One Hand Jerking

One Hand Jerking Read Free Page B

Book: One Hand Jerking Read Free
Author: Paul Krassner
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violation of an unconstitutional law, and therefore he could not force me to testify. In 1970, I became the only plaintiff in the first lawsuit to declare the abortion laws unconstitutional in New York State. Later, various women’s groups joined the suit, and ultimately the N.Y. legislature repealed the criminal sanctions against abortion, prior to the Supreme Court decision in Roe vs. Wade.
    In 1964, I assigned Robert Anton Wilson to write a feature article, which he called “Timothy Leary and His Psychological H-Bomb.” A few months later, Leary invited me to his research headquarters in Millbrook, and I took my first acid trip. When I told my mother about LSD, she was quite concerned. “It could lead to marijuana,” she said. My mother was right.
    While covering the anti-Vietnam-war movement, I ended up co-founding the Yippies (Youth International Party) with Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin. After what was officially described as “a police riot” at the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago, I became an unindicted co-conspirator. I testified at the trial after ingesting 300 micrograms of acid. This was during my psychedelic macho stage. I even tripped when I was a guest on the Tonight show, and also while riding the subway during rush hour.
    I had been supporting myself by writing film criticism for Cavalier magazine, and with college speaking engagements. Cavalier declined to publish a particular column—my review of M*A*S*H as though it were a Busby Berkeley musical called Gook Killers of 1970 —ostensibly on the grounds of bad taste, but I learned that three wholesalers had told the publisher they were pressured by the FBI and would refuse to distribute Cavalier if my column appeared in it.
    And my name was on a list of 65 “radical” campus speakers, compiled by the House Internal Security Committee. Their blacklist was published in the New York Times and picked up by newspapers across the country. My college bookings suddenly stopped. Just a coincidence.

    When I got married in 1964, John Francis Putnam had an idea for a poster that would be our housewarming gift. He designed the word FUCK in red-white-and-blue lettering emblazoned with stars and stripes. Now he needed a second word, a noun that would serve as an appropriate object of that verb. He suggested AMERICA, but that didn’t seem right to me. It certainly wasn’t an accurate representation of my feelings. I was well aware that I probably couldn’t publish The Realist in any other country. Besides, FUCK AMERICA lacked a sense of irony.
    This was at the time that a severe anti-Communist hysteria was burgeoning throughout the nation. The attorney general of Arizona rejected the Communist Party’s request for a place on the ballot because state law “prohibits official representation” for Communists and, in addition, “The subversive nature of your organization is even more clearly designated by the fact that you do not even include your Zip code.” Alvin Dark, manager of the Giants, announced that “Any pitcher who throws at a batter and deliberately tries to hit him is a Communist.” And singer Pat Boone declared at the Greater New York Anti-Communism Rally in Madison Square Garden, “I would rather see my four daughters shot before my eyes than have them grow up in a Communist United States. I would rather see those kids blown into Heaven than taught into Hell by the Communists.”
    I suggested COMMUNISM as the second word, since the usual correlation between conservatism and prudishness would provide the incongruity that was missing. Putnam designed the word COMMUNISM in red lettering emblazoned with hammers and sickles, then presented me with a patriotic poster which proudly proclaimed, FUCK COMMUNISM!—suitable for framing. I wanted to share this sentiment with Realist readers, but our photo engraver refused to make a plate, explaining, “We got strict orders

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