And so it came to pass in those days that a great psychedelic mist covered the land and the people congregated in the cities and in the mountains and on the plains and looked to the skies for Answers. And the Lord sent manna from Heaven and the multitudes took it to their mouths and learned truths great and small and became wise. And this was pleasing to the Lord, and he summoned his legions of angels and pointed to the Earth and said, “Groovy!”
Bonk If You Love Jesus
A thousand dollars here, a grand there, it begins to add up. In the late 1960s, Bill Killeen decided to buy some land, part forested, part meadow on Newberry Road about seven miles from town for weekend social events, restrained debauchery and the world’s greatest croquet extravaganza as the Subterranean Circus Diabolical Bonkers took on the UF Architecture Department Mellow Malleteers in stirring contests of skill, endurance and general reckless behavior. Danny Levine immediately dubbed the acreage The Old Golden Land after an Incredible String Band song. Then he put on his helmet and monk’s robe and set about bonking.
The schoolboys were led by legendary mallet man Leland George Shaw and captains Greg Barriere and Jim Sajovic. The Circus team usually consisted of Killeen, Levine, Michael (“Jagger”) Hatcherson and Johnny Bolton, but a wiry crew of substitutes was immediately available in case anyone became too stoned. At stake was the storied Intergalactic Cup, which was occasionally mistaken for an overlarge milk jug, but only by fools and louts. The matches were world-class and compelling, but only a small part of Weekend World on The Old Golden Land.
Off in the distance, hippies ran naked through the underbrush, crashed motorcycles into trees and absconded with other people’s wives and girlfriends. Ceremonial nectars flowed, illegal smoke billowed into the air and Arlo Guthrie sang Alice’s Restaurant. A typical end of the day sight was Circus employee Irana Maiolo emerging from the woods on her dented yellow Yamaha, helmet askew, brown jumpsuit disheveled, several scratches on her face and hands. “Just another Saturday afternoon in Paradise,” she smiled. “Has anybody seen my wife?” wondered Lee Shaw.
The Giant Bo-teek Show
So it really was a wonder all the stuff that we bought sold,
We were glad we made it out alive, though we’d really hate to go;
We’ll be back next year to procure more gear from the Giant Boo-teek Show.”
After years of scaring up homemade merchandise from haphazard sources here and there, head shops and small boutiques everywhere celebrated the birth of a true paraphernalia industry at the first National Boutique Show at the edgy Hotel McAlpin in Manhattan in 1970. This was a trade show unlike any other. Where your conventional shows had their back alley deals for buyers, the NBS marketers’ persuasions were front and center. A prospective customer could barely walk into a showroom without being inundated with the stuff of illegal smiles. Since there were ten entire floors of sellers, it’s easy to see abstention was the better part of valor. In the early days, ambulances and EMTs were pulling up at the curb hourly, hauling off overimbibers. Alarmed, the show managers increased security and put on the brakes, but this was only minimally effective. It was up to the sellers and buyers, themselves, to tone things down and they did. After all, who wants to repair to the bathroom after every few minutes to clean up his mustache?
The Circus sent several representatives over the years. Irana Maiolo, our first, came back with eerily twisted dope pipes that could have been created by the inmates at Belleview. Don’t worry, though, they all sold after about ten years. Harolyn Locklair, a Miami fashion model Bill married in 1970, joined him on most trips as the store gradually increased its investment in counterculture clothing. Ricky Chiles, the store’s token minority employee (black AND gay), went once and disappeared into the bowels of Christopher Street every night the minute the show was over, but safely returned each morning at eight. Debbie Brandt went with Bill one year and the duo got to the Plaza Hotel to find one of their reserved rooms unavailable, forcing them to share a single bed. Thank God it was a king. This is the only known instance in the history of Bill in which he slept in the same bed with a woman without fooling around. Talk about sleepless in Seattle.
Well-behaved as we usually were, there were occasional exceptions. On one occasion, Harolyn wore a not quite opaque jumpsuit that caused crowding in the aisles. On another, Rick Nihlen, the Gemini bear, cleared a Third Avenue cinema men’s room of laggardly coke-snorters who were blocking up the stalls. And then there was that unpleasantry with Circus ally Steve Ringer, in recovery from unknown offenses, who face-planted into a bowl of spaghetti at Mama Leone’s. It’s okay, we left a big tip and Steve wasn’t all that heavy.
The First Electric Western
One of the great benefits of visiting New York often is you get to see the new movies before anybody else. Woody Allen movies are just better in NYC, where everyone can relate and Woody might even be sitting in the back row. We first saw Easy Rider in New York. And Star Wars in its first weekend in Times Square, where the klieg lights were shining into the sky and everyone got a big blue pin inscribed May The Force Be With You. And then there was Zacariah.
