and his men. They trod over graves and mugged for more pictures like some big joke had happened here. No respect for the dead. No respect for the meaning of the place.

I stood with eyes closed and witnessed the battle as if it was happening at that very moment. I saw the confusion amongst Army troops, smelled the gunpowder, heard the crackle of gunfire, and heard the whoops of Indians and futile cries of soldiers in their last moments on Earth.

Despite its trivialization by tourons, the junction of Powder Horn and Little Big Horn rivers remained a powerful place to visit. I left the area weak and shaken. I returned to Rapid City with a new understanding of my grandmother, father, and of myself.

Running Bear also told me of Custer’s last moments saying that Custer was not the last to die as is the common myth. Custer was easily identified by his flowing mane of golden hair. He said that the Lakota cut Custer’s genitals off. Why? Because the Sioux and Cheyenne believed that a person would arrive on “the other side” in the same condition as they left this world. Thus, Yellow Hair, as Custer was known to the Human Beings, arrived on the “other side” without genitalia. Can you imagine how embarrassed he must have been?

Running Bear explained that the practice of scalping an opponent originated with the wasicu authorities in Minnesota, “In the early 1800’s a bounty of $50 per Indian was promised to induce hunters to help deal with the Indian “problem”. Hunters brought Indian corpses to the State Capitol building in St. Paul. Before long so many bodies were being turned in that the smell of rotting corpses became overwhelming. The solution was to reduce the amount of Indian required to claim the bounty. The course black hair of Ojibwa and Sioux was unmistakable so the bounty hunters were encouraged to only bring in the scalps to claim their bloody reward.

“Of course, the Human Beings interpreted the scalping as intent to embarrass the dead Indian because he would be bald on the “other side”. The Human Beings picked up the practice from the murdering wasicu. The wasicu then pointed to our scalping of wasicu as evidence of the barbarity and savagery of the heathen Indians.”

Running Bear confirmed what my grandmother had told me about our tribe, the Lakota, Minneconjou, Hunkpapa, and Cheyenne were all descendants of the original version of the Nakota (sometimes spelled Nakoda) that started off the millennia as the early Indians known as the Stoney tribe. The Blackwater Tribe descended from the Bearspaw band of Stoney’s.

I heeded the advice of the AIM leaders that week. Although I did have a couple of opportunities to go home with wasicu girls, I declined their offers. I was definitely spooked by the stories from the AIM folks.

We had serious discrimination problems up at Red Cliff, but at least the white folks weren’t hunting us. Stationed in and near Pine Ridge reservations were hundreds of FBI agents to watch a few thousand Lakota Sioux. We later learned that the FBI infiltrated AIM with agents acting as Indians. There were only a few hundred reservation Indians involved with AIM and a handful of Breeds like me. The numbers would grow in the future, but the group was just forming when I passed through in June of 1968.

Road Tales/Rode Tails - Ultimatum

Ultimatum

There is an old Cajun joke that goes something like this. Boudreaux and Fontenot were walking down a deserted country road late on a Friday night. Boudreaux says to Fontenot, “The next time you tell the girls to fuck or walk… make sure that we’re driving.”

With May came more madness, more anti-war protests, and a general unrest in the nation. Nine kids took over the Selective Service office in Maryland and burned a bunch of records before the authorities swooped in to crush the dissenters. The government had recently renamed the Draft Board to the Selective Service to put a more positive spin on their evil deeds.

On May 24^th, a teacher entered our English class and asked for Loraine Lafontaine and me. The Principal wanted to see us. I’ll admit that I trembled a bit while we were being escorted to the office. We found Mary, Champlain, and Auggie had been summoned to the office, too.

“What’s going on?” I asked. Nobody knew.

It has never been a good sign when officials round up Indians. Nothing good ever comes of that.

The principal finally entered the room, but with a new face. He normally looked quite serious and stern. That day, however, he looked sad and downtrodden with the weight of the planet on his heart. I guessed what he was about to say. I knew precisely what he was going to say. We all knew what he was going to say. He had already said it with his demeanor. I fought back tears as he delivered the horrific news. Mary and Loraine quivered as unrestrained grief entered their hearts, their heads drooping from the weight of the words that hung in the cumulous cloud of air that engulfed the office.

“I am… I… Um, I regret to inform you that Corporal Buster Lafontaine has been killed in action in Viet Nam.” Our wailing shook the windows of the office. Our brother, leader, spirit guide, and best friend that anyone could ever hope to find, was dead. He was… dead. This just couldn’t be true. There had to be a mistake. Buster was too strong. Buster was invincible. He couldn’t be dead. He just couldn’t. My worst fears had been realized. The dread that I felt months before proved to be a premonition that I was powerless, we all were powerless to stop.

We hugged each other, crying together, grieving together.

“You are excused from school today,” the principal said. We filed out of his office, out of the school, and walked to North End. We would have left the planet if that had been possible. The house at 314 John was already filled with Ojibwa mothers trying to console Momma Lafontaine, but nothing eases the pain of losing a child. No words, no looks, no hugs, nothing eases the pain of losing a child.

A bunch of us jumped into Buster’s Yellow ’57 Chevy and drove to Wisconsin Point. We built a fire from driftwood collected along the beach. Dancing and chanting around the fire we unleashed our grief so that Gitche Manitou would know of our love for our fallen brother.

“Hoka hey, hoka hey – it is a good day to die.”

The skies grew ominously gray. A thunderstorm brought tears of Gitche Manitou, who grieved with us, down from the heavens.

I felt the bad wolf inside me growing in strength, feeding upon my pain, and reveling in my misery. I wanted to lash out at something or someone, but mostly the stupid government.

I didn’t call Patty until late in the evening that Friday, which was very unusual. She didn’t understand my words at first, thought I must be drunk, or tripping, or having a stroke, until she finally assembled my blubbering into a cogent thought. “Oh my God, I am so incredibly sorry, Armond. I don’t know… words just…” and her voice trailed off into tears. I knew she couldn’t get out that night as relatives from Ireland were visiting, yet I needed her more than I had ever needed anyone.

