Last Tango In Gainesville ©

“The secret of genius is to carry the spirit of the child into old age, which means never losing your enthusiasm.”---Aldous Huxley

A couple of weeks before the Leonardo’s 706 dinner celebrating the publication of Marty Jourard’s paean to Gainesville, Music Everywhere, I was discussing important world events with my old pal Chuck LeMasters and his friend and mentor Leonard Weinbaum.  Thrilled at the thought of citizens of the sixties and seventies back in town for the dinner, Chuck prodded, “Y’gotta have the BIG reunion, Bill, nobody else can do it.  Everybody would come.  It’s getting late, some of us can’t hold on much longer.”

I told him I’d think about it.  Leonard looked askance.  “Why would you ever want to do something like that, Bill?  It’s WAY too much trouble.  Think of all the time and money it would take.  You’d be buried.”  Weinbaum had a good point and I knew it.  I offered the hint of a smile and reflected on the matter.  “Yeah, but it’s the only way all these people will see one another again.  The only way I’ll see most of them,” I told him.  Leonard nodded and reckoned he understood.

At Marty’s dinner, Chuck was in heaven, excited and renewing acquaintances across the room.  In addition to Marty’s crew, old Circus workmates Bob Sturm and Ricky Childs were in attendance.  LeMasters hopped around the bistro taking photos of everyone, unusually animated.  Later, as the evening waned, he said “This has been great, Bill.  I feel like I can die now.”  I’m pretty sure he was kidding, but I got his gist.  “Don’t die yet,” I told him.  “I’m thinking about The Big One.”

This Is Us

The years and places where people spent their adolescence are extremely memorable, more so if they were in the Austins, the Berkeleys or the Gainesvilles of this world.  The Dawn of The Age of Aquarius just wasn’t the same in Butte or Roanoke.  Sometimes, memories get a little fuzzy and it seems like everyone in’70s G’ville played a musical instrument for free in someone else’s back yard while marijuana smoke swirled over the scene and instant romances dotted the perimeter.

Summertime, and the livin’ was easy.  Pretty much the same in the other three seasons as well.  Those were the days, my friend, we thought they’d never end, etc.  The juices flowed, optimism reigned, anything was possible.  We learned something new every day.  We fell in and out of love.  We were often ecstatic and occasionally destroyed, sometimes ambitious and rarely contritious and we tried real hard to Be Here Now.

We searched for The Way, the Truth and the Light, though it was like catching lightning in a bottle.  LSD gave us the Secrets of the Universe but we forgot to write them down.  We tried Free Love but got jealous, we tried communes but got frustrated, we tried meditation and got bored.  We discovered that we were more and less than we’d thought.  We got by, though, with a little help from our friends.  Ah, those friends who brightened our days, brought laughter to our nights, smoothed our rough edges!  What happened to them, where are they now, those angels and demons, those growers and bakers and candlestick-makers?  We’d give anything to see them one more time.  Maybe it’s not too late. 

Homeward Bound

“Homeward bound, I wish I was homeward bound,
Home where my thought’s escaping,
Home where my music’s playing,
Home where my love lies waiting silently for me.”---Paul Simon

Therefore (clash of cymbals, please) we at The Flying Pie are pleased to announce the Subterranean Circus Grand Reunion, subhead: “Last Tango In Gainesville” on May 7 and 8 of 2022.  Some things are tentative because of uncertainty as to the size of the crowd, but we expect an EVENT of legendary proportions with a massive audience.  The invitees include the staff of the Circus and all of its customers, which is pretty much everybody who was in town between 1967 and 1990.  No liquor, no children, no evangelists, no security peacocks, please.  In one scenario, the affair could be held at two places on consecutive days from noon to 6 p.m., after which the hosting venue would throw an afterparty where you can glug alcohol to your heart’s content.  In another, we’d be in a vast open area where liquor would be verboten due to insurance limitations.  A few of you might remember where you put your flasks.

Less than famous (but very good) area bands will play music of the era.  Sure, you might like someone famous but consider the awful results; thousands of people overfilling the town, jamming the venue and keeping many reunioners out.  The acts will be interspersed with local rock relics who are feeling their oats and feel the need to get up on stage.  We will encourage musical spontaneity, of course, but ringmaster Montana Thacker will be equipped with a big whip to keep overenthusiastic musicians from playing Eight Miles High for more than three hours.

The notorious Sherry Bianchi will be there in her secret identity of Sherry Snyder to greet any old customers of The Pub who somehow remain living.  George Swinford will do the same for ex-barmates of Lillian’s if he lives that long.  And we’ll have dozens of mystery guests, of course.  It’s a mystery because we have no idea who they’ll be.  Maybe Mike Garcia, esteemed president of the Florida Olive Council, will appear to regale us with a few choruses of the filthy Good Ship Venus.  Dean Lester Hale could appear with his uke to strum My Little Grass Shack in Kealakekua, Hawaii.  Marty Jourard is almost guaranteed to break out the saxophone to belt out Stairway To The Stars.  Oh, it’ll be joyful.  Leave Aunt Fannie at the nursing home that weekend.  She couldn’t handle the doobie toss, let alone the naked septuagenarians playing bongos.

