A couple of weeks ago, we did an interview on the sixties with Court Lewis on American Variety Radio. This led to last week’s Flying Pie column about life in Austin in post-beatnik times (1962). The interview continued with a discussion of the advent of illegal substances in following years.
Question 2. What was the drug scene like in Austin and how was it different in Gainesville?
When I first arrived in Austin, Gilbert Shelton, Rangeroo Joe E. Brown and a few other ne’er-do-wells were busily investigating the hallucinogenic effects of peyote. There was no marijuana to speak of but clever boys will take advantage of whatever consciousness-expanding products are available, even if they make you throw up til you turn purple, which peyote certainly did. Shelton’s crew had decided the only way to keep the peyote down long enough to receive the pretty benefits was to ingest it with peanut butter. A LOT of peanut butter. This worked for some, not so much for others and I, for one, being no big fan of vomit, was having none of it. Fine. This allowed me to closely monitor the proceedings and drive people to the hospital, if necessary.
Most of you probably never messed around with peyote, having had access to more civilized products. Like LSD, peyote provides neophyte experimenters with alleged cosmic views in which all the secrets of the universe are revealed. Tsk, if only you could actually remember them when the high deteriorated. Shelton and company decided to confront this problem by wisely writing down their amazing visions while under the influence. For this purpose, everyone was provided with a giant legal pad on which to capture their brilliant discoveries. This worked fine, at first. The noble crew of scientists recorded the early effects of the drug in exemplary fashion, jotting down neat little grammatically correct sentences full of colorful information. As time passed and the peyote began to work its magic, however, their penmanship transmogrified into arcane scribbling, increasingly unreadable. And growing larger. Eventually, MUCH larger. When Shelton managed to fill up an entire page with a giant “N,” I collected up their lessons and let them out of the classroom for recess. Joe E. Brown immediately discovered a rock and roll band playing in the streets and was extremely grumpy when noone else could hear their exciting melodies. Needless to say, none of the determined students could recall one whit of their time under, although Joe couldn’t seem to get rid of a recurring tune in his head.
I’ll Take A Beer, And Supersize It, Please.
For centuries, of course, the main hallucinogen in Texas has been Lone Star….and other beers of distinction. Texans appreciate—even NEED—their beer. When all the hippies rose up in California and began smoking marijuana, they decided beer was no longer desirable and cool people should stop drinking it. This message never arrived in Texas, where the citizens merely added weed to their menus without ever a thought to dismissing their favorite brew. If it ever came down to a choice between the two, I have no doubt marijuana would have lost in a landslide.
In 1962, however, marijuana was not plentiful. Even so, the laws against it were strict. If some fortunate person was able to actually obtain a rare joint, he would immediately lock himself in the bathroom and smoke it up before anyone discovered his transgression. As for the other drugs, they were unheard of with the occasional exception of some biker on speed. One day, Janis Joplin opened a newspaper and read aloud a shocking article about some poor fool who had ingested LSD and promptly decided he could fly. My first thought was, geez, better stay away from that stuff. Janis’ first thought, of course, was “Where the hell can I GET some?”
Go West, Young Man! Or East, If You Prefer.
On Christmas morning, 1962, I drove my recently refurbished hearse out to Marilyn Todd’s house to pick her up and head east. Marilyn still lived with her parents at 19 and decided now was as good a time as any to see the world. Not being much for long, mushy goodbyes, she climbed out her bedroom window at 4 a.m. and off we went, chased from state to state by proxies of her outraged father, some of whom were actual policemen. This long and colorful episode can be found in earlier sections of The Flying Pie, but right now we are discussing matters other. Anyway, after a convoluted journey to Massachusetts, we eventually arrived in Florida, first taking up residence in Tallahassee, then Gainesville in 1965. We survived, if that is the proper description of it, by selling copies of the Charlatan magazine, which I had revived in Florida. Eventually, Marilyn came to her senses and returned to Austin and I, with a paltry $1200 of magazine profits opened the Subterranean Circus in September of 1967. What was Gainesville like then? Well, the following song will shed some light.