Her mother picked up the phone, “What did you say to her?” she demanded. I could hear Patty wailing in the background, suffering as I was, but not able to be with me. Not able to comfort me or obtain comfort from me, the enormity of the happening broke her down as it had me. “What did you say to her?” Her mother insisted. I couldn’t catch my breath to talk nor did I really want to. I hung up the phone on the desperate woman at the other end.

Most of the crowd at the Ramble Inn knew Buster, either personally or by reputation. None but the band had yet heard of Buster’s death.

“Today, we learned,” I choked, “that our brother Buster Lafontaine was killed in combat in Viet Nam.” Shrieks, cries, anguish, “Oh God no,” filled the room.

Jack Ghostly stepped up to his mike sensing that I was about to lose all control of myself, “The name of our group is Die Nasty,” he emphasized. “We are the ones who must force change in this country, or we will all Die Nasty. But right now, we are going to rock… rock our asses off in honor of Buster and the entire Lafontaine tribe.” With that Loraine, Mary, Champlain, Auggie, Rita, and Oscar Deutsch, the Queen of the North End pushed in from the back of the crowd and started a circular tribal dance in front of the band.

Dynasty played upbeat songs to break the sad mood. We celebrated Buster’s life, his spirit, his huge heart, his impact and influence on all our lives. Our message was that a person’s life is not measured by how they die, but how they lived and who they were while they lived.

Later that night, after the gig, several Indian brothers and I drove to the local Selective Service office in Superior on Tower Avenue near the North End. We had armed ourselves with bricks and bats. I hurled a cinder block through the large window fronting Tower. Inside, we smashed and tipped over everything in sight. I spray painted “Fuck War” on the wall. The flurry of destruction of the office took less than five minutes, yet it was a thorough demolition. We stopped short of torching the place because other businesses were attached and occupied apartments set above. We weren’t murderers. We held all life sacred.