We Get By With A Little Help From Our Friends

On the first day of each month, there will be an advisory on Bill’s Facebook page describing developments about the reunion and providing useful information to likely attendees.  Party Central would appreciate your largesse in sharing these little bulletins as well as this column on your social media.  Believe it or not, there are people out there in the rainforests of Olympia National Park and the deserts of Nevada who don’t always get the word readily.  By announcing our plans a year in advance, we hope to minimize the damage, and word of mouth and FB are powerful tools.

We have scheduled the soiree for early May for several reasons.  First, the weather is usually dry and temperatures have yet to reach the stratosphere.  Second, there are plenty of hotel rooms available because nothing else is going on in town.  Third, air travel is easier in May before the masses take to the air a few weeks later.

We are limiting attendance to those over 50 because of a concern for the size of the crowd.  It may be impossible to get sufficient affordable liability insurance to hold the party in an outside venue like Camp McConnell so we will likely opt for an alternative which offers outside facilities.  Unfortunately, their grassy annexes are unlikely to be as big as Max Yasgur’s farm.  If you are not quite 50, sneak a blotter of acid into the doorman’s palm and you’ll probably get in.

Since staging events like this is not cheap, we will be selling reunion t-shirts to defray part of the expense.  They will be lovely and everyone will want one.  For those generous folks out there who have offered to send checks to help support the affair, just buy a dozen or so t-shirts instead.  Your probation officer would love one.

There will be one or two professional photographers on hand snapping pictures.  We know that most of you are true cell phone artists but we thought you might want something nicer.  The photogs will get random shots of the party and make themselves available to fill your requests.  If you see anything you like, you can purchase it later.  We currently have a bloc of rooms reserved for guests on May 6, 7 and 8 at the Holiday Inn at University and 13th for a meager $109 a night.  When they’re filled, we’ll get more elsewhere.

Anyone in the government’s Witness Protection Program should know there will be at least one film made of the event.  Better to come dressed as Wavy Gravy or Yolanda, Princess of The Light.

That covers all the major stuff.  As for the little details, yes, there will be ID stickers with the message, “You won’t believe this, but I was once an honestogod hippie!”  Yes, the venue will have food and drinks for sale.  And no, security will not hassle you for lighting up.  They do not have enough room in the local jails to take care of this crowd.  If you have no local dealer, you are allowed to bring one.

Okay, that’s about it.  If you think we forgot anything, let us know.  Remember, however, that the reason for the season is to celebrate hallowed memories and those who contributed to making them.  To hug old friends and blush over ex-lovers.  To take one day, or maybe two, and visit one more time with the people we cared for in our youth, remembered for a lifetime and feared we’d never meet again.  It’s The Last Tango In Gainesville.  Make sure you go out dancing.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

 

Home Alone

“Loneliness adds beauty to life.  It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better.---Henry Rollins

In the United States, a stunning 27% of all adults 60 and over live alone, many of them reading The Flying Pie right now.  This is not the norm for the rest of the world, where only 16% of adults in 130 countries and territories studied by the Pew Research Center live by themselves.  In many countries in the Asia-Pacific and sub-Saharan Africa regions, less than 5% of seniors live alone.

Globally, living in extended-family households with relatives which may include grandchildren, nephews and adult spouses, is the most common arrangement for people over 60.  Nearly four in ten older adults live in this type of situation, including two-thirds in places as varied as Iraq, Namibia and India.  That compares with only 6% of people in the U.S.

Households are generally smaller in countries that are more prosperous, as defined by a variety of measures including education, longevity and economic output.  People in these places tend to have relatively few children and have them later in life.  Governments in wealthier countries also may offer financial assistance or health care benefits to retired adults, making it more affordable for older people to stay in their own homes.  Considerably more older women than men live alone---20% to 11% in the places studied---partly because of slightly longer health spans but also because of a tendency to partner with men who are older.

If you dislike the idea of playing solitaire throughout your older years, it might be a good idea to be a Hindu.  Of all the major religious groups, Hindus are the most likely to live in a wide circle of relatives.  Seven in ten of the world’s older Hindus live in extended families.  Even in countries other than India, the stats hold up.  In Canada, 46% of Hindus aged 60 and older live with extended families, more than four times the share of Canadian seniors overall (10%).

The senior population in the United States is blowing up, with 46 million seniors over 65 in the country today and double that number projected by 2060.  Alone or not, 90% of seniors want to retain their independence and remain in their own homes for the next five to ten years.  Nonetheless, only 43% of people over 70 feel it’s easy to do so.  High-quality public transportation is an issue with many of them uncomfortable with driving.  The onset of dementia is another.  And then, of course, there is the ogre of Loneliness.  All of which explains the allure of upscale senior living communities like The Villages, which are popping up everywhere.  Alas, not everyone has the finances or the inclination to buy off loneliness.  And as they say on the television series, This Is Us.  Most of us, anyway.

