Dark Side of the 60's Moon by Mike Marino (beginner reading books for adults txt) 📕

rubber room seeing invisible drunken dragons. “Daddy!!” I can see it now. Ah, and then there was Myrika? She was a Billboard Top Ten smash hit all around. Mom loved her immediately and dad gave me a somewhat lecherous thumbs up. I know what was on his mind me thinks.

All that goes up, including feelings of joy, are subject to some form of gravity. Once the holiday had expended itself, it was time to bid adieu, adios, goodbye, and get our asses back to work. 1969 would see the largest number of draft notices delivered to non-deferment fodder for Uncle Sam’s killing fields. The Garden of Democracy, you realize has to be fertilized every now and then with the blood of the young. A rice paddy is not the Garden of Eden.

We had been setting up our Resistance headquarters on a small deserted hunting preserve  in the Canadian Manitoulin Island chain thanks to Mssr. Levesque who bought it for our purposes and another island, small for himself as a private residence. The island we were to occupy was home to a dozen or so broken down weather beaten winter seasoned last of the Mohican log cabins with resident raccoons, bats and small field mice, all of whom would be  served an eviction notice! Fuck Rent Control!

The crown jewel of the small island acreage was a dashing rustic and  rather large log lodge with 15 guest bedrooms, living area, office space, kitchen and a massive  deck patio overlooking the water, the dock and the new Chris Craft boat we would soon come into possession of.  We commandeered the lodge for our base of operations, clearly and safely in Canadian waters.

As a precautionary measure we kept the safe house on Saint Joseph Island as our information center as that island would be a quicker transitory point to get our people in and out. The small island, we named Mu, was for education of our political refugees and the solitude would work to our advantage. We were the halfway house in this expanding drama.

We were introduced to and made a deal with members of the Quebec Separatist organization to work together at the St.Joe  house using it for our printing press and central communications center. We would run it jointly producing false I.D., work papers and other necessary documents for draft resisters and military deserters to safely move into Canada and guide them to communities where they would be able to live and work without fear of the U.S. Government. We would also provide the same as needed for French Canadian Separatists who had to exit the great white north for the former colony now known as America. We would also aid them in getting IRA and Sein Fein members on the run from Britain into the U.S.

Quid pro quo as they say.

Setting up camp on the small island was  a fortunate turn of affairs as aid and much needed help came from the Michigan chapter of the American Indian Movement. The same people affiliated with the national group  who, in November of this same year would be occupying Alcatraz Island in San Francisco Bay in a standoff with the U.S. Government.

Danny Two Horse was our choice for co-administrator of MU. An Ojibway Indian from St. Ignace, Michigan who along with other members of the tribe helped our small handful of war resister volunteers who decided to stay and help out. Together we worked in concert giving  the cabins and lodge a makeover. In time we became adept as students in constructing wigwams. These would act as temporary housing  for our resistance people heading into Canada as well as AIM members who were on the FBI hit list for Native American activism and needed to make it to Manitoba! Danny also assumed the role of spiritual leader of our art community. He was after all a member of the Native American Church and could get peyote to us easily enough as our psychedelically delicious sacrament as his converted heathens who now see the light...and colors. He would also be our source of LSD and marijuana and speed I had coming in from my friends in San Francisco. I’d send the money and menu list. They’d mail it to Danny’s on the rez and he in turn became the Marrakesh Express for a cut of the products. A small price to pay for room service.

By the time we were fully operational we were actually a two way swinging door escape route for activists in either direction from Black Panthers, AIM, Quebec Separatists, the Weathermen, the IRA, Sein Fein, draft resisters and military deserters.

We arranged for lumber to be shipped over for the construction of a small stage and amphitheater to rehearse theatrical productions,  music and spoken word projects, while Mssr. Levesque, who owned the island, arranged for electricity to be brought in. In addition he also purchased a number of powerful generators in case of failure. You know...the show must go on! Break a leg...or go to jail...give my regards to Broadway.

As for water, we’d boil the lake and river waters, dug and installed a small well, and had a system of cisterns set up for collection of rainwater for our organic garden and other grey uses. Plumbing...forget it! Good old fashioned outhouses for the guests and composting toilet for we, the Lords of the Manor who would headquarter in the lodge.