It was Memorial Day weekend, 1968.

~~~

Thus far, 1968 was living up to my expectation that it would be a bad year. The year was sucking pretty hard. The beginning of my fatalistic attitude about life began around that time. I was convinced that my life would be short, that I would die young, long before my time. There seemed to be so many forces conspiring against me. Life expectancy for an Indian in this country was about 40 years. Suicide was the leading cause of teenage Indian deaths. Fucking Viet Nam! The Fucking Draft. Diabetes struck the majority of Indians. Alcoholism infected 75% of our reservations. And if I didn’t die I had a large chance of going insane. My mother was schizophrenic, which was a hereditary mental disease. All my mother’s relatives were fucking nuts.

Dynasty played a gig at a resort in Barnes, Wisconsin on my 15^th birthday. Patty accompanied me. We started drinking early, the death of Buster still hung heavy in my heart, and I was fairly drunk when the gig started. I may have missed a few notes here and there but nobody noticed. Patty got annihilated. Too drunk to fuck, at first – no skinny dipping because it was June 1^st and the water temp was still in the low 50’s – we humped drunkenly in a nearby boat house.

In the days following, a new sense of foreboding overtook me. Something was wrong. Patty seemed bothered of late. I could tell that something was askew in her life, but didn’t know what it was and she wouldn’t tell me. She seemed distant much of the time. No matter what I said she wouldn’t open up

Finally, I broke her down on the 4^th of June at Jack Ghostly’s birthday party, which is why I remember the date so distinctly, Jack and I were born three days and three years apart, him being the elder. Patty confided that her mother had been diagnosed. It was cancer. In 1968, cancer meant certain death. For months her mother had become weaker by the day. The doctors didn’t give her much time to live, a month, maybe more, but she wouldn’t see the New Year.

Frankly, I didn’t know what to say. I talked about the cycles of life, but that talk didn’t help Patty one bit. Patty and her mother were very close, more like best friends than mother and daughter. I suddenly saw a new dimension to Mrs. O’Leary’s panicked question of me the preceding week. I felt terrible that I had hung up on her – had hung up on a dying woman. I didn’t know. In my grief I had forgotten that others might have grief outside of mine.

Patty felt guilty, that perhaps her wicked ways had somehow brought on her mother’s illness. I told Patty that she was being silly, that she was not the cause. Have you ever seen an Irish girl when she gets mad? I thought I had, but really I hadn’t up until that moment.

“What do you fucking know about it?” she croaked through tears. “Is your mother dying?”

“No, mine is in the crazy house,” I replied.

She cried a bunch of other words that I made no sense of and then she demanded, “I need you here.”

“I am here,” I said.

“No, you’re not,” she argued. “You’re going away.”

“You mean the tour?” I asked.

“Yes, you’re going away and you won’t be here when I need you most.”

“I’ll only be gone for a few weeks,” I lied. We expected to be gone most of June and July.

“That’s not true. You’re scheduled for seven weeks. You’re going to San Francisco and back. She could die at any time. I need you here with me. I need you to stay. Don’t go.”

“I’m not sure that I can do that,” I said. “There are four other guys involved. If I don’t go they can’t go. We would have to cancel the tour. And there’s another band involved. We’ve signed contracts.”

“Cancel the tour, then. I need you here.”

“I’ll have to think about it. I’ll have to talk it over with the guys. The tour is important to them and me.”

“If you really love me you’ll stay.”

“I do really love you, but it’s not just me involved here. It is more complicated than that,” I tried to argue my point.

“Well, you’re going to have to decide,” she said. “Is it me or the band that you love most?”

“I’ll have to think about it,” I said.

“If you really loved me you wouldn’t have to think about it.”

This was my first experience playing the if-you-really-love-me game. I didn’t know the rules or penalties. I just knew that she was asking me to scuttle the plans of four people that I cared about and she was being quite simplistic about the whole matter. I did love her, as much as any kid can experience love at age 15, but I loved music more. Music was everything to me. Music was “my only friend, until the end,” as Morrison had so eloquently stated.

Could things get any worse? I thought. My answer came later that evening from old Uncle Walter Cronkite. “Robert F. Kennedy has been shot at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. We have few details at this time, but we have been told that a priest is at his bedside giving him the last rights.”

Bobby Kennedy, as the young generation knew him, was a breath of fresh air, an anti-war candidate for president, and the one person that we felt could save the nation. We would all return to the days of Camelot with a Kennedy back in the White House. Bobby would end the war in Viet Nam. He would bring our soldiers home where they belonged. All that promise and hope died with Robert Kennedy that day.

On Friday, I said a teary goodbye to Patty knowing that it meant the end of our relationship. I had to do the tour. I really had no choice in the matter. I quoted lines from Nietzsche’s “Thus Spake Zarathustra”:

“O, man, take good care.

What does the deep midnight declare?

That all joy wants eternity

Wants deep

Wants deep eternity”

The words seemed fitting to me, but not to Patty.

“You are an ass,” she said. “Have fun on your fucking tour.”

Road Tales/Rode Tails - Hippie Haven

Hippie Haven

Following our Rapid City gig was one long-assed boring drive to San Francisco. We took turns driving straight through making as few stops as possible. We were all beat from the tour at that point. The daylong drive was a chance to catch up on sleep when you weren’t driving. I was driving on a Wisconsin learner’s permit, which wasn’t really legal in any other state, but I knew I could play dumb to any cops that might pull me over. We didn’t get stopped.

I had never seen mountains before. New Orleans is below sea level and Duluth is nothing more than a hill. I wondered how the small towns in the Rockies got there. Who were the people that decided to stop and make a settlement in these remote locations?

We stopped briefly in Reno to lose money in slot machines. I was beginning to wonder why we decided to drive to San Francisco. We were travelling 2,200 miles across country essentially to play one gig, a small festival near San Jose. We were getting paid $2,000 for that one gig and we knew that we’d pick up other work while we were there, but my ass was getting mighty sore and we had all run out of things to talk about days before.

Basically, I was feeling homesick. I had tossed away my girlfriend to go on this trip. Why did I do that? I flipped through a flurry of self-doubt and a little self-loathing until finally pulling out of it. I realized that I ended the relationship with Patty because it was time. We were tired of each other, no longer felt the great joy of being together, and had settled into a rut, a drunken rut, at that. The ultimatum that Patty issued was her way of saying I’m breaking up with you. I was sure that she had found somebody else already. I didn’t really care. I was not jealous, which was strange since I was still incredibly insecure. I missed Patty. I missed Buster. I missed my dad.

I broke out of my funk when Ted Anderson announced that we were a mere 200 miles from San Francisco. That news brightened our day. Four more hours of driving, at most, and we would be standing at our destination: the intersection of Haight and Ashbury. Those last four hours went by fairly quickly. Daylight broke from the East revealing a new landscape to ponder. We passed through absurd changes in terrain from green mountains to the desert wasteland called Sacramento that remained arid until we passed over that final hill that leads to San Francisco. There it was, blessed San Francisco, the Promised Land for beatniks like us.