Lonely Days & Lonely Nights

More than a third of older adults confess they are lonely and pride probably keeps that figure lower than it actually is.  Loneliness is linked to so many health problems that some analysts claim it’s worse than smoking or obesity.  It may increase the risk of death by 30 to 60 percent and is linked to depression, chronic health problems and worse outcomes in people with serious illnesses.

Jack, who lives by himself just outside the Gainesville city limits, is a typical oldster.  “I like to walk to breakfast every morning so I get to be with some people.  A few of the same folks are there most days, so it gets to be like a club.  The restaurant puts up with us hanging around a little too long because they get it.  Tell you the truth, it’s a lonely existence but the breakfasts help.”

Before my Ocala gym, Lifetime Fitness, closed, ninety percent of the morning crew was well over 60.  One of the elders, Robin Martinez, was 90 and well past using most of the machines.  She could still plod along slowly on the treadmill, however, and palaver with whoever was about, sort of the grande dame of the operation.  The cast of characters there all knew one another and fretted when someone didn’t show up for a couple of sessions.  There was more conversation than there was exercising, but the fraternity cured a lot of ills.

Renee moved to Ocala from Michigan recently after her husband died.  “At first, it was awful.  I didn’t know anybody here and I was terribly lonely.  I cried myself to sleep some nights.  Then I decided to become a volunteer at the hospital.  It was scary with the Covid and all, but they really needed the help.  After a few weeks, I made some friends there.  We’d go lunch to fairly often and after awhile I felt like I belonged to something.  I still get lonely now and then but at least I have my anchor.” 

And then, of course, there’s Facebook.

Bob Follett shooting it up in Oakland

Facebook Friends

People like to whine about Facebook.  “Mark Zuckerberg makes too much money.”  “They put me in FB jail because I called Ted Cruz a ringtailed motherf**er.”  “The Russians manipulated it to get Donald Trump elected.”  Fine, but people make money because they provide a service or a product.  The better the service, the more the money rolls in.  Bruce Springsteen makes too much money and we think he deserves twice as much.  Ben & Jerry make too much money but are nonetheless beloved for Pfish Food and Cherry Garcia.  Bernie Sanders is a millionaire but a certified man of the people.

As for censorship, The Flying Pie has published many a chippy piece in 11 years with never so much as a time out or a “Go to your room!”  Requiring a little civility of language is not an outrageous demand.  Noone on FB is prevented from making whatever bizarre argument he chooses short of urging the drawing and quartering of the girls at the nunnery.   And we don’t know if you’ve been paying close attention, but those addled souls addicted to Trump don’t look like they’ve been doing too much reading.

Bob Follett, who lives alone, walks the streets of Oakland, camera at the ready, looking for a shot that needs shooting.  Chuck LeMasters, home alone with Timmy the Wonder Dog, is creating a new kind of Spin-Art.  Nancy Kay, alone and almost narcoleptic, is looking for a ride to the beach.  None of them are mad at Facebook.  These and thousands more may be flying solo but they are not alone alone.  They share their wealth with a coterie of Facebook Friends, a group of their choosing which they can whittle or prune or invite others into, a virtual neighborhood which polices itself, looks after needy neighbors, commiserates and congratulates.  And sometimes sings.  “When I find myself in times of troubles, Mother Mary comes to me speaking words of wisdom….let it be.”

So the next time you see Mark Zuckerberg, remember all this and do us a favor.  Don’t call him a ringtailed motherfu**er.

Harry & Diane in idyllic times.

Home Alone

Harry Edwards of Austin, Texas is one of our favorite people.  We have never met Harry in person, though we’ve shared similar experiences and know many of the same characters who dot the landscape of Edwardsville.  We first ran across Harry on Facebook, where he operates an intelligent and colorful page celebrating natural beauty, all varieties of music, the idiosyncrasies of Texas living and an unexplainable bent toward the American wolf.  It makes you want to watch that old Kevin Costner movie all over again.

For over 30 years, Harry has shared his life with the lovely and talented Diane, who likes to sit quietly in the background while Harry does his Facebook tricks.  Nobody really knows what someone else’s marriage is like on the inside but from here it looked like a match made in Romanceland.  We were thrilled once when Diane rose from her seat and asked for a campaign shirt from the Bill Killeen presidential extravaganza, a gift which was dispatched forthwith.  Then one day, Diane was gone, drifting into the cosmos on an unexpected zephyr.  She left with no warning, no words of farewell.  And probably a little pissed about not having the opportunity to leave a decent note.

Harry’s legion of friends, Facebook and non, held their collective breath waiting to see what such a crushing blow would do to their hero.  Indeed, what would most of us do in his stead after wrecking the kitchen, lighting fire to the house and marching off to join the French Foreign Legion?  The answer was blowing in the wind.

Miraculously, Harry survives today.  He never missed a beat in attending to his Facebook neighbors, refused to walk down Maudlin Street and stoically adhered to his lifetime motto, “Onward through the fog!”  All of us are sad, but proud.  The time he has spent attending to his FB orchard has borne fruit, he has accumulated a solid cadre of caring friends and neighbors, separated by miles, of course, but with Harry in spirit.

