“Why would you want to do this, Bill? It’s too much. It’s a nightmare. You’ll get high blood pressure and maybe yaws. You’ll wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, certain you’ve forgotten something. Then some idiot will sue you for drinking too much and falling on his nose.”---L. Weinbaum, noted seer.
If you’re buying a lottery ticket, investing in stocks or searching for a “lovely Filipina bride,” you might want to check in with Leonard. He’s a misplaced artist who missed his calling as a fortune teller.
Now, we realize that most of you out there think we here at Subterranean Circus Reunion Headquarters are having a hell of a time signing up bands, printing fancy psychedelic t-shirts and body-painting runaway teenage girls in the Heartwood blacklight room. Which is true, but only a small part of what goes into The Making of an Epic. The magnitude of this event pales by comparison mere Royal Weddings, the 2022 Summer Olympics and the Reno National Bowling Tournament. As a famous politician once said, “It’ll be HU-U-U-GE!” Mammoth Cave Huge. Sumo tag-team huge. Albuquerque balloon festival huge. So, pretty big. Well, the bigger, the better, you say. Turn up the volume, stoke up the boiler, let the Good Times roll. Little does anyone know there are 586 steps across swinging bridges involved. Here are a few:
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| Vintage Jeff Goldstein. He was so much older then, he's younger than that now. Or maybe vice-versa. We're not sure. |
The Bands
I have a few partners-in-crime for this endeavor. Most prominent among them is Jeff Goldstein. His blood pressure is typically a little high. Last week, his doctor needed binoculars to find it. Jeff is my liaison with Heartwood Soundstage, the patch of land where the Reunion will take place. To say we don’t agree all the time would be a hilarious understatement. Working with me gives him apoplexy, whereas I get monkey fever messing with him. One of our problems is deciding on bands.
We get asked a lot, “Who is your headline band?” We don’t want one. This is a Reunion, not a rock concert. A big name band would draw all the wrong people for all the wrong reasons. The bands are the icing but fellowship is the cake. Nonetheless, bands are critical to the atmosphere and the ones we are looking for are an endangered species. We’d like locals for the most part, and groups capable of playing music from the late 1960s and ‘70s. So far, we’ve managed to agree on two outfits, The Impostors, a local crew of ne’er-do-wells who will lead off the show, and Nancy Luca & her all-star squad. One of the issues is that groups still playing this music are few and far between and they don’t play together much anymore. Jeff sees no problem with this while I wonder how tight can you be under the circumstances. The evaluation process is a slow slog through quicksand, but we’ll survive.
We are also of two minds about contracts with the venue, insurance, attendance and chairs. Jeff says one chair equals four people and limits attendance while I remind him that old people have a tendency to fall down a lot. We pretty much agree on food trucks, ticketing, security and nakedness (we’re neither for it nor against it). Neither of us is pushing for a wet t-shirt contest but we have no control over what happens in the parking lot. It has been suggested that some people might try to sneak illegal drugs into the venue hidden in bodily orifices. We both agree that there will be no gateside investigation of bodily orifices. We are also of a mind about admission of people under 50. While it is against the rules to allow admission to younger people, if you dress up convincingly as an oldster you’ve got a shot. Only one Colonel Sanders to a Reunion, however.
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| Ancient film czar Bob Simmons frolics near his Mexican hacienda with a cleverly-disguised Jeff Goldstein. |
The Movie
Internationally renowned videographer/moviemaker Robert Simmons, producer of The Poster Boys, is packing up his cinematic gear and heading for G’ville to make a film about the Reunion. It will tell of a simple boy from a modest background who grows up to be a muckraker and a purveyor of illicit goods to thousands, a lawbreaker who disappears into the ethers then rises again to throw the world’s greatest rememberfest. But mostly it will be about the event, with film of the bands and interviews with attendees. Some of you will be summoned before The Bob to make nice remarks about the affair and recall your earlier days as a Circus customer and a hippie. For any of you skirting the law or enrolled in the government Witness Protection Program, dress up funny and give yourself a name like Ishmael Toadstool. Copies of the film will be available to all at a price somewhere between tolerable and outrageous. Buy two, they make great gifts.
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| Adhering to form, the modest Ron Thomas melts into the background. |
The Tickets
Dave Melosh, head wrangler for Heartwood gets all the credit for the ticket scheme. We were sort of looking forward to the crowd charging the fences but we found out nobody does that when it’s free. Everyone can apply for their tickets sometime in February (we’ll let you know when) by sending their email to Heartwood and filling in the blanks. No more than two to an email address, and your names must be included. At that time, you will be asked if you wish to buy a t-shirt, a poster or a video of the event, none of which you are obligated to do, but there will not be an unlimited number at the show. You will also be required to sign a release which excuses us from liability if you get stoned and fall into the firepit or tumble off the stage while attempting to kiss Ron Thomas. Ron will be available for kissing right after his set, be patient. Finally, if we recognize any of those names as being relatives of ex-police chief Wayland (“Just call me Liberace”) Clifton or prior members of the Alachua County narcotics squad, your ducats will explode on contact. Gesundheit.