Fred & The Hippies (by Bill, who else?)
The Summer Of Love
While I went East, Gilbert Shelton, Janis and several other Austinites headed for San Francisco. Shelton became a principal in the Rip Off Press, a fabulously successful printer of “underground” comic books, including his own Fabulous, Furry Freak Brothers. And Janis….well, what can we say about Janis? She became the star of the show. East and West, a tidal wave of drugs punctuated the era. Everybody smoked marijuana, including the quarterback of the UF football team—and I know it because he bought his rolling papers from me. Beer-swilling fraternity guys who at one time had a striped Sego shirt for every day of the week had graduated to Cossack or Nehru shirts, bellbottom jeans and were puffing hemp. Young males were still draftable by the military at the time so Vietnam War protests were fervid and growing but the sway that marijuana and the fast-expanding LSD had over the society prevailed. Music, art and a generous amount of easy sex was the order of the day. Those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end, we’d sing and dance forever and a day. We’d live the life we choose, we’d fight and never lose, for we were young and sure to have our way. It was a nice thought.
In California, the hippies were building a new society. Everybody would be able to do whatever the hell they wanted, which mostly consisted of blissing out, listening to music, smoking dope and sleeping with anybody and everybody. Kids poured in from all over hell to join in the celebration, listen to the bands and accede to LSD guru Timothy Leary’s admonition to turn on, tune in and drop out (of conventional society). Still, you had to eat, right? No problem! A guy named Hugh Romney (of all things) took to calling himself “Wavy Gravy,” organized a small army he called the “Diggers” and began to feed everybody with donated food and cash contributions. The California underground newspapers, particularly the L.A. Free Press, celebrated the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, a rejection of the Old Ways, a new world of sex, drugs and rock and roll, eschewing war and convention and capitalism and the horrid strictures of “the straight life.” It was a nice thought, also.
It was easy to be swept away by the tide, especially in a place like the Subterranean Circus, where the whole gestalt reinforced the Great Leap Forward. I, on the other hand, was a few years older and not so sure. As long as jealousy was around, Free Love would be a problem. Smoking dope all day didn’t seem especially productive. Capitalism had worked okay until then. And every so often you need a good war. Guys like Hitler aren’t especially respective of peace and love, right? Stick a flower in the gun barrel of one of his storm troopers and see what happens. Besides, I was now an official business owner. You can’t be a capitalist and a hippie at the same time can you? I didn’t think so.
Here Comes The Bride
Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. In 1970, I got married to Harolyn Locklair, a model from Miami, one of those few women who could cause automobile wrecks merely by crossing the street (this actually happened). We got married a lot like hippies do, in the nice little park adjoining the Gainesville airport, she crossing a quaint little bridge over a gurgling creek on her way to the “altar.” The ceremony was conducted by one of my valued employees, Danny Levine, an ordained minister of the Universal Life Church with a certificate to prove it. Irana—yep, she was around even then—was Maid of Honor and Rick Nihlen, who had a store like mine in Tallahassee, was Best Man. Appropriate to the occasion, Rick released a cageful of doves into the skies. (Siobhan, frownyface that she is, now rains on my ex-parade by telling me they probably all got discombobulated and died.)
The “reception,” fraught with free grass and liquor was held at my rambling two-story 1904-built house next door to the Circus. In tune with the times, Harolyn’s very straight parents were smoking away with the best of them and little children were passing out from wine overindulgence. And so, as a matter of fact, was Harolyn, which made for a grippingly exciting Wedding Night.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity. Alright, alright, somebody else wrote that part. But they couldn’t have put it better.
That’s all, folks. For now.
Question 2. What was the drug scene like in Austin and how was it different in Gainesville?
When I first arrived in Austin, Gilbert Shelton, Rangeroo Joe E. Brown and a few other ne’er-do-wells were busily investigating the hallucinogenic effects of peyote. There was no marijuana to speak of but clever boys will take advantage of whatever consciousness-expanding products are available, even if they make you throw up til you turn purple, which peyote certainly did. Shelton’s crew had decided the only way to keep the peyote down long enough to receive the pretty benefits was to ingest it with peanut butter. A LOT of peanut butter. This worked for some, not so much for others and I, for one, being no big fan of vomit, was having none of it. Fine. This allowed me to closely monitor the proceedings and drive people to the hospital, if necessary.