Home Alone, thank the Fates, is not what it used to be.

Thacker (r) and friend, doing The Anaconda

Snakebit 

Animal impresario Will Thacker should be dead himself, of course.  The onetime ringmaster of Gainesville’s Underground Zoo has been nipped by snakes, chased by sharks, stepped on by elephants and laughed at by hyenas, but he takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’.  His female retinue has not been so lucky.  His wife, Deborah Coughlin, left this mortal coil in 2018, though their marriage ended earlier.  Almost two years ago, his old high school prom date, Pamela Lawrence, finally found him.  “I’ve been looking for you most of my life,” she said, suggesting that they get back together.  They did, and bliss reigned until just before Christmas, when Pam began feeling faint and lay down on their bed.  “I watched the life go out of her eyes,” Bill said.  Not an experience to be wished on anyone.  Some people might head for the roof, but Thacker is tougher than some people.  Instead, he’s preparing a blog of his own.

“I’ve spent a lifetime on animal extravaganzas of one kind or another.  Been everywhere, even the Amazon.  There’s not much about critters I don’t know.  I’ve also been around many animal icons like Marlin Perkins who shared their vast stores of knowledge with me.  I have stories to tell, adventures to recall.  I’m alone now and sure, I’m a little sad but I’ve found Facebook and reconnected with many old friends.  Life goes on and I figure I’ll go on with it.”

Home alone or not, everyone has a choice.  Let the tide take you under or hitch your wagon to an idea, a project, a pet, a vague faith that an invisible door will someday open to a land of milk and honey.

Hey, it worked for Paul Cezanne and Grandma Moses.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

Where Are They Now?

Whatever happened to Baby Jane?  Or Bill Faust, the Subterranean Circus’ cogitating counterman of the early seventies, who never used a two syllable word when a six-syllable substitute would do?  Whatever happened to Patty Wheeler, with her large Cleopatra eyes, who fell in love with insanity at an early age and never abandoned it?  Once, on a trip to Taco Bell, Patty fell to her knees and grabbed her throat, rasping out some dying words just for the hell of it.  When people came running over from all directions, she suddenly rose up, cleared her throat and simply said, “Oh, I feel MUCH better now.”

Whatever happened to doper Jennie Kinsey, who stole clothes from Silver City and later had a South Florida Sears store call Bill for a reference?  What’s happened to our once best pal Rick Nihlen, who moved in next door, took up with loose women and introduced pediculosis pubis to the neighborhood?  Wherever is his pert ex-wife Lynn Levy, who tipped a New York cabbie a block of hashish to drive us through kaleidoscopic Times Square while we were pie-eyed on acid?  And mainly, whatever happened to Patti Walker, who flaunted authority by briskly driving through Gainesville naked?

When you write nostalgic columns you wonder about these people and many others, the colorful array of friends and neighbors which made Our Town the asylum it was in the 1960s and ‘70s.  Have they changed their names and gone on to Great Things?  Are they haunting the soup kitchens in L.A.?  Is anybody in the government’s Witness Protection Program?  Inquiring minds want to know.

Thanks to Facebook and Good Fortune, we’ve run across a few of them who’ve fought off the slings and arrows of Father Time, locked the Grim Reaper in the basement and found a magic potion somewhere that lets them keep on breathing.  We thought you’d want to know.

Irana yuks it up with Stuart (Always Leave them Laughing) Bentler.

Irana Maiolo Yass Zisser

If the name sounds like the first line of a limerick, be our guest.  After all, yesterday was National Limerick Day.  So:

Irana Maiolo Yass Zisser
Wouldn’t let anyone kiss ‘er
Unless they arrived
With a basket of chives
And promised they’d never dismiss ‘er. 

There are, of course, others in much saltier language but this isn’t that kind of program.  Irana, like everyone else, once worked at the Subterranean Circus, she in the early years when pot was $15 a lid and LSD was the weekend resort.  She often wore a tight brown jumpsuit and rode a brilliant yellow Yahama, which she occasionally crashed into trees just for sport.  The woman didn’t sleep at night so if you were a friend you’d often get a late visit, like at 3 a.m.  “Hi, this is Irana.  I’m comin’ over.”  Don’t worry, though, she had to be gone by five to pick up the fresh hot donuts at the Krispy Kreme down the street.  The pastries always had to get to Irana’s house in time to cater to the early morning guest rush.

Irana was our very first delegate to the National Boutique Show.  She called one morning to tell us she’d found some marijuana pipes worthy of being in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  Our customers didn’t think so.  It took over five years to sell them all, a Guinness Book of Records best.

Irana lived next door to the indescribable Patty Wheeler, who was even crazier than she was.  When they paired up to go outside into the world, it was a tag-team which should have been against the law, and sometimes their antics were.  Irana doesn’t like me to write about the time her residence was raided by the Drug Patrol and she had to call me for a ride out of town, so I won’t bring it up.

