Who says nobody likes to read about hippies? Last week’s column, aided no doubt by our recent interview on Court Lewis’ radio show and 27 errant Frenchmen (Gilbert Shelton lives in Paris, after all), was read by 1 1/2 times as many people as any other column. Go figure. Even with the radio help and the French Kiss, that’s a hell of a one-week jump. We’re not getting carried away with the European fans, however. The French think Jerry Lewis is a comic genius, so what do they know?
Question 3. What was the prevailing mood a few years into the hippie phenomenon?
When John F. Kennedy was elected president, there arose an enormous wave of optimism among the youth of the country. Kennedy seemed more than human, capable of leaping tall buildings with a single bound. His agenda was ambitious but his oratorical skills led us to believe all things were possible. JFK had the appearance of a true idealist and, at 43, he was the youngest president ever elected. The excitement was palpable. Most of us did not reckon with the Other Side. And, as we have increased in years, we now realize there is always an Other Side.
Nonetheless, Kennedy initiated the Peace Corps, a resounding success, which sent altruistic and adventuresome young (and a few older) Americans around the globe, especially to third-world countries, to raise up their fellow man. He started the successful program to place an American on the moon within the decade. With his feisty brother Robert, then the U.S. Attorney General, he embarked on a civil rights initiative which turned the oppressive segregated South into a far more comfortable place to live for what were then called American Negroes. (His thanks for the latter was the disintegration of the “Solid South,” a Democratic Party voter bastion since the end of Reconstruction in 1877. Barack Obama has inherited the neverending enmity of Bigotland.)
Kennedy also developed other antagonists. An ill-fated invasion of Cuba by CIA-trained Cuban exiles and a couple of wretchedly unsuccessful attempts on Fidel Castro’s life left the revolutionary leader one unhappy camper. The American Mob, large contributors to JFK’s campaign via his father, Joe, were likewise perplexed and none too appreciative of brother Robert’s broad assault on crime. And then, of course, those merry Russians decided to ship a mess of weapons to Fidel, bringing about the Cuban Missile Crisis. Perhaps derivative of all this—but who really knows?—John Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas in November of 1963, crushing the dreams of his young admirers and, temporarily, at least, the spirit of a nation.
Hippies To The Rescue
Lyndon Baines Johnson succeeded Kennedy as President and rammed virtually all of JFK’s programs through a Congress, which, in part, wanted to memorialize John Kennedy, but also was a little terrified of LBJ, who knew where everybody’s skeletons were buried. Johnson also expanded the unpopular Vietnam War, however, an effort which led to his eventual demise and the hilarious presidency of poor old Richard Nixon. Meanwhile, there was craziness afoot in California. Young kids were streaming to San Francisco (and even L.A.) in droves, creating sub-societies of their own, which marched to a different drummer. Capitalism was eschewed, money was excoriated, war was the ultimate villainy and the government, in all its phases, became the enemy. It was not a wonderful time, shall we say, to be a cop.
On the East Coast, everybody was trying to catch up. Greenwich Village in New York City led the charge. When I went there, in September of 1967, to look for stuff to sell in my store-to-be, the Village was a wondrous place. It looked, smelled and felt like nothing I had ever experienced. There were new little underfinanced shops everywhere, selling everything from posters to buttons (thousands of buttons) to handmade pipes to Cossack shirts to incense, enormous quantities of incense, scents spilling from the shops into the streets, overwhelming all. Everything was NEW. Christ, who was thinking up all this stuff? The psychedelic poster art was absolutely brilliant, the new clothing lines colorful and outrageous. As you walked down St. Mark’s Place or Bleeker Street, there was one amazing discovery after another to be found. There was no end to the creativity. Even the music was different. Again, as with Kennedy, all things seemed possible. Hippiedom had arrived.
Meanwhile, Back On The Ranch….