Most of you probably never messed around with peyote, having had access to more civilized products. Like LSD, peyote provides neophyte experimenters with alleged cosmic views in which all the secrets of the universe are revealed. Tsk, if only you could actually remember them when the high deteriorated. Shelton and company decided to confront this problem by wisely writing down their amazing visions while under the influence. For this purpose, everyone was provided with a giant legal pad on which to capture their brilliant discoveries. This worked fine, at first. The noble crew of scientists recorded the early effects of the drug in exemplary fashion, jotting down neat little grammatically correct sentences full of colorful information. As time passed and the peyote began to work its magic, however, their penmanship transmogrified into arcane scribbling, increasingly unreadable. And growing larger. Eventually, MUCH larger. When Shelton managed to fill up an entire page with a giant “N,” I collected up their lessons and let them out of the classroom for recess. Joe E. Brown immediately discovered a rock and roll band playing in the streets and was extremely grumpy when noone else could hear their exciting melodies. Needless to say, none of the determined students could recall one whit of their time under, although Joe couldn’t seem to get rid of a recurring tune in his head.
I’ll Take A Beer, And Supersize It, Please.
For centuries, of course, the main hallucinogen in Texas has been Lone Star….and other beers of distinction. Texans appreciate—even NEED—their beer. When all the hippies rose up in California and began smoking marijuana, they decided beer was no longer desirable and cool people should stop drinking it. This message never arrived in Texas, where the citizens merely added weed to their menus without ever a thought to dismissing their favorite brew. If it ever came down to a choice between the two, I have no doubt marijuana would have lost in a landslide.
In 1962, however, marijuana was not plentiful. Even so, the laws against it were strict. If some fortunate person was able to actually obtain a rare joint, he would immediately lock himself in the bathroom and smoke it up before anyone discovered his transgression. As for the other drugs, they were unheard of with the occasional exception of some biker on speed. One day, Janis Joplin opened a newspaper and read aloud a shocking article about some poor fool who had ingested LSD and promptly decided he could fly. My first thought was, geez, better stay away from that stuff. Janis’ first thought, of course, was “Where the hell can I GET some?”
Go West, Young Man! Or East, If You Prefer.
On Christmas morning, 1962, I drove my recently refurbished hearse out to Marilyn Todd’s house to pick her up and head east. Marilyn still lived with her parents at 19 and decided now was as good a time as any to see the world. Not being much for long, mushy goodbyes, she climbed out her bedroom window at 4 a.m. and off we went, chased from state to state by proxies of her outraged father, some of whom were actual policemen. This long and colorful episode can be found in earlier sections of The Flying Pie, but right now we are discussing matters other. Anyway, after a convoluted journey to Massachusetts, we eventually arrived in Florida, first taking up residence in Tallahassee, then Gainesville in 1965. We survived, if that is the proper description of it, by selling copies of the Charlatan magazine, which I had revived in Florida. Eventually, Marilyn came to her senses and returned to Austin and I, with a paltry $1200 of magazine profits opened the Subterranean Circus in September of 1967. What was Gainesville like then? Well, the following song will shed some light.
Fred & The Hippies (by Bill, who else?)
When
I moved out of Gainesville
In
1965,
Everythin’
was runnin’ normal
And
convention did preside.
When
I moved back two years later,
The
spliff had hit the fan;
A
psychedelic circus
Had
descended on the land.
There
were thirty thousand hippies
A-ramblin’
through the streets,
Dressed
in everything from fringe vests
To
cut up tie-dyed sheets.
They
were smokin’ funny cigarettes,
Drivin’
painted paisley vans,
And
holdin’ down their hair with
Beaded
Indian headbands.