Good news, though.  Despite all predictions she’d be dead by 40, Irana M.Y. Zisser continues on, roaming the posh swamps of Boca and going to the doctor a lot.  So far, she has had every body part replaced except her pancreas, some of them twice.  “I was poor, then I was rich, now I’m poor again,” she philosophizes.  “Please tell all my friends to write me and tell me where they are.  I might be looking for a place to crash pretty soon.”

A boy and his dog.

Bad Santa

As a youth, Chuck LeMasters played the temperamental artist role to the hilt.  He was moody, taciturn, a grouch on occasion.  Nobody asked him to play Santa at the lodge Christmas party.  We hired him anyway because Bill thought he had an interesting sense of humor hidden away in his closet, buried beneath the stash of marijuana-growing literature.

Chuck was a good-looking fellow in a Jesus sort of way.  The bad Jesus, the one they don’t talk about in your catechism.  The girlies liked him but he was rough on females.  “I can always find somebody to sleep with,” he told us, “but nobody wants to live with me.”  Nobody wants to live with a grizzly bear either, Chuck.

LeMasters was a decent employee and a loyal friend who could be counted on in a crisis.  One night, after a worker/friend at nearby Dan’s Beverages had been assaulted by a roving gang of homeless thugs, Circus buddy Larry Johns and I decided to go after them.  Chuck was a little reluctant but he grabbed a long metal pipe (not the smoking kind) and followed us into battle.  We caught the miscreants in the Holiday Inn parking lot at University & 13th and tore into them, doing some damage and routing the lot.  Naturally, someone called the cops.  It was our word against theirs, of course, but it was difficult to claim innocence for Chuck, who was hiding the pipe behind his back.  That might have been a successful tactic if it wasn’t sticking up two feet over his head.  Fortunately for us, the arriving officers had just come from the hospital where the Dan’s employee had described the events of the day.  “Personally, I think you guys deserve a medal,” one of the cops muttered lowly.  Chuck never realized his pipe was exposed.

LeMasters has slowed down and mellowed a bit since those thrilling days of yesteryear.  He lives in a modest home near Jonesville now with his tiny dog, Timmy, and daily entertains legions of fans on Facebook.  Chuck is slightly better at keeping his temper under wraps these days and has been seen laughing out loud occasionally.  The best is yet to come, however.  Just the other day, the Newberry Daughters of the Suwanee asked him to play Santa Claus at their Christmas Fair.  If everything works out, one of them promised she’d live with him for a week.

Will (Snakes On A Plane) Thacker.

Thackermania

Will Thacker, who used to be Bill, also used to be Montana, a Gainesville radio station deejay big shot in Circus times.  The store advertised on his station frequently and Will/Bill often broadcast the ads.  One day, the persnickety Bill Killeen called him and told him that jewelry was not pronounced “joo-la-ree” and he should use that word only on his own time.  Thacker repented but has never gotten over the upbraiding in fifty long years.  “You called me while I was on the AIR!” he remembers, still amazed.  Killeen says he’s just glad the Circus didn’t sell any “nook-u-lar” stuff.

Not satisfied with mere DJ hijinks, Thacker eventually opened a store called the Underground Zoo, which sold…well…everything animal, but specialized in snakes.  Ask Will to tell you a few stories about interesting things that happen in the snake business.  Bring your lunch.  He also travelled the world on animal business, even trudging through the jungles of the Amazon, often with the Grim Reaper right on his heels.  Thacker has begun writing a blog of his own recalling the life and times of he and his merry men as they roamed the Earth in search of fun and profit.  It comes out every Friday on his Facebook page if he remembers.  He also regales his FB audience with a plethora of insufferable puns, relentless tomfoolery and gripping stories about his Clermont home.  If you don’t like his current posting, wait a second, there’ll be ten more.  Ubiquitous is the adjective for Will/Bill, a guy so expansive they had to name him twice.

Will was supposed to visit Pieland a few weeks ago in the company of Gunny Carnes, fresh off the reservation.  Gunny was one of the early Circus workers and the main culprit responsible for letting a teenage Marty Jourard hang around.  Gunny would sell his soul for a box of Marty’s doughnuts.  The daring duo never made it to our place, though, due to some wacky emergency better left unspoken.  Will promised he’d return some day soon unimpeded by Indians, but we’re not holding our breath.  If he ever does make it, we’re hoping he leaves the snakes in the car.

Bron Beynon in training at Witch Hazel's Aviation Academy.

Searching The Wanted Posters

And while we’re at it, where is Bron Beynon, a responsible woman who once managed the Circus and kept the books?  Cooly professional in her business responsibilities, Bron was mildly addled in her personal life.  First, she cozied to men, then ran off with a woman, pinballed back to a boyfriend and dumped him for a gal before she joined the Wiccan nation and said the hell with it all.  BB’s house gives a new meaning to the term “broom closet” (she has seven) and she gets giddy every Halloween when the new models come out.

Where is Brenda “Moon” McClenathan and hippie sweetheart Patti Colvin?  What happened to Enrique, the Mexican mini who abandoned ship when we wouldn’t double his pay?  Is Supergirl Debbie Brandt still in Atlanta with her rock ‘n’ roll husband?  Is Rose Coward still lurking in the shadows of GHS with her butterfly net?  The mind reels with lurid curiosity.