The first day we opened the Subterranean Circus in September of 1967, we made $27, consisting almost exclusively from poster sales. We had posters, alright. They covered most of the walls and, eventually, even the ceilings. The store was about 25 feet by 80, so do the math. Soon enough, we parceled off a large section, installed blacklights and posters reactive to them and—voila!—the blacklight room. By now, Vietnam war vets were bringing home bamboo bongs, so we sold those. They were promptly improved upon by clever capitalists who manufactured them in everything from ceramic to glass to plastic. Our employee, Dick North, scrambled around gathering up lamp parts to make marijuana pipes but before long pipes of every material and description were being produced nationwide. There was no real competition, all other merchants being older and disconnected from all the contemporary hoopdedoo, so we got everything first. No store-owner in Gainesville had even heard of bellbottoms and we were selling 50 pair a day, minimum. We sold so many Cossack and Nehru shirts we had to hire an army of women to make them. And then, of course, came waterbeds.
Oh, Those Waterbeds!
Oh, those waterbeds,
We love ‘em when we’re hot!
Oh, those waterbeds,
We love ‘em when we’re not!
Oh, those waterbeds,
The girlies like ‘em, too!
Oh, those waterbeds,
They’re great for pitchin’ woo!
Oh, those waterbeds,
They make you slip and slide!
Sometimes they help you hit the spot,
Sometimes you override.
My first waterbed experience was at Mike Garcia’s apartment in D.C. He wouldn’t be home the first night I was visiting but I was welcome to sleep on his new waterbed. Groovy. I eagerly anticipated this fabulous new experience. Trouble was, Mike’s bed was plunked out on the floor like a giant amoeba, no frame to rein it in, help slosh it about, thus creating the true waterbed experience. Worse by far, it was extremely COLD. After a few minutes, your teeth were chattering. Garcia, rookie waterbed owner that he was, had no idea that it was necessary to cover your nice new waterbed with a 3/4 inch foam pad so your guests wouldn’t freeze to death. I left the next morning less than charmed by the exotic possibilities of the waterbed and less anxious to add them to my inventory. Eventually, though, I ordered three or four of them just for the hell of it. At which time I met the redoubtable Jim Hines, aka “Waterbed Man.”
Hines was a tall, blonde guy, handsome enough in a preppy looking sort of way. He could have just stepped out the door of the Sigma Chi house, straight as he was about almost everything, this leading to his thoroughly undesired title of “Waterbed Man,” staunchly implanted by one of my affable employees, Mike (Jagger) Hatcherson, a humorously sarcastic little fellow, very popular with the girls even though he wore his hair like Prince Valiant. There’s no accounting for some women’s tastes. Anyway, Waterbed Man—Jagger explicitly required we call him that and there would be no exceptions—came to me with a proposal. HE would sell waterbeds in the store and give us a cut of oh, say, 25%. I had already ordered my own waterbeds and didn’t think this guy fit in all that well so I told him 50%, figuring that would get rid of him. After blustering around to no avail, he suddenly decided to accept the deal. Great, I thought. Now I’ve got this schmoe to contend with. Jagger, on the other hand, thought it would be great to have a new foil around to play with.
In future weeks, we came to respect Waterbed Man’s knowledge of his business, if not him. He brought in about 40 waterbeds as the rest of us snickered. And he sold about 40 waterbeds in less than a week as his detractors reassessed. I was very happy for Waterbed Man as, with no investment, I was making more than he was—and he was making plenty. Waterbed Man hung around for a couple of years, successfully plying his trade, assembling a better wardrobe, attracting desirable females, emerging as a successful profit-taking entrepreneur. At which time, he approached Jagger with a simple request.
“Okay, I’ve paid my dues, I’ve been here two years, my business is doing great, I’m fitting in better with everybody in the store. I think it’s time you started calling me ‘Jim Hines.’”
Jagger regarded his prey with lowered eyelids.
“You know, if you get rich as a king—if you start going out with Jane Fonda—even if you can get me tickets to the next five Rolling Stones concerts,” Jagger promised, “you’ll always be ‘Waterbed Man’ to me.”
Jim Hines slumped off, forever a stranger in a strange land, and a short time later opened his own waterbed store. By that time, however, the Subterranean Circs was a true behemoth, eating competitors for lunch, and while Hines did fairly well, things were never the same for him. One day he called, interested in selling out his remaining stock. Mike Hatcherson took the call.
“Jagger,” Hines announced, “this is Waterbed Man.”
“Of course it is,” replied Jagger, winking to himself.