The exhilaration of arriving in the Bay Area washed away the fatigue of the tour. We were in San Francisco. I was viewing my second ocean, the Pacific, and there was the Golden Gate Bridge shimmering in the morning sun. The colourful architecture spread across the rolling hills of a great seaport looked to me like New Orleans with hills.

We were all so very excited, suddenly jabbering like mad with Tim leading the pack. San Francisco was more beautiful than any of us had imagined. We stopped at a gas station to pick up a free map of the city streets, plotted our course, and ambled over toward the intersection of Haight and Ashbury.

As we drew neat The Haight, as that district (neighborhood) is called, we saw hippies everywhere, swarms of them scurrying up and down the tilted streets. We stood out like festering thumbs on a fingerless hand, particularly me with my butch haircut. My compatriots appeared as though they’d been bleached white and dressed like railroad workers, but at least they had fairly long hair.

Hippies offered us drugs at every turn. “Want some weed, man. Wait, you’re not a narc are you?” Narc was short for narcotics agent, a policeman specializing in drug crimes. Pot was illegal. LSD had just been made illegal yet it was still available everywhere. Every type of drug was available: uppers, downers, sideways, all there for the asking.

Day-glo splashed everywhere: signs, posters, buildings, store fronts, in every direction. The hippies all seemed passive, full of love. Make love, not war. Now, that was a slogan I could get behind. Free love was another concept I could surely embrace.

Hippies offered us food, too. Hippies sat on sidewalks playing guitar and singing Dylan. Hippies, hippies everywhere. And everywhere the smell of patchouli. Head shops selling posters, mod threads, hip records, and drug paraphernalia – about one per block, sometimes more.

And cold! It was nearly July and I was chilled so badly that I ran back to the van and grabbed a Navy P coat that was strangely hip for some odd reason. I remembered Mark Twain’s famous quote, “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.” Now, I knew what old Sam Clemmons was talking about.

My cousin Rock quickly made friends with a hippie girl who invited us all back to her pad. She called it a pad, which to me meant that the hippies hadn’t strayed too far from their beatnik roots. The chicks pad was a large house with mattresses and pillows covering nearly every inch of every floor.

“Where are you guys from?” hippie girl asked.

“Duluth, Minnesota,” Rock answered.

“Oh cool, that’s where Bob Dylan’s from. Do you know him? What’s he like, I mean, really?” asked hippie girl.

“Um, no, ma’am,” Rock replied with his Elvis Presley influence showing. “We’ve never met him. He left Duluth years ago.”

“Oh,” she said, clearly disappointed.

There was a smorgasbord of braless hippie girls available for the taking. Hippie girl dragged Rock off to a private room to ball leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves. Jack Ghostly abstained from intimate fraternization, as usual. But not me, I dove into the deep end of the pool of hippy chick boobies.

“I’m Magnolia,” said a pretty thing dressed in nothing but a sun dress.

“I’m Armond,” I said.

“Mescaline,” said Magnolia as she handed me a tab of paper. I suspected that her name wasn’t really Magnolia, but a moniker she donned for her hippie life.

“What does it do?” I asked.

“It sets you free, man, opens your mind, and your spirit,” Magnolia replied as she rocked back and forth.

“Like mushrooms?”

“Yeah, man, like mushrooms only a little different. Take it, man, you’ll love it. It’s all about love, man.” She was beginning to “man” me to death so I chewed up the tab and swallowed. Fifteen minutes later I was “tripping balls” as the expression goes. It was a good thing I had taken the mushroom and peyote trip prior to this experience or I would have freaked out.

In about 15 more minutes I felt that I could no longer sit upright so I lay down and watched the melting walls that surrounded me. The Doors Strange Days album started playing. It could have been just in my head, except that it was loud and distorted. Magnolia moved in time-lapse images with a wide smile. I was smiling back, couldn’t control my grinning from ear to ear.

“Isn’t it beautiful, man,” Magnolia said or maybe she just thought it at me. “I love this album.” Hey, she was talking and the album really was playing. I regained strength after the first rush passed and sat back up.

“It is beautiful. You are beautiful,” I said. Oh-oh, my hormones were kicking into full gear. I leaned forward extending a hand to touch her face, but I fell way short nearly nose-diving into the mattress.

Magnolia laughed, “You’re funny. Wanna ball, man.”

“More than anything,” I replied.

“Follow me,” she said as she grabbed both of my hands in an attempt to pull me up.

Legs, what happened to my legs? I had them when I came in. Oh yeah, stand was the command that needed to be sent. My sizzling brain sent the command and, much to my surprise, I stood up, but too fast and nearly toppled us both over. Walk was the next command. I was out of breath. Oh yeah, I forgot to breathe. Breathe, man, breathe. The stairs appeared to rise as high as Mount Everest. All I wanted to do was mount Magnolia. We ascended the stairs slowly and finally we were in a bedroom with an actual bed. We fell onto a down comforter that swallowed us whole. The room was dark except for the florescent stars and planets pasted to the ceiling that were set aglow by black light.

We made out while Magnolia disrobed me. “You are ready to go aren’t you? You have a beautiful cock, man.”

Her words made no sense to me. What was she talking about? I wondered and watched as Magnolia pulled the sun dress over her head. She wore no other garments. I liked the easy access mentality of this chick. We balled for what seemed like an eternity. I had learned to concentrate on not releasing, suppressing the urge to explode from the groin, but now I had the opposite problem. No matter how much I tried, despite the beautiful bouncing boobies above me, I just couldn’t let go. Magnolia wasn’t complaining. In fact, her reaction was quite the opposite.

“You are amazing,” she said, or maybe it was that planet on the left that was talking to me. What was its name? The one with the rings. What was its name? Oh yeah, Saturn. Or, was it Jupiter. No wonder I couldn’t let go, my brain had lost contact with all body parts below my neck.

She eventually collapsed on top of me saying, “I need a break. You have to be on top for awhile.”

Again, the words didn’t register. What? You want me to do what? On top? Where, the roof? On top of what? She flipped us both over like a flapjack and suddenly I was on top. Oh, that’s what she meant. Finally, I was able to concentrate on the sex we were having. No more distracting galaxies, just beautiful boobies and a face painted in day-glo ecstasy. Still, there was no explosion, close, but not popping off. Her eyebrows were uneven and one ear seemed larger than the other. And her eyes weren’t the same colour, either. We banged and banged and balled and balled until the motion seemed purposeless, yet still fun. She was saying something, no, screaming it. A thought entered: Perhaps I should listen in case she’s distressed. Then, left just as quickly.

“Yes, there, right there, right fucking there. Oh fuck, yes…” and on and on. Ok, she had nothing important to impart. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, trying to launch my little Ensigns. No, they were seaman, that’s who I was trying launch, but their boat was stuck on something. Her hair looks weird, blond with different colour blond roots, darker, maybe even black at one time. But the carpet was the same colour. Did she die the drapes and the carpet? Must have, no other explanation seems… Wait, she has nine piercings in her left ear and only seven in her right, or did I lose count somewhere.

