Someone is looking at whatever you do, so always present your most charming you ~ FlyingSnail graphic by C. Spangler ~ Open Flying Snail Views in new tab or window
During times of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act. ~ George Orwell


The Fugs, Four Minutes to Twelve via Mike Neumann

The Fugs are a band formed in New York in late 1964 by poets Ed Sanders and Tuli Kupferberg, with Ken Weaver on drums. Soon afterward, they were joined by Peter Stampfel and Steve Weber of the The Holy Modal Rounders. Kupferberg named the band from a euphemism for "fuck" used in Norman Mailer's novel, The Naked and the Dead. ~ Four Minutes to Twelve is from the album "The Belle of Avenue A" 1969.

Psychedelic Blues ~ Peter Stampfel on The Holy Modal Rounders via Drew Christie

[Ed. Side Note: One Friday evening many, many years ago, during a Nobody for President rally in New York City, Steve Weber asked Wavy and me if we wanted to go to a party with him. Wavy wasn’t feeling well, so off I went, and (grin) the last thing I remember before the following Monday morning was Steve asking, “Do you do this stuff?”; as he took several doses of a very powerful psychedelic out of his wallet, ingested them, and asked if I wanted some? (chuckle) I would like to openly thank Steve for one of my best top ten weekends, ever (grin)!

(fwiw) This is the same weekend Nobody’s Chicken [a live one we carried on the bus, that wore a little sombrero], was going to appear on Michael Luckman's “Underground Tonight Show”, an early cable TV program broadcast on Sterling Manhattan Cable TV public broadcast channels, but was stolen from the bus. We did attempt to negotiate a release and that failed.

In the late 1970s, the Lower East Side Band regularly appeared with David Peel on the "Underground Tonight Show". They also performed at the first Manhattan New York City smoke-in hosted by the Yippies, as well as the first Washington DC smoke-in, which was broadcast on both television and radio.

David Peel did the first Nobody for President Song at Nobody's 1976 Rally in Dag Hammarskjold Plaza, New York City [NYT header] with support from The Holy Modal Rounders.

Hippy from NYC, David Peel via Ian Hart

The Sunshine Makers, 1935 via Tele Collina WEB TV

The Rolling Stones | Doom and Gloom via Trunk Animation

How smart is Your Right Foot ?

1.) Sit down, lift your right foot off the floor or ground, and make clockwise circles.

2.) Now, while doing this, draw the number "6" in the air with your right hand.

Your foot will change direction...
And there is nothing you can do about it!

Throughout America's adventure in free government, our basic purposes have been to keep the peace; to foster progress in human achievement, and to enhance liberty, dignity and integrity among people and among nations. To strive for less would be unworthy of a free and religious people. Any failure traceable to arrogance, or our lack of comprehension or readiness to sacrifice would inflict upon us grievous hurt both at home and abroad. ~ Dwight D. Eisenhower

Rock of Ages via DJ Schmolli ~ DJ Schmolli Home page ~ [No longer available on Vimeo]

5FDP vs. Billy Idol ~ Rebel Yell Over it, DJ Schmolli via SrvTech

Dreamstreets #67 ~ Steven Leech


Since 1977, the Dreamstreets project has showcased progressive artists, photographers, and writers of the Delaware Valley. Conceived by John Hickey and a cohort of visionaries in 1977 and carried forward under the executive editorship of Steven Leech, Dreamstreets has appeared almost continuously in print, radio, and television, its largest hiatus being 2006 to 2015. We now publish regularly in the spring and in the fall, with an occasional special issue. We accept submissions from resident and diaspora Delawareans during the months of December and June. [Continue reading at:]

Dreamstreets #67
Dreamstreets #67 is now available.