Oh Oh!
Next week, as luck would have it, Siobhan and I must trek to Kentucky for business purposes. Her business purposes, of course, since I have none. This means that we shall be unwinding an old blog just like we did in August. Whenever we do such things—and this is only the second occasion—we provide you with the column which has been most read over the two years of Flying Pie history. Unless, of course, something goes wrong and this one sits around for another week. By the way, we’re busily at work on Bill’s birthday blog and you know what that means: scandalous pictures, which have been known to cause viewers to cry and gnash their teeth, especially if their names are Stuart Ellison. So this is your first WARNING, there may be others. Or not. Proceed at your own peril.
That’s all, folks….
Question 3. What was the prevailing mood a few years into the hippie phenomenon?
When John F. Kennedy was elected president, there arose an enormous wave of optimism among the youth of the country. Kennedy seemed more than human, capable of leaping tall buildings with a single bound. His agenda was ambitious but his oratorical skills led us to believe all things were possible. JFK had the appearance of a true idealist and, at 43, he was the youngest president ever elected. The excitement was palpable. Most of us did not reckon with the Other Side. And, as we have increased in years, we now realize there is always an Other Side.
Nonetheless, Kennedy initiated the Peace Corps, a resounding success, which sent altruistic and adventuresome young (and a few older) Americans around the globe, especially to third-world countries, to raise up their fellow man. He started the successful program to place an American on the moon within the decade. With his feisty brother Robert, then the U.S. Attorney General, he embarked on a civil rights initiative which turned the oppressive segregated South into a far more comfortable place to live for what were then called American Negroes. (His thanks for the latter was the disintegration of the “Solid South,” a Democratic Party voter bastion since the end of Reconstruction in 1877. Barack Obama has inherited the neverending enmity of Bigotland.)
Kennedy also developed other antagonists. An ill-fated invasion of Cuba by CIA-trained Cuban exiles and a couple of wretchedly unsuccessful attempts on Fidel Castro’s life left the revolutionary leader one unhappy camper. The American Mob, large contributors to JFK’s campaign via his father, Joe, were likewise perplexed and none too appreciative of brother Robert’s broad assault on crime. And then, of course, those merry Russians decided to ship a mess of weapons to Fidel, bringing about the Cuban Missile Crisis. Perhaps derivative of all this—but who really knows?—John Kennedy was assassinated in Dallas in November of 1963, crushing the dreams of his young admirers and, temporarily, at least, the spirit of a nation.
Hippies To The Rescue
Lyndon Baines Johnson succeeded Kennedy as President and rammed virtually all of JFK’s programs through a Congress, which, in part, wanted to memorialize John Kennedy, but also was a little terrified of LBJ, who knew where everybody’s skeletons were buried. Johnson also expanded the unpopular Vietnam War, however, an effort which led to his eventual demise and the hilarious presidency of poor old Richard Nixon. Meanwhile, there was craziness afoot in California. Young kids were streaming to San Francisco (and even L.A.) in droves, creating sub-societies of their own, which marched to a different drummer. Capitalism was eschewed, money was excoriated, war was the ultimate villainy and the government, in all its phases, became the enemy. It was not a wonderful time, shall we say, to be a cop.
On the East Coast, everybody was trying to catch up. Greenwich Village in New York City led the charge. When I went there, in September of 1967, to look for stuff to sell in my store-to-be, the Village was a wondrous place. It looked, smelled and felt like nothing I had ever experienced. There were new little underfinanced shops everywhere, selling everything from posters to buttons (thousands of buttons) to handmade pipes to Cossack shirts to incense, enormous quantities of incense, scents spilling from the shops into the streets, overwhelming all. Everything was NEW. Christ, who was thinking up all this stuff? The psychedelic poster art was absolutely brilliant, the new clothing lines colorful and outrageous. As you walked down St. Mark’s Place or Bleeker Street, there was one amazing discovery after another to be found. There was no end to the creativity. Even the music was different. Again, as with Kennedy, all things seemed possible. Hippiedom had arrived.
Meanwhile, Back On The Ranch….