You might not believe this but now and then people make films better viewed on drugs. We saw Zacariah twice after taking LSD and once without, and the the latter time was like a date with Phyllis Diller after two with Grace Kelly. Perhaps the funniest scene in all of movie history arrives in this film when the bulky stagecoach pulls away from pursuing bandits. “Fastest damn stagecoach I ever saw!” marvels one of the exhausted thieves after giving up the chase.
On the way home from the first Zacariah, Rick Nihlen pulled out a large block of hashish and showed it to the Manhattan taxi driver. “This is for you,” he promised, “if we get an exceptional ride back to the hotel.” Eyes agog, the young fellow roared onto Broadway and accelerated way past the speed limit into Times Square and its midnight light show. It was like being on a rocket ship heading into the sun. It’s so nice when a plan comes together, smiled Rick, handing the cabbie his bounty. The grinning driver professed his thanks several times and bade us a glorious farewell. “This will be my last fare of the evening for sure,” he exclaimed. We certainly hope so, thought Rick.
Dick North, John Buckley and Danny Levine roll out the Big Top.
The Way We Were
Dick North came to work with a smile on his face on a bright Spring morning in 1969, walked up to Bill and said, “We have to close on the Fourth of July.” Killeen, who even stayed open on the first Thanksgiving the Circus was alive, did not believe in closing. “Oh, and why is that?”
“Because they’re having a big music event outside Atlanta. They’ll have 100,000 people. We need to have a booth. We’ll have some shade, not be swallowed up by the crowd. We can listen to the music and sell stuff. It’ll be great. Don’t worry about closing. Nobody will be left in Gainesville anyway.”
As usual, Dick was correct. We paid our money, got our spot, packed our bags and headed for the Atlanta International Raceway in Hampton, Georgia, twenty miles south of the Big City. As we approached, it looked like everyone in the world was there. Once you got your vehicle parked, you were locked in. The mass of cars and trucks strewn everywhere precluded the possibility of escape, except by foot. Dick North, Danny Levine and friend John Buckley set about constructing the booth while the rest of us unloaded our merchandise. Pamme Brewer tried running to the top of the steep racetrack from the bottom and made it on the third try. Hippies were everywhere, smoking dope, glowing, setting up shop. In 32 days, the Woodstock Music and Art Fair would open for business at Max Yasgur’s farm in Bethel, N.Y. but the first Atlanta International Pop Festival got the ball rolling.
Bill had not seen Janis Joplin since December of 1962 in Austin when she was a 19-year-old Art major at the University of Texas. He did follow her career, though, amazed to see her slingshot to stardom with Big Brother and the Holding Company before you could blink. If there was ever a true human irresistible force, it was Janis, always on the muscle, no regrets, climbing over personal debris, looking for the next horizon. When LSD first appeared and naive users were jumping off rooftops convinced they could fly, your average fellow advised caution. Not Janis. “I want some NOW!” she barked, rejecting all safety belts.
“Are you going to see her,” Dick North asked Bill. “Oh sure, good luck with that,” Bill replied. “Have you seen that army of bikers they’ve got guarding the fence?” Dick twisted his Fu Manchu mustache and giggled. “Let me take care of that,” he said.
Two hours before Janis was to take the stage, Dick and a small band of conspirators started a faux brawl to the left of the stage, drawing biker security guards from all directions. It was a snap for Killeen to climb the hurricane fence to the right of the stage and jump down to the performers’ bailiwick. Almost immediately, he saw Janis heading for her trailer, alone. Bill hailed her and she ran over, picked him up and swung him around. For a mere 5-5, 120-pound woman, she had a lot of adrenaline.
“Can you believe it, Killeen---I’m a fucking corporation!” she said, as if the whole affair was a sort of cosmic joke. They talked about Austin 1962, where “making it” was a subject of daily discussion and nobody really expected to go this far. Bill asked her how it felt, this fame, the adulation, the money rolling in, no barriers to her ascent.
“When I’m on the stage, it’s like the greatest drug in the world,” Janis said. “It’s worth all the rest of it to be up there. The rest of the time I worry about keeping it going. Great highs and scary lows. Thank God for drugs.” Then she laughed that trademark Janis laugh, gave a wave and was off to get ready for glory time. It was the last time Bill Killeen would see her. Fifteen months later, she was dead, her great spirit released to the four winds. Bill and Dick climbed up to the roof of the Subterranean Circus and hung black crepe paper over the front of the building. The first customer of the day looked up at the tribute and asked, “Did someone die?”
“Not just someone,” answered Bill.
That’s all, folks….