Boptime ~ w/Even Steven Leech ~ Saturday Mornings

Even Steven's Boptime

We begin with a couple of hours of oldies back to back to back beginning at 6am (EST) on Saturday’s Boptime. At 8am (EST) on the Heart & Soul of Delaware
& Roll
we’ll hear some sides from the somewhat mysterious A-B-S label from Wilmington. At 9am (EST) on the Club Baby Grand, we’ll hear Wilmington jazz vibraphonist Lem Winchester’s 1960 performance at the Birmingham Michigan Jazz Festival, then Kirk Lightsey with Marcus Belgrave and a tune composed by Wilmington jazz artist Dean Jenkins. We’ll wind it up with a live performance in Wilmington from Roosevelt Wardell. ~ Steve

BOPTIME: Saturday, 6 AM Eastern, 3 AM Pacific time
Go To:
Click on a listening link below the WVUD logo:
WVUD 91.3

Boptime available locally in DE on WVUD-FM 91.3, Shoutcast [Search: WVUD], and TuneIn

Paul Krassner ~ Investigative Satirist


The End of Satire

The toxic disinformation of social media has rendered traditional forms of humor quaint and futile.

By Justin E.H. Smith
Mr. Smith is a philosophy professor and author.

April 8, 2019 ~ via Paul Krassner [ * graphics located at link]

*[Detail from an exhibit of children’s drawings sent to the Charlie Hebdo office after the 2015 terrorist attack. CreditCreditFrancois Guillot/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images]

PARIS — In January 2015, not long after I arrived here to live and teach philosophy, terrorists assassinated 12 people, including four cartoonists, in an attack on the offices of the French satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo. This act brought to the surface and seemingly galvanized a view about censorship I had long held. I spent considerable energy in the weeks and months after defending the absolute right of satirists to keep doing what I saw as their sacred work, and criticizing many of my former friends, who found it more important at that moment to speak out against offending the sensitivities of religious communities, for their moral cowardice in the face of nihilistic violence.

After the assassinations, with the perpetrators quickly killed in their turn, the rest of the year seemed to play out as a long public trial of satire itself. In April, when the writers’ organization PEN granted Charlie Hebdo a freedom of expression award, American progressives roundly condemned the decision, saying that it played into an American imperialist agenda, and that the death of the cartoonists at the hands of terrorists did not diminish the implicit Islamophobia of rewarding a magazine for its offensive caricatures.

In general the most facile and uninterested articulations of what satire is and of how it works satisfied both parties to the controversy. Both sides missed, in particular, that satire is a species of humor that works through impersonation: taking on the voices of others, saying the sort of things they would say, using one’s own voice while not speaking in one’s own name. It is not surprising that this craft is so often misunderstood, for when satirists do their job convincingly, when they get too close to their target, it is easy to hear them not just as the channelers of the views expressed in the satire, but as defenders of these views as well. It is at such moments that critics like to exclaim that a satirist has “gone too far,” while it would be more correct to say that the satirist has only done his job too well.

Today, with the pollution that new technologies have brought to our information ecosystem, this distinction is no longer so easy to make. And this is the real problem, and danger, of satire: not that it mocks and belittles respect-worthy pieties, not that it “punches down,” but that it has become impossible to separate it cleanly from the toxic disinformation that defines our era.

To see how things have changed, let’s go back even further than the Charlie Hebdo attack. In 2002 a satirical article in The Onionannounced that “Congress Threatens to Leave D.C. Unless New Capitol Is Built.” The target here, obviously, were the petulant professional sports teams holding American municipalities at ransom by threatening to leave if they do not get a greater share of local taxes. This was lost, however, on the editors of the Beijing Evening News, who took the story as a straightforward sign of the decline of American democracy. I can recall my smirking attitude when the same Chinese newspaper acknowledged soon after that it had been fooled. “Some small American newspapers,” the paper chided, “frequently fabricate offbeat news to trick people into noticing them, with the aim of making money.”

Today it is no longer publications like The Onion that are driving the proliferation of satire. Nor is it the palliative care for liberals offered up by Stephen Colbert and the other the late-night talkers, or by “Saturday Night Live,” now into its fifth decade of tedium. It is rather the culture of social media, often coming from obscure or anonymous sources. Here by comparison all other sources of humor, including professional comedians, seem quaint and futile.