Eventually, I felt pressure building below until boom, the big explosion occurred and Magnolia’s eyes rolled back like she was trying to look through the top of her skull. Her legs were clamped tight around my lower back as she rocked back and forth with diminishing vigor until she stopped and gasped for air. I fell over deep into the bed when her legs finally relaxed.

She lay next to me for a period of minutes panting and saying, “Oh man, oh man, oh man…” I felt like I wanted to sleep but couldn’t. Every molecule in my body was vibrating. I could feel the hair growing on my scalp, individually.

Magnolia rose from the bed, went to the door, and called out, “Petunia, come in here. You’ve got to try this. It’s the most incredible thing.” Or was I just imagining that?

Petunia entered, looked at me lying on my back and gasped. Magnolia instructed her to, “Climb on and ride him like a bucking bronco. Hold on, you’re in for a long ride.” With that Magnolia exited.

Petunia sat beside me and grasped my favourite toy delicately with tiny fingers. Petunia was a petite girl, maybe even sub-petite. She wore a teddy (I think that’s what the garment is called). It was sheer and I could see puffy little nipples through the fabric. I could see the stitching in the fabric that partially occluded the nipples. In the blink of an eye her teddy was off and she was climbing aboard my good ship’s lollipop. This ride lasted even longer. I was more distracted. The neatly manicured patch of grass around her box was blond, but her head had black hair that looked natural. Wow, California girls were neat.

Brian Wilson and the Beach Boys entered my head singing, “I wish they all could be California girls.”

In my first twenty hours in San Francisco I got stoned, tripped balls, saw millions of colourful objects that probably weren’t there, and balled until I was raw.

I couldn’t wait for day two.

Road Tales/Rode Tails - The Lizard King

The Lizard King

I started plotting how to get to Chicago the moment I learned that The Doors were scheduled to perform at the Coliseum on May 10^th, 1968. I was fairly certain that I could talk Ted Anderson into driving the 400 miles to Chicago. The big problem was going to be getting the day off from school, a Friday. I ran through a myriad of lies that I could tell my parents, but none seemed believable. The school was obviously the easier entity to lie to. The administrators hadn’t shown much for brains up to that point. They couldn’t be that hard to fool. In fact, I was certain that I could cook up an excuse to miss the day that did not involve a confirmation call to my parents.

Ted was all for going to see The Doors. They were the hottest rock band in America. Magazine articles flourished about their revolutionary attack on all that was tradition. Their songs were hip, fresh, exciting, dangerous, and Jim Morrison was an intellectual rock god. We planned to leave early, around 7am in order to finish our 8-hour drive with plenty of time to get to the concert.

It turned out that all my scheming was for not. On May 5^th my mother melted down again. The local doctors had no answers. The military shrinks recommended bringing her to Minneapolis once they stabilized her with whatever shit they shot her up with that turned her into a zombie state. These episodes always freaked me out. It was impossible to concentrate on school, not that I actually needed to concentrate to do well in school. We were at the end of the school year, anyway. I had locked in A’s in all my classes, even in German. Dad drove her to the Veteran’s Administration hospital in St. Paul on Wednesday. I stayed with Granny Blackwater.

My homeroom teacher noticed that I wasn’t the same. She was a really nice lady who seriously cared about students. Mrs. French was also my English teacher and a big fan of my writing style. She once told me that I should seriously consider a career as a writer. When she called me out into the hall that morning the other students made a combination of oh-oh noises like now I was going to catch hell and kissy noises like the teacher was going to make out with me or maybe they were intimating that I was an ass kisser. Typical Junior High shit. I couldn’t have cared less.

I explained to Mrs. French what was going on. She looked sadder than me, nearly in tears. I guess it was the way I told it. She told her assistant to watch the class and took me down to the guidance counselor’s office where I repeated my explanation. They asked me what I needed. What a beautiful opening. I told them that I just needed a few days to myself. My grandmother was the best counselor that I could ever hope for. They both agreed. The guidance counselor filled out a form and said, “We’ll see you Monday. I hope that your mother feels better soon.” This was one time that my mother’s lunacy worked in my favor.

I explained to Granny Blackwater that I just needed to get away, told her about the concert, and that Ted was driving. She knew the Anderson family well and saw Ted as a well mannered young man. She saw no problem with me going to the concert. It would do me good. She had never heard of The Doors, which was a good thing otherwise she probably wouldn’t have let me go.

Granny Blackwater lived seven blocks from Ted’s house making for an easy rendezvous that Friday morning. When he picked me there was Tim O’Neil sitting in the back seat. Once we got a block away Teamo sparked a fat jernt (New Orleans pronunciation of the word joint). Mary Jane brought sweet relief for all my tensions.

Chicago was bigger than I expected. It was the biggest city that I had been to at that stage of my life. There were superhighways everywhere, cars zooming all over, real skyscrapers, and an atmosphere that I hadn’t smelled or felt before. We stopped at a pizza place for dinner where I had the best fucking pizza I had ever tasted. It was deep dish, crusty, filled with cheese, veggies, sausage, and pizza sauce. It wasn’t just the best fucking pizza I’d ever had it was the best fucking food I’d ever eaten. Or, it could have been the weed we had smoked during the preceding eight hours. We gorged ourselves.

The Chicago Coliseum had the look of old time Chicago, back in the days of prohibition and Al Capone. The 1916 Democratic Presidential Convention had been held there. After that a series of hockey teams and roller derbies occupied the massive brownstone building. In a few weeks the Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) would organize protests from that building, the streets would run with the blood of demonstrators bludgeoned by the fascist thug police force ruled by Mayor Daily. You could feel the tension in the air even then. on thar beautiful spring day in May the vibes were there.

Seating capacity was listed at 7,000, but the promoters had oversold the show. I guessed that there were closer to 10,000 kids in that big room. The air was 80% Oxygen-Nitrogen and 20% marijuana smoke. Kids may have come there straight but they left stoned.

The opening act was a forgettable local Chicago group whose name doesn’t matter. Next up, came a local blues band that featured an old black man as singer. We hadn’t heard of the guy and would never hear of him again. He was one of a thousand cats like him, great acts that never made it. And, this cat was great. He reminded me of guys just like him playing down in the Mississippi Delta and New Orleans, guys like Mississippi John Hurt. I pondered that perhaps this cat was lucky not to have made it and then died like Hurt had

There was a long delay between the second act and the anticipated Doors sets. The crowd grew restless, the pot smoke grew thicker. People started stamping on the floor. Soon, a chant started to rise, “Doors, Doors, Doors, Doors, Doors, Doors, Doors…” until it became a thunder that shook the rafters of the old building. Would it collapse?