The operation expanded by the beginning of summer when Levesque purchased ten acres of land on the souther tip of St. Joseph Island. There would be our large stage for concerts, live theater and films to be shown to the general public for a nominal entrance fee.  The gift shop would feature items from small self produced books by our writers,  art by our artists and music from our musicians for profit. Fifty percent of the profits to be retained by the artist while the other fifty percent would keep us afloat, food, utilities, maintaining our organic gardens and recycling center. (also would pay for our covert and overt activism projects)  

AIM and the Quebec Separatists would also have products in the store with 100% of profits going to their organizations. It was a win win situation. Liam, who we had helped escape the long arm of the London law was busy getting money donated for the IRA and for us. We didn’t expect it, but we were now in the middle of Breakfast in Belfast, it was a welcome cash flow. We also received money from the SDS and Black Panthers. It help to grease the palms of the gatekeepers.

We ready to receive our first flurry of border crossing brigands, a group of five draft resisters from Cleveland. The Safehouse kicked into gear producing five sets of forged documents for Canada’s newest citizens.

We are also preparing for our first festival open to the public on St. Joe...Island Days complete with fake palm trees , musical artists, mimes, jugglers, and clowns, a live theatrical production, food and soft drinks along with Canuck beer and  a wine bar featuring Sudbury’s finest vino. We could jump in the water and stay drunk all the time. We’d open our arms to alms and spare change to Canadians and Americans to join us...and help fund us….even funny shaped Canadian quarters were welcome.




On the small island of Mu we would present a double feature Midnight show two Saturday nights a month for our staff and guests of prime counter culture films and classics. Our first offering would be  “Reefer Madness” and  “Fantasia” for the more open minded. Kids, go to bed now...mama and papa stoner need some bong time!  

 

Chapter 33 Bong Time in Canada

 

The warm wet Spring of 1969 had springed, spranged and sprung while the tempest of turmoil of  1968 was receding in the rearview mirror of the dust and grime of history.

On the star light, star bright side of events, we all spent a wonderful Bing Crosby Christmas with my parents and Olivia’s parents on St. Joseph Island. It was as tearful saying “hello” to each other as it was to say “goodbye”  after the last package had been opened and the mistletoe had been exhausted.

Olivia’s parents were there, and badda bing badda boom, took to baby China with open arms, and the best part is I’m still alive as her dad didn’t come charging at me  with any hidden Medieval King Arthur weaponry when he was told I was the father. In fact he said he never trusted that “Joey character anyway!” Both sets of parents were equally confused, however, rightly so,  as regards to the trio of Myrika, me and Olivia as a “couple”. Yeah it was weird, but better than admitting to them, Joey, her real boyfriend, was one step away from a rubber room seeing invisible drunken dragons. “Daddy!!” I can see it now. Ah, and then there was Myrika? She was a Billboard Top Ten smash hit all around. Mom loved her immediately and dad gave me a somewhat lecherous thumbs up. I know what was on his mind me thinks.

All that goes up, including feelings of joy, are subject to some form of gravity. Once the holiday had expended itself, it was time to bid adieu, adios, goodbye, and get our asses back to work. 1969 would see the largest number of draft notices delivered to non-deferment fodder for Uncle Sam’s killing fields. The Garden of Democracy, you realize has to be fertilized every now and then with the blood of the young. A rice paddy is not the Garden of Eden.

We had been setting up our Resistance headquarters on a small deserted hunting preserve  in the Canadian Manitoulin Island chain thanks to Mssr. Levesque who bought it for our purposes and another island, small for himself as a private residence. The island we were to occupy was home to a dozen or so broken down weather beaten winter seasoned last of the Mohican log cabins with resident raccoons, bats and small field mice, all of whom would be  served an eviction notice! Fuck Rent Control!

The crown jewel of the small island acreage was a dashing rustic and  rather large log lodge with 15 guest bedrooms, living area, office space, kitchen and a massive  deck patio overlooking the water, the dock and the new Chris Craft boat we would soon come into possession of.  We commandeered the lodge for our base of operations, clearly and safely in Canadian waters.

As a precautionary measure we kept the safe house on Saint Joseph Island as our information center as that island would be a quicker transitory point to get our people in and out. The small island, we named Mu, was for education of our political refugees and the solitude would work to our advantage. We were the halfway house in this expanding drama.

We were introduced to and made a deal with members of the Quebec Separatist organization to work together at the St.Joe  house using it for our printing press and central communications center. We would run it jointly producing false I.D., work papers and other necessary documents for draft resisters and military deserters to safely move into Canada