“Where have you gone Michael Hatcherson, the nation lifts its weary eyes to you?”
With a piddling 219 days to go before the arrival of May 2’s spectacular Grand Finale in Gainesville, it’s time to get serious about locating unaware guests, lost souls floating around in Skagway, Sheboygan or Chinguetti, who have no idea what they’re about to miss. You can help. Yes, you, the guy standing there with the hookah and the dazed expression. Almost everyone in town has someone lost to the ages who they’d like to see again, share a joint with, try to collect on that old loan. If everyone reached out to just one person, cajoled but a single soul, took in a barely identifiable old pal for the weekend, what a wonderful world it would be. If you get stuck in your search, maybe Sharon Bauer, detective to the stars, will help you. Sharon has an impeccable track record, having located Amelia Earhart’s lost sex toys, the Ark of the Covenant and the Great Bell of Dhammazedi. And she’s not busy on Tuesdays, so give her a call…tell her Groucho sent you.
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| The Great Garcia |
We Almost Never See Ya….Michael O’Hara Garcia!
Although rumors abound of a fifth career as Grand Poobah of the Florida Olive Council with a hidden lair near Daytona, nobody really knows what happened to this old Gainesville scalawag/entrepreneur. MOG was around in Charlatan days and accompanied Bill to Manhattan for the original inventory purchase for the Subterranean Circus, for which he later devised the devilishly clever Diabolical Bonker. The Bonker was a deadly spinoff of a Viet Cong trail trap, which Garcia had seen while serving with the U.S. Army in Vietnam. After criminals had come up through the floor and robbed the store one vile and sullen night, Michael gathered up implements of destruction which would discourage such future shenanigans.
The original bonker was usually a heavy section of tree branch with a spike in the center, hidden up in the foliage. The interloper would come bouncing merrily down the trail, stumble over a trip wire and WHAMMO!—corpse on a stake. Garcia created his Gainesville masterpiece out of heavy automobile engine parts, then brought it to the store. The Circus had a very high ceiling, which allowed the bonker to pick up a good bit of momentum on the way down. The awed shopworkers watched a couple of scary practice runs, which shook the building to its rafters. “I don’t know,” murmured a nervous Mike (Jagger) Hatcherson. “Might be a bit of overkill here.”
Nevertheless, at ten o’clock closing time, Hatcherson and a fellow worker set the trap. Inexperienced in matters of heavy bonking, however, Jagger tripped the wire accidentally and the Kracken was released, thundering down a half second after the two employees had dived to the floor. When we saw him 50 years later, the psychological scar was still there.
Next day, Jagger and his ally of the previous night walked up to Bill. Hatcherson, always a mild-mannered reporter loathe to complain, sadly told his boss “Bill, I don’t think I can work here any more. If we keep the Diabolical Bonker, it’s going to kill somebody and I don’t want it to be me.” Killeen, already unsure about the weapon, had it dismantled and returned to a highly-miffed Garcia. “Crime and Punishment!” shouted MOG. “Whatever happened to Crime and Punishment?”
If you do go searching for Michael O’ Hara Garcia, a word of caution. It might be wise not to show up unexpectedly. Somewhere amidst the silent trees of the Fun Coast, the Diabolical Bonker may waken in the darkness, cackle and gird its loins, waiting for its virgin sacrifice. Like Jagger, you wouldn’t want it to be you.
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| Left to right, Patty Wheeler, Danny Whiddon, Guy Thibaut, Debra Adelman |
Whatever Happened To Peppermint Patty?
When we first saw her with her straight black hair, luminous green eyes and unbending flirty smile, it was obvious right away that Patricia Wheeler, nee DePhillips, was lovely to look at, delightful to hold. Not so easy to see, on occasion she was crazy as a doodlebug. Like that time we walked into Taco Bell, a few blocks from the Circus, and she grabbed her throat, fell to her knees and rasped, “I’m d-i-i-i-e-e-e-ing!” Chairs fell in all directions as terrified diners rushed over to help the stricken woman. Whereupon, Patty suddenly rose, brushed her hair back and exclaimed, “Oh, I’m feeling so much BETTER now.”