Finally, Ray Manzarek, Robbie Krieger, and John Densmore walked out of the wings to onstage and began to tune up. The place went wild with cheers. I had never heard anything like it. I had trouble catching my breath. Tears filled my eyes. My reaction had nothing to do with the pot smoke. What I was feeling was heightened emotions of joy and awe, and they hadn’t even started playing.

The auditorium erupted again, even louder, when Jim Morrison walked up to the microphone. There he was the singer that had captured my soul. I was in the presence of the Lizard King.

Manzarek kicked the show off with the opening organ riff of When the Music’s Over. Kids were jumping out of their seats in joy. More kids rushed down the aisles toward the stage. Girls were baring their chests like it was Mardi Gras. The crowd sang along. Ten thousand kids knew every word to the song, at the appropriate time all shrieked “Save Us… Jesus… Save Us…” along with the demented man stalking around the stage like a caged tiger.

Song after song repeated the same chaotic energy. I felt drained and energized at the same time. I was soon floating on a high that had nothing to do with the grass.

Jim talked to the crowd in between songs. He asked questions and laughed at the answers. He felt like one of us, like every person in that arena had known him forever.  His charisma flowed from the stage like scalding hot seamen impregnating us all with his message.

Morrison calmed the crowd down at one point, begging for quiet so that he could recite one of his poems, which then led into the epic song that closed their first album, The End.

Jim injected new words, vast images spontaneously into the song. He was taking us on a journey, a trip through the desert, the jungle, the rabid city streets of America, and into our inner eye. He was attacking the Id of the entire crowd, enticing us to forget all inhibitions, all sense of right and wrong.

The crowd joined in again when he started the oedipal segment of the song. “The killer awoke before dawn. He puts his boots on. He took a face from the ancient gallery and he… walked on down the hall.” I had listened to these lyrics for nearly a year, but I was gaining a whole new perspective on their meaning.

Then, he reached the fatal lines. “Father? Yes Son. I want to kill you. Mother, I want to… Fuck you, yeah. Yeah, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck… fuck my momma, fuck her all night long. Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

I was stunned. Did I just hear what I heard? Did he just perform a concentrated version of Oedipus, The King? I was overwhelmed. I broke into a gusher of tears.

The Doors played for about 3 hours in total ending with an inspired version of Light My Fire.

It was the best concert I had ever seen, better than my wildest dreams. The connection I felt with Jim Morrison grew exponentially that night. It was one thing to hear him sing on record and study his poetic lyrics, but it was quite another experience to see The Lizard King perform in person. Blown away just doesn’t cover it.

Tim met some cats in the parking lot that invited us back to their flat to crash. It was funky little place with pillows and mattresses on the floors. Wine and pot flowed through the night. There were several gorgeous, braless girls there, but they each had an “old man” of their own. It was a good place to crash for the night, but there was no “mud for the duck”.

Around noon we gathered ourselves together and drove to Detroit, which took about five hours. En route we rehashed what we’d seen the night before and talked about how we needed to make our shows even more theatrical than they already were – the rest of us needed to move more. I was all for that.

This was the “ah-ha” moment where I decided to cast my organ bench aside and always play standing up. It could well be that Ray Manzarek inspired these changes as he sat on a bench playing his Vox Continental like a stick figure. I didn’t want to look like that. I wanted to be more flamboyant. I determined that I would seek out Oscar Deutsch early in the week for lessons in theatre from The Queen of the North End.

Detroit reminded me of pictures dad had taken of European cities during and after World War II. Entire blocks were burnt out and looked bombed out.  Wheel.ess, smashed cars decorated the bleak landscape. A war had been waged there, that was clear.

The James Cotton Blues Band opened for The Doors at the Cobo Arena in Detroit. The place was jammed full of kids. James Cotton was phenomenal singing great old blues tunes and playing blues harp with amazing skill. His rendition of “Got My Mojo Workin’” had everybody in the place singing in unison with him. This was the blues, baby. The point was made even more real by the scene we had driven through that day.

The arena erupted when Morrison took the stage. I think their first song was When the Music’s Over. The cheering was so loud it was hard to tell. Jim started to play the audience, begging, no, demanding silence from the audience. The only sound to be heard was the band and the frequent click of lighters sparking jernts on fire.

Silence was soon canceled by the hideous screams of Morrison, “See the light, baby. See the light. Save us, Jesus, save us!”

I felt the angst, fears, and desires of the thousands in the room all at once. The flood of emotion was nearly too intense to bear. I flew around the rafters of the great hall sailing on the air of enlightenment.

Changed forever, I knew what I wanted to do in life. I wanted to be a rock star. I wanted to be Jim Morrison.

Road Tales/Rode Tails - Cabin Fever

Cabin Fever

Bad news came around the 1^st of November when Buster Lafontaine learned that he had been drafted. We threw a big party for him down in the North End in the garage at 314 John. It was a nervous affair because Patty insisted on coming with me. All that Patty cared about was the beer and wine. She brought her own whiskey. I couldn’t protest too much lest she become suspicious. I wasn’t sure what the sisters Lafontaine might say or do. Would they be jealous? Would they inform Patty of my unfaithfulness? Would I still have balls in the morning?

Everything was cool, though. Loraine and Mary had their own guys in tow and everyone focused upon Buster who was scheduled to leave before Thanksgiving. It was impossible to think of life without Buster. We asked him to be very careful. One guy offered to shoot him in the leg to get him out of it.

“Naw, it will be cool. I’ve fought tougher guys than the Viet Cong,” he said bravely. “I’ll be just fine. Hell, it looks like they’ve got Charlie on the run. That war will probably be finished before I get out of basic training.”

I had a bad feeling about it all. I was worried for Buster. He was an Indian going into the military, which meant he’d be assigned to a mostly black battalion. Black battalions were always the first into battle. Even though the military had been officially integrated for over a decade and officially banned racism, the fact was that most of the officers and First Shirts (high ranking enlisted men) were from The South and this was still the 60’s and people of colour were far more dispensable than whites.

Patty noticed Loraine and Champlain disappear up the ladder to the loft. She looked at me and said, “What are they gonna do up there?” in a voice that indicated she knew full well what they were going to do up there.

I played dumb, “I don’t know,” I replied in a voice that confirmed that they were going into the loft to fuck. “What could a guy and a girl do in a loft?”

Somehow, I survived the night having no secrets revealed. I wasn’t sure how my Wild Irish Patty would react if she found out what I’d been up to in the loft and I sure didn’t want to find out.

We said goodbye to Buster around midnight and walked through the crisp air back to Patty’s house. The feeling of foreboding wouldn’t leave me. I told Patty, “I don’t know why, but I have this sick feeling that I’ll never see Buster again.”

She tried to reassure me, “Like he said, the war is almost over. The US will win. We always win. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“I certainly hope so, but… I wish this feeling would go away.”