We do know a few things.  Commodore Chris Thibaut is still holding on down on the Treasure coast.  Jagger Hatcherson and Johnny “Acid Love” Bolton are living the life in delicious Sun Valley, Idaho.  Debbie Adelman Wynn is reaping souls for Jesus north of Orlando, hoping to redeem herself with the Big Guy for the many sins of her youth.  Steve Ringer, in an upset special, has transmogrified into a dependable family man and is spoiling his glamor-girl daughters somewhere in the wilds of Virginia.  Linda Hughes Bridges has finally arrived at her calling and is milking cows on a Republican farm in North Carolina.  Danny Whiddon is driving an ice-cream truck through the busy neighborhoods of Oviedo.  Ex-rock idol Marty Jourard is a piano-tuner in Kirkland, Washington.

But where-oh-where is Jim “Waterbedman” Hines, you ask?  Selling pencils on some dusty street in Georgia at last reckoning.  Leslie (Bentler) Logan, of course, is still running naked through the woods, these days in Highlands, North Carolina, not far from Lynn Maxwell’s nudist colony.  Sherry Bianchi Snyder, always a showoff, operates a spectacular pizza house/dance hall in Siena, Italy, where it’s hard to get good drugs.  Newt Simmons’ wife, Anne White, is a long-distance trucker for Deco ‘R’ Us, driving the redneck route between Natchez, Mississippi and Gulfport, Florida.  Nancy Kay, as everyone knows, is a beach bunny somewhere near St. Augustine.  Michael Davis is at a party.  He’ll be at another one tomorrow.

If anyone knows, please write and advise us as to the current status of ex-G’ville haberdasher Ira Vernon.  Last time we saw him was at Gulfstream Park where his gambling addiction had whittled his bankroll to nothing and he was scouring the floor for prematurely tossed winning tickets.  Ira—they’re always looking for another hotwalker at Eddie Plesa’s barn.  Leave your yarmulke at home when you go to apply.

On the loose in Idaho: Johnny Bolton, Bill and Jagger Hatcherson.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com    

    

Fellow Travelers

Life is like one big Appalachian Trail.  You wake up some mornings with a song in your heart and a spring in your step, others with a splitting headache, but either way there is a job to be done, tasks to be attended to, miles to walk before you sleep.  Some days, the going is easy.  The sky is blue, the trail is firm underfoot, the air is clear and the path is forgiving.  Others, the rain pours down and the climb is steep, your soaked feet sink into soft ground and the walk tests your mettle.

You are, in turn, elated and blue, optimistic and disappointed, hopeful and discouraged, determined and crushed.  But all along the way, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, for as long as you shall walk are the Fellow Travelers, your mates who share the trail, dispense a shot of encouragement or a piece of advice, gift you with a smile or a pat on the back or even the occasional scolding.  Your spirit rises when you see them, hear their words, look into their understanding eyes.  You breathe in their essence, heed their wisdom, rise to the challenge.  You don’t want to disappoint them.  It’s the code of the trail.

The walk on the trail is long but not forever.  Fellow hikers disappear along the way, some filled with the glories of accomplishment, others succumbing to the weight of the journey.  Getting from Point A to Point B is not the main objective, of course.  The driving goal is to walk the trail with honor and compassion, to march with eyes and hearts wide open, to better discover the world around you and the travelers who fill it.  Every day, you take a few more steps.  Make sure that none of them are wasted.

Leslie & Stuart Bentler with Bill in Lawrence, circa 1968

Trailmates

Stuart Bentler was a wild and crazy guy, if you can say that of any architect.  In his college years, he lived in a modest duplex apartment with his All-American Girlfriend Leslie Logan, a girl-woman of intellect and warmth, and he was an early customer of the Subterranean Circus.  Stuart, a charter member of the Straight Guys Society was fascinated by the new hippie onslaught, wanted to know all about it, wondered if he could get a ticket to the ball.  Leslie, who spent her working hours teaching school in Hawthorne, wasn’t so sure about all this but she knew better than to stand in Stuart’s path.  He was like a firecracker---once lit, best get out of its way.

Stuart and Leslie opened their home to Circus personnel, providing excellent music on crystalline speakers, all-you-can-eat artichokes and even a Lite-Brite toy for stoned people to bliss out on.  Bentler liked his marijuana and was eager to try LSD, but a smidge fearful.  The residual value of a conservative upbringing cannot be dismissed out of hand.  Nonetheless, one night we gave him some.  At first, he was overjoyed, but then worried when he discovered there was no shut-off valve.

“How long does it last?” he wanted to know.  “I think I’m freaking out.”  We assured Stuart this was a common concern for first-timers, but as the evening wore on he was certain he was in trouble.  “I think I’m going crazy.  I want it to stop.  Take me to the hospital!” he pleaded.  In those days, not many people wanted to escort a pal into the Emergency Room and advise the doctors they’d been playing around with Lysergic Acid Diethylamide.  We calmed him down as best we could and got him through the night.  Stuart finally went to sleep about daybreak.  When he woke up, he drove directly to the Circus  and jumped up the stairs.  “WOW!” he smiled.  “That was GREAT!  When can we do it AGAIN?”  We told him he was on disciplinary probation, two weeks duration.  Next time, he behaved much better, but Leslie got naked and ran through the fields.  All in all, a much better result.