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| "Has anyone here seen Chuck LeMasters???" |
The Venue
Heartwood Soundstage on South Main Street in Gainesville is a quirky patch of land, mostly grassy but with a significant amount of asphalt. Most of you will be sitting on the grass because an excess of chairs cuts down on attendance. Food and drink will be available from Heartwood and a variety of food trucks, one of them offering vegan delights. Don’t worry, though, there’s still barbecue. A new restaurant abutting the grounds has recently opened but the Michelin Guide has yet to dispatch an envoy, so you’re on your own. The World’s Slowest Bagel Shop is directly across from the Heartwood gate and visitors rave the bagels are to die for if you don’t die waiting in line first.
Dave Melosh, who points out he is legally too young to be allowed in to the Reunion, is the baby-faced trail boss at Heartwood. Even though he’s a virtual kid, Dave is nobody’s fool. He has studied up on the predilections of hippies so he’s pretty sure what he’s getting into. We’re not telling him that he really has no idea. Anyway, one day Dave was poring over all the comments about the Subterranean Circus on Marty Jourard’s Gainesville Rock History site and he noticed about one in every three people described the store’s blacklight room with great fondness, so now he wants one of his own. If anybody has any blacklight posters to rent, Dave is foaming at the mouth to lease some.
In his fanatical need for blacklight, Melosh has even rigged the Heartwood stage with the things. The rebuilt stage is large enough to house the Mormon Tabernacle Choir with room left over for a mariachi band. We expect to have both at the Reunion. The lighting is top notch and the sound is unexcelled. You can even understand the lyrics to the songs if you are not a lip-reader. The entire venue is presided over by a venerable character named Hoch, who is strangely remindful of the Wizard of Oz. When he wishes to get the attention of his minions, a creepy disembodied voice floats above the grounds saying things like, “Put all the porta-potties on the perimeter.” Hoch is a big fan of alliteration.
If you are not inside the venue by noon, you will be late, have demerits attached to your permanent record and not be allowed to kiss Ron Thomas. Some infractions are a bridge too far.
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| Hall of Fame DJ Will Thacker immigrated to Gainesville from Erie, Pa. He nonetheless chose the name "Montana" as his radio moniker. Apparently, "Pennsylvania" was too long and "Erie" was....well....a little too creepy. |
The Emcee
Nobody wants a cold fish for their Master of Ceremonies, so we got a hot one. A. William Thacker is an old Gainesville disc jockey, raconteur, animal smuggler and lowbrow punster who will set the mood, kibitz between acts and make important public service announcements like, “Avoid the polka-dot acid tabs, they are full of methamphetamine” and “Would the fellow who used to be Norman Nighthorse please meet the girl who used to be Judy Blue-Eyes at the t-shirt booth---you have a transgender son you don’t know about.”
It was difficult to track Thacker down. He’d fallen on hard times and was living in a cave near Sanford in repentance for the crimes of his earlier life. He wouldn’t leave until we told him about the Grand Reunion and our need for live puns. We had to rehab him, find him a suit and get him some wheels. He’s driving a little better these days but still hasn’t learned to turn corners.
Will was a DJ at a couple of Gainesville radio stations back in the day and the whole town listened in. In all the time he was on the air, his greatest outrage was the time Bill Killeen called him from the Circus while he was on the air reading an ad for the store. “It’s jew-el-ree,” Killeen told him, “not joo-la-ree.” To this day, he remains offended at Bill’s gall. He’ll be in a conversation with the cashier at Winn-Dixie or talking to a new prospect he met on Timber and he’ll pop up with, “Let me tell you about the day….”
We tried to get Storm Roberts, another old radio troublemaker to share MC duties with Will but he told us he vacations every year in North Carolina at that time. Storm is ordinarily an honest man and we’d believe him, but when he said that we hadn’t given him the date yet. Out of sheer embarrassment, he’ll probably drop in at the last minute. Our spies tell us he’s recently had his parachute laundered.
The Love Boat
Okay, show of hands---how many people are expecting to track down an old sweetie at the Reunion? Yeah, we thought so. We even told ex-prelate Daniel Levine he should re-up his membership with the Universal Life Church in case there’s an emergency marriage. If there is anyone in attendance who claims he or she wasn’t in love with someone other than their current partner in the late sixties and seventies, that person is a big fibber. We expect fireworks when The Love Boat opens for business and the gentle aroma of marijuana floats over the lower deck. It’s a little late to be shy, so rush right up to your sweetie and say, “Listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you since 1968….”
The Circus Reunion bursar will pay for any eventual ceremonies, but remember we close at 10 p.m. and the next day everyone goes back to Normalville. If any happy couple wishes, the rites can be carried on right in front of the stage, during which time the band will play Abba’s “Take a Chance on Me.” Confetti-throwers are optional.
See you this Spring. Be sure to wear a flower in your hair. Not you, Ishmael.
That’s all, folks….