~~~

Thanksgiving zoomed by, as did Christmas, and before we knew it a New Year was staring us in the face. I wasn’t ready for a new year. I liked the old year. I had so much fun in 1967 that I didn’t want it to ever end.

Dynasty rang in the New Year down in Hayward at the ski resort. We were playing a new song that hit the airwaves in early December titled “Incense and Peppermint” by a band named The Strawberry Alarm Clock. It was a cool tune with great organ parts and the crowd really dug it. We played it at least three times that night by request. It was quite a drunken night for all at the ski lodge. It was like nobody else wanted the year to end either.

Somehow, Patty managed to juke her parents into believing that she was going skiing with the girls. Either her parents were extremely gullible or they trusted that their daughter knew what she was doing. Patty got totally shitfaced that night. It was a good thing her parents didn’t know what was really going on.

Drinking always made Patty more amorous. At the stroke of midnight she was on the stage with me behind the organ. I had recently changed to playing in sweat pants with no underwear, which Patty didn’t approve of at first but got onboard when I pointed out the easy access it afforded her. She reached around and grabbed my bare ass with both hands as we kissed in the New Year. She was ready to go right there on the stage.

We slipped and slid our way to the chalet shortly after 2am. Bars are allowed to stay open an extra hour on New Year’s Eve in Wisconsin, another arbitrary nonsensical law that makes me question all authority.

I got a good blaze going in our fireplace to warm the place up. There was no other heat source. Patty grabbed a large quilt from the bed and we huddled together near the fire while drinking Irish whiskey out of a Ball pickling jar, which was strangely appropriate given that we were trying to pickle ourselves. We had way too much blood in our alcohol systems.

We talked, sang, and drank as the fire warmed us enough to shed layers of clothes one at a time. Before long we were naked and doing what drunken naked people do in the frigid winter. We banged, cuddled, drank, banged, cuddled, drank, banged, drank, cuddled for the next few hours. On at least one revolution I forgot to don a rubber. It didn’t occur to either of us at the time in our inebriated state. It wasn’t until the next morning that we both realized that we had been careless, or I had been careless since it was my whacker that needed the wrapper. A sick feeling, that had nothing to do with alcohol, descended upon us. Oh shit, here we go again.

I doubt that either of us breathed for the next two weeks. How were we in this position again? Why didn’t we learn with December’s frightful scare? Was 1968 going to be as bad as my premonitions indicated?

I noticed around the 12^th of January that Patty was a bit cranky. A day later our relief was renewed by Aunt Flow’s monthly visit. We both swore that we would never get careless again. Yeah, right.

A few days later Dynasty opened at the Duluth National Guard Armory for Strawberry Alarm Clock, the band that recorded “Incense and Peppermints”, which was near the top on Billboard’s Pop Charts.

Mark Weitz was their keyboard player. I remember talking with him about the Vox Continental sound he used on their hit song. He explained that he liked the Hammond sound far better, but management said that it wasn’t feasible to tour with one so they insisted that he use the smaller, far lighter Vox. They wanted live performances to sound just like the record so no Hammond. He fooled around with my A-105 for awhile before the show, loved the feel and sound, and was visibly disappointed having to play the Vox for their show.

The only other band member that I recall was a kid named Jimmy Pitman. I only remember him because I met him a few years back in Jacksonville Beach and he seemed to remember me. We got to talking and sure enough he was in the travelling band of Strawberry Alarm Clock. He was a jovial kid and an awesome guitarist who loved to drink. We threw a few pints of Guinness down one night at The Ritz Bar on Jax Beach exchanging stories of the road.

In late January, 1968, the temperature dropped into the -40 range at night warming up to -10 during the day and stayed that way for the next twenty days. For twenty straight days the high temperature for the day never rose about minus 10. That’s not just cold, that’s fucking cold. The magic of living in a winter wonderland was quickly fading.

The cold was replaced by blizzards that stacked snow upon drifted snow banks. There were days that the blowing snow drifted twelve feet high. On the bright side they cancelled school for several days in a row. It was nearly impossible to go anywhere or do anything except sit inside. At least the snow warmed the temperatures into the low teens. I spent most of my time in my room listening to music and practicing on the Farfisa. As much as I wanted to, and I wanted to a lot, I wasn’t able to see Patty much. I wanted to get laid, but I wasn’t willing to walk two miles in a blizzard or in below zero temperatures to do it.

On January 30th, while I was freezing my ass off in the Land Beyond Reality, the Viet Cong launched an all out offensive in the sizzling hot jungles of Viet Nam. It was the Vietnamese New Year, called Tet.. The war that the US was “winning” took a dramatic turn for the worse with what became known as the Tet Offensive. I thought of Buster Lafontaine who was training in San Diego to be a “heartbreaker and life taker” in the Marines.

I also contemplated what might happen if the war didn’t end soon, which seemed quite probable at that point, if it extended past 1971 when I would turn 18 and be eligible to become cannon fodder. The war was stupid. All wars are stupid. The Viet Nam war had no justification. Most of the people of South Viet Nam didn’t care anything about democracy or communism. They merely wanted to work the fields and enjoy a bowl of rice laughing with their family at night.

The anti-war movement was growing in America. I joined that movement to speak out against the war despite what my father thought. “My country right or wrong” was dad’s motto but it wasn’t a slogan that I could adopt. My country was wrong and young kids like me were dying because of it. This marked the beginning of my lifelong activism in the pursuit of peace. I was damned if I was going to sludge off to some jungle to die to insure the riches of some wasicu businessman. Fuck that. Bite the bag, baby, I’m not going. Hell no, I won’t go.

February brought no relief to the snow and cold. Are we entering a new Ice Age? I wondered. It hurt to breath in the out of doors and yet I walked the two miles every day to school in -15 temperatures. Naturally, this made me hate school all the more. Also, I had my fill of cold and snow. Perhaps I should have stayed in New Orleans on my own after our tour.

On February 13^th, a near riot broke out on the Madison campus of the University of Wisconsin over civil rights, raising another cause on my internal radar. We threw our own protest the next day at the Douglas County Courthouse, which was four blocks south of my school. We caught “the man” by surprise. They didn’t know how to handle protesting youngsters. It was an effrontery to their authority and they weren’t about to admit any weakness. Police poured into the old building, pushing and shoving kids around. It all got quite loud. A kid was pushed through a large pain glass window causing him to bleed profusely. Both sides smelled the blood and the scene became uglier and more violent. Handcuffed teenagers were hauled off to jail. The injured were rushed to the hospital. Our protest ended in a draw, yet our point had been made. We weren’t going to accept the status quo. There would be civil rights for all or there would be no peace.

I had an obvious stake in the Civil Rights Movement. I was what was called a Breed, of mixed blood. I wasn’t Indian enough for full-blooded Indians and I wasn’t white enough for the whites. To this day people ask me, “How much Indian are you?” Do they ever ask that of a black person? No. Do they ever ask that of an Asian person? No. Then, why is it ok to ask me that question? I always answer, “100 percent in spirit,” because I am. The people that primarily raised me insured that I would think like and possess the value system of a Nakota Sioux.