She Came From Alabama With A Banjo On Her Knee

Betsy Harper was a Southern Belle emeritus and she had the background to prove it.  An ex-student of the University of Alabama, she owned the heritage, the inclinations and the twang of a daughter of the south.  She was just a lot smarter than most of the others in her sisterhood, and a lot more liberal.  Her brother, attorney Bobby Harper, was the universally accepted go-to lawyer of choice for Gainesville dopers of all persuasions, which made Betsy an even more popular girl.

I attended Betsy’s splashy tented wedding to prominent drug peddler Rex Johnson on the grounds of the ancient Thomas Hotel, a gold-star event on the G’ville social calendar.  I knew of her reputation for good work at the stores she toiled in via one of my own employees, Jerry Juris, perhaps Betsy’s best pal.  Still, I had never spoken much to her until the night she marched up onto my porch and rang the doorbell.  She just wanted me to know that she thought a lawsuit being brought against me by a local would-be electrical contractor was unwarranted and absurd and she disapproved.  Seems Betsy was going with the guy’s brother.  Okay, thank you, we appreciate the support.  She did look pretty cute standing in the doorway with her frowny expression of outrage.

Next time I met Betsy Harper was at the wedding of Gainesville Original George Swinford.  She showed up in her old classic wedding dress carrying a parasol and looked like a million bucks.  The next day, I mailed her a plane ticket to Miami, where I had a horse running.  When she got it, she called me.  “Well, aren’t you romantic? she said.  “I just have one question.  How many rooms did you get?”  I told her only one.  “That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” she answered.  I could swear I felt her smiling.  The subsequent weekend was not one easily forgotten and the relationship was on. 

Betsy Harper was an A#1 girlfriend.  She put up with the lunacies of midnight showings of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.  She brought nifty picnic lunches to my farm on Summer Sundays when I had to mow the paddocks for six straight hours.  She put up with my two-days-a-week dating availability, calling the others “dark days” after the moniker for non-racing days at the track.  And she always made a particular point of looking her best, come hell or high water.

Betsy Harper was the kind of girl you could bring home to Mother, and I did.  They were both hopelessly romantic and empathetic, so they hit it off like old cronies.  They continued to write to one another long after we were an item.  Years later, my Mother still asked me if I knew what Betsy was up to.  On that same trip north, I took BH to Manhattan.  As soon as we got there, she zipped down to Times Square and sold her old wedding band for spending money and she did spend it.  “I’m a little surprised to say so,” she told me, “but this is MY kind of place.”  Among other highlights, we saw Marvin Gaye at Radio City, the only whitish people in a long dark line.  The other customers were exceedingly nice to the Alabama girl and the concert….well, it was Marvin Gaye, right?

On the last day of our stay, Betsy looked out our hotel room window at Central Park and sat down on the bed, a couple of tears rolling down her cheeks.  “What’s the matter?” I asked, surprised at the sudden change of mood.  She turned and tried a smile.  “I’m just a little sad because I know I’ll never come back here and see all this again.”  I had to smile.  “Betsy Harper, you’re just a kid....you’ll be back here a million times.”

I can only assume that was true.  Charmed by the Miami area as a result of our many trips to the races at Calder, Gulfstream and Hialeah, she eventually moved on to South Miami.  I saw her a few more times before losing track, once when I just happened to run across her while walking around town.  We sat down at a little bistro and talked.

“I’m really happy here,” she told me. “It’s a little different for a girl from Alabama, but it’s exciting and I’ve met some people.  The clothing stores are fantastic and because of the diversity of the people, you can wear almost anything.  I am now an expert on the Cuban culture.”

I filled her in on the latest from Gainesville and environs and the exploits of her favorite citizens.  “I never thought I’d leave that place behind,” she said.  “It gets inside of you, you feel you belong there, you forget there’s an Elsewhere.  Sooner or later, though...broader horizons.  I do think I’ll wind up back in Alabama some day.”

And then Betsy Janet Harper smiled brightly, gathered her things together, stood up and offered a little wave.  “Gotta run,” she said.  “Places to go, people to see.  You know I miss you to death but it’s like they say in the movies…we’ll always have Manhattan!”

Gemini Bear

The first time I met Rick Nihlen was at a little house I shared with Pamme Brewer almost across from the West End Golf Course just outside Gainesville.  Prematurely I thought, he advised me he was going to soon be my best friend.  I looked at Pamme.  Pamme looked at me with the same notion.  This guy is in a bit of a hurry.  Nonetheless, two years later Rick was close to being in that seat of honor.  He was Best Man at my wedding to the mercurial Harolyn Locklair.  He even released a few doves, for crying out loud.  Who does that?  (And yes, all you Audubon members, we now realize it’s not such a great idea, the birds floundering around not knowing where to go.  At the time, we were young and innocent.  Give us a mulligan.)