Patty was married to the inimitable Rick Wheeler, occasional biker, full-time purveyor of illegal substances, but it was obvious it wouldn’t be for long. I took my place at the head of the line and when the partnership disintegrated I marched into the breach. Living in PattyWorld was a trip. She lived next door to and was best friends with Irana Maiolo, a bizarre Brooklynite who was every bit as crazy as Patty. Irana’s doors were never closed, her place was like a hub airport with fresh doughnuts from Krispy Kreme on the kitchen table by five every morning. Irana thought nothing of calling a friend at 3 a.m. and announcing, “Hi! I’m coming right over.” Five minutes later, her schoolbus-yellow motorcycle would appear in the distance, parts falling off hither and yon.
One of the reasons Patty liked me was that I was a fellow-Catholic, though not practicing very hard. During pillow talk, she always reminded me that what we were doing was a big sin. “That’s true,” I agreed, “but that’s why the Church has Confession.” Patty nagged me to death about wearing my high school senior ring. I finally gave it to her and a week later she lost it in the Gulf of Mexico while we were playing Disembodied Heads during an LSD trip with Stuart and Leslie Bentler. She batted her eyes and told me I could get another one.
Ditzy flirt or not, Patricia Wheeler was no dummy. She nabbed an Engineering degree from UF in jig time and was hired by the U.S. Army, rarely to be seen again. Expert at playing the little girl, Patty has no doubt conned The Reaper into granting her
a free pass to leave when she gets around to it. And that won’t be until all the amusement parks are closed, the boys stop chasing and the world runs out of electric yoyos. Patty, come home, all is forgiven.
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| Sandee Youngblood with Debbie Brandt |
Where Have You Gone, Rod Bottiglier? The Illegal Parkers Turn Their Bared Bums To You.
Rod used to ride down to Gainesville on his trusty Harley to buy Rush at the Circus. He was in town so much he finally moved in, bringing along his lovely girlfriend, Sandee Youngblood. We gave both of them jobs at the store. Among other valuable traits, Rod was a martial arts expert who could sniff out shoplifters as soon as they walked in. Small in stature, Rod had The Eye and almost never had to rassle with evildoers, their instincts told them it would be a bad idea.
Bottiglier’s favorite duty was monitoring the parking lot for scofflaws who sneaked into one of our six spaces before heading off to breakfast across the street. He got a lot of arguments, but most of the lawbreakers complied. Those who didn’t inevitably regretted their mistake because Rod kept his pockets filled with long, sharp nails, which he would angle into the back of an offender’s tires, smiling his contented grin as the naive fools unsuspectingly drove off into oblivion, somewhere down the road realizing their horrible mistake.
Come back wherever you are, Rod the Biker. We require talented security personnel in the Heartwood parking lot for the big day. The nerve of some people---stealing a space at your favorite rock ‘n’ roll emporium and walking across the street to church.
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| The fearless, fighting Hansen family |
Calling All Cars!
We know Rick Hansen, brother of Ted is coming, but how about Marcia Hansen, Ted’s wife? Danny Levine will be there but what about his old flame Charlotte Yarbrough? Sheila the Dealer will be there purveying her wares and if we’re lucky, so will that rare bird Chuck LeMasters, but has anybody here seen Bob Sturm lately?
Mick Davis is coming, of course, but will Rose Coward ever appear with ex-hippies again? It’s not a church day so we’ve got a shot to see Debra Adelman, but where oh where is Debbie Brandt? Rick Nihlen would drop everything to come, but is he alive and who’s going to tell him?
Where in the world is Brenda “Moon” McClenathan and hippie sweetheart Patti Colvin? Has anyone tipped off Jim “Waterbedman” Hines or Danny Whiddon or Ira Vernon? Is Steve Solomon alive and well? Can Anne White get a library pass? Will blind Nancy Kay make it through six blocks of rough traffic? Is Leslie Logan being held in Arizona by cultists? Is the world’s youngest oldster Arthur Peplow on his way? Can Greg Barriere bear to leave Massachusetts for a single weekend? Is sister Wendy taking the Love Boat south? We’re making a list and checking it twice, gonna find out who’s naughty, who’s nice.
You better watch out. You better not cry. You better not pout, I'm telling you why. Grand Finale is coming to town. Santa arrives early next year on May 2, 2026 with presents for all. Bring something for the reindeer.
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That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com