The first day we opened the Subterranean Circus in September of 1967, we made $27, consisting almost exclusively from poster sales. We had posters, alright. They covered most of the walls and, eventually, even the ceilings. The store was about 25 feet by 80, so do the math. Soon enough, we parceled off a large section, installed blacklights and posters reactive to them and—voila!—the blacklight room. By now, Vietnam war vets were bringing home bamboo bongs, so we sold those. They were promptly improved upon by clever capitalists who manufactured them in everything from ceramic to glass to plastic. Our employee, Dick North, scrambled around gathering up lamp parts to make marijuana pipes but before long pipes of every material and description were being produced nationwide. There was no real competition, all other merchants being older and disconnected from all the contemporary hoopdedoo, so we got everything first. No store-owner in Gainesville had even heard of bellbottoms and we were selling 50 pair a day, minimum. We sold so many Cossack and Nehru shirts we had to hire an army of women to make them. And then, of course, came waterbeds.
Oh, Those Waterbeds!
We love ‘em when we’re hot!
Oh, those waterbeds,
We love ‘em when we’re not!
Oh, those waterbeds,
The girlies like ‘em, too!
Oh, those waterbeds,
They’re great for pitchin’ woo!
Oh, those waterbeds,
They make you slip and slide!
Sometimes they help you hit the spot,
Sometimes you override.
Hines was a tall, blonde guy, handsome enough in a preppy looking sort of way. He could have just stepped out the door of the Sigma Chi house, straight as he was about almost everything, this leading to his thoroughly undesired title of “Waterbed Man,” staunchly implanted by one of my affable employees, Mike (Jagger) Hatcherson, a humorously sarcastic little fellow, very popular with the girls even though he wore his hair like Prince Valiant. There’s no accounting for some women’s tastes. Anyway, Waterbed Man—Jagger explicitly required we call him that and there would be no exceptions—came to me with a proposal. HE would sell waterbeds in the store and give us a cut of oh, say, 25%. I had already ordered my own waterbeds and didn’t think this guy fit in all that well so I told him 50%, figuring that would get rid of him. After blustering around to no avail, he suddenly decided to accept the deal. Great, I thought. Now I’ve got this schmoe to contend with. Jagger, on the other hand, thought it would be great to have a new foil around to play with.
In future weeks, we came to respect Waterbed Man’s knowledge of his business, if not him. He brought in about 40 waterbeds as the rest of us snickered. And he sold about 40 waterbeds in less than a week as his detractors reassessed. I was very happy for Waterbed Man as, with no investment, I was making more than he was—and he was making plenty. Waterbed Man hung around for a couple of years, successfully plying his trade, assembling a better wardrobe, attracting desirable females, emerging as a successful profit-taking entrepreneur. At which time, he approached Jagger with a simple request.
“Okay, I’ve paid my dues, I’ve been here two years, my business is doing great, I’m fitting in better with everybody in the store. I think it’s time you started calling me ‘Jim Hines.’”
Jagger regarded his prey with lowered eyelids.
“You know, if you get rich as a king—if you start going out with Jane Fonda—even if you can get me tickets to the next five Rolling Stones concerts,” Jagger promised, “you’ll always be ‘Waterbed Man’ to me.”
Jim Hines slumped off, forever a stranger in a strange land, and a short time later opened his own waterbed store. By that time, however, the Subterranean Circs was a true behemoth, eating competitors for lunch, and while Hines did fairly well, things were never the same for him. One day he called, interested in selling out his remaining stock. Mike Hatcherson took the call.
“Jagger,” Hines announced, “this is Waterbed Man.”
“Of course it is,” replied Jagger, winking to himself.
Oh Oh!
Next week, as luck would have it, Siobhan and I must trek to Kentucky for business purposes. Her business purposes, of course, since I have none. This means that we shall be unwinding an old blog just like we did in August. Whenever we do such things—and this is only the second occasion—we provide you with the column which has been most read over the two years of Flying Pie history. Unless, of course, something goes wrong and this one sits around for another week. By the way, we’re busily at work on Bill’s birthday blog and you know what that means: scandalous pictures, which have been known to cause viewers to cry and gnash their teeth, especially if their names are Stuart Ellison. So this is your first WARNING, there may be others. Or not. Proceed at your own peril.
That’s all, folks….