When first we met, Rick and his perky wife, Lynn Levy, were on the verge of opening a head shop in stodgy Tallahassee and they came to the master for advice.  That store became Gemini Bear, named after Rick’s birth sign and his wife’s cuddly nickname for him.  Despite the name, the business was fruitful and Rick was a regular on the NYC buying trips at the National Boutique Show.  On one memorable trip in the mid-seventies, we went into a packed restroom full of noisy cocaine-snorters at a 3rd Avenue moviehouse.  Waiting impatiently in line, Rick finally roared, “Is anybody going to the bathroom in here?  I’m getting testy!”  A few miscreants stumbled from the stalls apologetically.

Years later, Nihlen moved next door to the Killeen residence because that’s what best friends sometimes do.  Shortly thereafter, he decided there was money to be made in the marijuana import business.  He said he had a contact in Jamaica and flew down there.  It was scary.

“I was in the storage compartment of a boat just outside Jamaican territorial waters, surrounded by a half-dozen BIG Rasta guys,”  Rick related.  “And one of them smiles this big gleaming smile and says, ‘You know, we could just KEEL you, mon, and take your money.’  That was not a good moment.  It made me think of retiring from the drug business.”

Rick got his marijuana, sold it for a nice profit and never went pot-shopping again.  Despite being Bill’s best friend, however, Nihlen’s gypsy inclinations got the best of him and he disappeared into the mists somewhere near Albuquerque and was never heard from again.  Somewhere in Jamaica, a big Rasta man is frowning and wondering why such a satisfied customer never came back.

Won’t You Come Home, Bill Partin?

The first time Bill Partin bounced into the Subterranean Circus, the Narc Alarm went off.  We didn’t get many 6-2 bald guys wearing suits, let alone fellows claiming to be the first arrestee in Texas for smoking marijuana.  We liked Partin anyway.  He’d lean on the counter and regale everyone with tales of derring-do he’d participated in, a couple of which might even have been true.  His expression for being all-in on a subject was memorable.  “Yep, the whole mess of us were headfirst into that party—hips, lips and fingertips.”

Hips, lips and fingertips.  Hard to beat, whether original or even borrowed from a friend.  Partin was some kind of traveling salesman who showed up irregularly on an average of once a month.  He took a respectfully long time asking if we knew where he could get some grass, but we didn’t.  States Attorney Gene Whitworth had a nasty habit of sending infiltrators into the building and we couldn’t afford to take any chances.  Nonetheless, on one propitious night, Partin returned to his car to find a lid sitting on the driver’s seat.  He poked his head in the door and asked, “Where do I send the check?” 

It became obvious after a few months that Bill Partin was not playing for the other side.  In town for a long weekend, we finally gave him some LSD on the way to a movie.  Bill, being an acid virgin, didn’t know what to expect but he was up for anything resembling a good time.  Leaving the theater, Rick Nihlen and I were getting a little floaty, but not Partin.  “When is this stuff supposed to start working?” he wanted to know.

We took him to the UF Rathskeller, where Goose Creek Symphony was playing.  Not a gigantic space to begin with, the music was bouncing off the walls and right through some acid-laced attendees.  Bill Partin finally succumbed, whooping and dancing like a damned fool.  Then, a mere 90 minutes later, he announced, “Okay, I’m going home.”  Rick and I looked at each other in something resembling alarm.  “Uh Bill, not such a good idea to drive in this condition.”  Partin assured us that no, he was good, in splendid traveling shape, then meandered out to his car.

Nihlen was gobsmacked.  “He’s going to kill himself, we’d better go after him to pick up the pieces.”  Listen to yourself, Rick, the man who just advised driving caution.  “Oh, and I suppose I’m driving,” I complained.  “Well, we came in your car.  And I know I can’t do it.”

I got in the car and finally managed to squeeze the two steering wheels into one, then followed Partin’s likely path down route 441 to his motel out past Williston Road.  It was about a ten-minute hop under normal driving conditions, but I was going 35 miles an hour, which seemed pretty quick.  “You’d better pick it up, Bill, the cops will wonder what you’re doing,” said Rick.  “You’re even blocking the granny ladies.”  Don’t you folks just hate back-seat drivers?

When we made it to Partin’s hotel, we spotted his car right away.  “Well, that’s a relief,” said Rick.  “At least he’s not dead.”  The room was dark but we could see enough to realize Bill was in there sleeping like a baby.  “It’s amazing,” said Nihlen, shaking his head.  “I won’t be asleep for hours.”

It had never occurred to me before, since I usually shared Lysergic Acid Diethylamide with 115-pound girls and not 300-pound men, but perhaps a very large being sucks up that acid and spits it out a lot faster than a normal human.  We shrugged and drove home at a speedy 40 miles an hour.  “You’re getting better,” smiled Rick.

The next morning, Bill Partin came leaping into the Circus, a smile on his face, a song in his heart.  “I really had a great time last night, fellas,”  he announced.  “Let’s do that again real soon!”   Then he was quickly out the door and back into Partinworld.  The Narc Alarm did not go off this time.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com