There
were concerts by some strange-named bands
Like
the Lilac Pillowslips,
There
were light shows, there were love-ins,
There
were Kool-Aid acid trips,
There
were daily protest marches
For
peace and love and grass,
There
was purple sinsemilla
That
would knock you on your ass.
I
thought all this was not for me,
But
attitudes can change
And
teenage girls in mini-skirts
Can
leave a man deranged.
So
if you visit Gainesville, man,
Stop
by at my crash pad;
Light
up a joint—it won’t disappoint--
Have
a hit on Guru Fred.
The Summer Of Love
While I went East, Gilbert Shelton, Janis and several other Austinites headed for San Francisco. Shelton became a principal in the Rip Off Press, a fabulously successful printer of “underground” comic books, including his own Fabulous, Furry Freak Brothers. And Janis….well, what can we say about Janis? She became the star of the show. East and West, a tidal wave of drugs punctuated the era. Everybody smoked marijuana, including the quarterback of the UF football team—and I know it because he bought his rolling papers from me. Beer-swilling fraternity guys who at one time had a striped Sego shirt for every day of the week had graduated to Cossack or Nehru shirts, bellbottom jeans and were puffing hemp. Young males were still draftable by the military at the time so Vietnam War protests were fervid and growing but the sway that marijuana and the fast-expanding LSD had over the society prevailed. Music, art and a generous amount of easy sex was the order of the day. Those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end, we’d sing and dance forever and a day. We’d live the life we choose, we’d fight and never lose, for we were young and sure to have our way. It was a nice thought.
In California, the hippies were building a new society. Everybody would be able to do whatever the hell they wanted, which mostly consisted of blissing out, listening to music, smoking dope and sleeping with anybody and everybody. Kids poured in from all over hell to join in the celebration, listen to the bands and accede to LSD guru Timothy Leary’s admonition to turn on, tune in and drop out (of conventional society). Still, you had to eat, right? No problem! A guy named Hugh Romney (of all things) took to calling himself “Wavy Gravy,” organized a small army he called the “Diggers” and began to feed everybody with donated food and cash contributions. The California underground newspapers, particularly the L.A. Free Press, celebrated the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, a rejection of the Old Ways, a new world of sex, drugs and rock and roll, eschewing war and convention and capitalism and the horrid strictures of “the straight life.” It was a nice thought, also.
It was easy to be swept away by the tide, especially in a place like the Subterranean Circus, where the whole gestalt reinforced the Great Leap Forward. I, on the other hand, was a few years older and not so sure. As long as jealousy was around, Free Love would be a problem. Smoking dope all day didn’t seem especially productive. Capitalism had worked okay until then. And every so often you need a good war. Guys like Hitler aren’t especially respective of peace and love, right? Stick a flower in the gun barrel of one of his storm troopers and see what happens. Besides, I was now an official business owner. You can’t be a capitalist and a hippie at the same time can you? I didn’t think so.
Here Comes The Bride
Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. In 1970, I got married to Harolyn Locklair, a model from Miami, one of those few women who could cause automobile wrecks merely by crossing the street (this actually happened). We got married a lot like hippies do, in the nice little park adjoining the Gainesville airport, she crossing a quaint little bridge over a gurgling creek on her way to the “altar.” The ceremony was conducted by one of my valued employees, Danny Levine, an ordained minister of the Universal Life Church with a certificate to prove it. Irana—yep, she was around even then—was Maid of Honor and Rick Nihlen, who had a store like mine in Tallahassee, was Best Man. Appropriate to the occasion, Rick released a cageful of doves into the skies. (Siobhan, frownyface that she is, now rains on my ex-parade by telling me they probably all got discombobulated and died.)
The “reception,” fraught with free grass and liquor was held at my rambling two-story 1904-built house next door to the Circus. In tune with the times, Harolyn’s very straight parents were smoking away with the best of them and little children were passing out from wine overindulgence. And so, as a matter of fact, was Harolyn, which made for a grippingly exciting Wedding Night.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity. Alright, alright, somebody else wrote that part. But they couldn’t have put it better.
That’s all, folks. For now.