I wrote letter after letter to the editor of the local fish-wrap, The Superior Evening Telegram, intelligent arguments decrying the inequities in civil rights contrasted against the words in The Constitution, but none were published. So, I wrote a letter to the editor complaining about his fish-wrap’s biased editorial policies. Again, my letter was not acknowledged. My disdain for the American system grew by the day. They called it the Justice system where in reality it was the Just Us white people system.

More anti-war protests broke out across the country as the body count of US troops mounted. America was no longer winning the war. I had several serious arguments with my dad about the war and protests. Dad wasn’t easily swayed, but when the pictures splashed on the evening news night after night he could no longer defend the Army that he’d retired from a mere three years before. Wrong is wrong.

I asked him one simple question that changed everything for him. “Are you ready to send me, your only son, to die in Viet Nam?”

He choked up, fighting back tears, and said, “No, son, I’m not.”

Game, set, and match to Armond.

Events grew crazier by the day. Nerve gas escaped at the US Army Dugway Proving Ground near Skull Valley, Utah. Anti-war demonstrations multiplied and spread to other countries. Poland dived deep into political unrest. France was nearing the point of revolution. Peaceful protests broke into bloody skirmishes across the planet. Students took over administration buildings at Howard University to protest the university’s ROTC program.

All this madness was amplified by the desolation brought on by the remoteness, relentless snow, and unending cold of Northern Wisconsin.

I saw my mother tilting closer and closer to madness. I was frustrated that I could see it happening yet there was nothing I could do to stop it. I couldn’t fix her. My dad couldn’t fix her. Hell, not even the doctors could fix her.

On April 4^th, 1968, I caught a ride from my mother’s brother, Vinnie, and his wife, Mona. To call Mona a slut would do disservice to all sluts. Her favourite saying was “Cock-a-doodle Do, any cock will do.” As we turned onto 31^st Street a news bulletin interrupted the Rock and Roll. “From Memphis, Dr. Martin Luther King has been shot dead at the Lorraine Motel. Repeating, Dr. Martin Luther King is dead.”

I was in shock as waves of sadness washed over me. I started to cry. Mona asked, “What are you crying about?”

“This is the worst news I’ve ever heard,” I replied through my sobs.

“Well, that’s just stupid. It’s just one more dead n****r,” said Mona.

“Fuck you,” was my reply to her. Who did my uncle marry? What did my uncle marry? I got out of the car and rushed inside to watch the news on TV. Vinnie and Mona drove off. A few minutes later the phone rang. It was Vinnie. Mona was crying and he wanted to know what I had said to upset her. I told him. He laid into me with a barrage of bitter idiot ramblings.

I listened for less thirty seconds when I said, “Fuck you, too,” and hung up the phone. That was enough of these people and their ugly minds. I wanted nothing further to do with my mother’s family.

Riots swept the nation in the days follow Dr. King’s murder. Detroit was in flames. More than 100 US cities erupted in a volcanic backlash against that unimaginable crime. I was depressed. I reached the lowest point of my life in those days. I’ll never shake the memory. It was cathartic to watch the cities burn in righteous retribution.

Mother was incensed at my outburst to her brother’s slut wife and her brother. I would not back down, not even for this crazy lady. I didn’t care how they felt because they obviously didn’t care how I felt, nor did they understand the source and depth of my grief. I left the house and walked in the beautiful spring weather over to Tim O’Neil’s basement where I met up with Patty O’Leary who was still my girlfriend.  The mood in the basement was somber in contrast to its normal festive atmosphere. My Irish friends understood the source and depth of my pain.

I called my dad at work and told him what had transpired and that I wouldn’t be coming home that night nor going to school the next day. He understood and told me to grieve as I needed to. He said that he would smooth things out with mother and try to make her understand if he could find the right pair of ears inside her to listen. She heard voices when the schizophrenia took over her mind so that we were never quite sure which person we were talking to in her brain.

Patty had to be home early for some family function so after walking her home I walked down to the North End where I knew I would find ultimate solace and comfort. The mood in the garage was somber and worried. Momma Lafontaine had just received a postcard from Buster who was on a layover in Hawaii on his way to Saigon. The worry among my brothers and sisters was palpable.

The last batch of homemade wine that Buster had fermented was ready for drinking. We toasted him and danced for his safety. We sang in Ojibwa a plea to Gitche Manitou to watch over our brother Buster and keep him safe.

I lead them in the Nakota Sioux chant of, “Hoka hey, hoka hey – it is a good day to die. Hoka hey, hoka hey – it is a good day to die.”

Before long, Loraine pulled me into the loft where we consoled each other in naked bliss. Soon, we were joined by Mary and Champlain, then, Auggie (younger Lafontaine brother) and his girlfriend, Rita. There was no swapping. Each stayed with their own mate, drinking and banging to ease the pain.

I didn’t return home that night. None of us went to school the next day. I rode the bus out to Granny Blackwater’s house early in the morning. I needed to hear the words of the Spirit Woman, the only words that would ease the pain. She assured me that all this craziness would pass in time. I believed her. I trusted her above all others, a vibe that I’d gotten from my dad.

We dedicated our next gig to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and proceeds were donated to the Freedom Movement. We played Dr. King’s favourite song to a packed bar, “Take my hand, Precious Lord,” which was way out of character for Dynasty. The outburst of applause and cheers was heartening and brought tears to my eyes. The younger generation galvanized around the concepts of equal rights, peace and justice for all. Perhaps there was still hope, even in these darkest of times. Ted Anderson led the bar in song,

“Precious Lord, take my hand

Lead me on,

Let me stand.

I am tired, and I am weak, I am worn

Through the storm, through the night

Lead me on to the light

Take my hand precious Lord, lead me home.”

I was moved to see over 100 beer-guzzling teenagers sing the song along with us.

One week later, President Lyndon Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act of 1968. The rioting had ceased. People got back to their normal lives.

Things would never again be the same in America.