In early 2018 the Twitter account known as PixelatedBoat offered what it claimed was an excerpt from Michael Wolff’s recently published Trump exposé, “Fire and Fury.” It was related that upon arriving at the White House, the new president complained that the television options there did not include what he called “The Gorilla Channel.” So the staff began transmitting gorilla documentaries from a makeshift tower outside his window, until he complained that these were boring, that the gorillas were not fighting enough. So they edited the documentaries down to the fight scenes, at which point the president was appeased, and knelt in front of the TV from morning until night.

This was excellent satire: just believable enough to be entertained as true. I myself believed it for about five minutes, and I was indignant when I realized I had been fooled. I thought of the stiff functionaries in Beijing who had also reacted poorly to getting played. I realized they were right.

The Gorilla Channel was to become one small skirmish in the never-ending American culture war. Some on the right charged that PixelatedBoat had contributed to the overall quantity of disinformation flowing around, and was therefore no less part of the problem of fake news than were the distortions and lies that the right had been condemned for propagating in the lead-up to Trump’s election. And those who made this charge were right, too.

Throughout the satire trials of 2015 I had resisted the idea that one person’s satire is another’s propaganda. I insisted that satire was speech in something like a grammatical mood of its own, as different from the declarative as the declarative is from the interrogative, and that it was therefore subject to its own rules. But in this judgment I was mostly considering established print media, venues such as Charlie Hebdo that practically announced their own satirical nature as a disclaimer.

By the following year, however, I began to notice the way in which new media blur the line between satire and propaganda. Alt-right personalities were now gleefully acknowledging that their successes in meme warfare relied precisely on the inability of media consumers to distinguish between the sincere and the jocular, between an ironic display of a swastika and a straightforward one.

At the same time artificial intelligence was increasingly producing texts and images that, whether overtly political or not, contributed to the general sense that we cannot possibly know the ends for which media content is being churned out. There are for example Facebook accounts that do nothing but show images of celebrities with deadpan captions mistaking them for other celebrities: Betty White for Queen Elizabeth, Samuel Jackson for Kofi Annan. Are these satire? No one is called upon to say. They may well be generated by bots, and you cannot possibly discern the intentions of machines that have no intentions. Their cumulative effect, anyhow, is to make media consumers less certain of their grasp on reality.

Lurking in the darker shadows beyond these strange new phenomena, there are porn sites with the faces of celebrities grafted onto the bodies of others; and there are, or will be soon, deep fakes of politicians accepting another sort of graft. There are distortions at a level of intensity and verisimilitude that we could not possibly have imagined in 2002, all being generated, in the end, in the aim of gaining notice and money.

Over the past few years I have been made to see, in sum, that the nature and extent of satire is not nearly as simple a question as I had previously imagined. I am now prepared to agree that some varieties of expression that may have some claim to being satire should indeed be prohibited. I note this not with a plan or proposal for where or how such a prohibition might be enforced, but to acknowledge something I did not fully understand until I experienced it first hand — that even the most cherished and firmly-held values or ideals can change when the world in which those values were first formed changes. 

I hate to have to say this, and I feel that while it is an admission necessitated by the changing times, it also could not come at a worse time. The madness of 2015 has not subsided. In an astounding article in the British newspaper The Independent in February, Sean O’Grady attempted to stoke the decades-old fatwa against Salman Rushdie for his satirical take on the life of Muhammad in “The Satanic Verses.” “Rushdie’s silly, childish book,” the columnist writes, “should be banned under today’s anti-hate legislation. It’s no better than racist graffiti on a bus stop.” O’Grady proudly admits that he has never read the book, and in this he is just like the Ayatollah Khomeini before him.

Is my own belated acknowledgment of the need to regulate satire an unwitting discovery of common cause with the likes of O’Grady? I certainly hope not. O’Grady belongs to what seems to be an increasingly common species of moral coward, a dupe of totalitarians, spiritual brother of the Charlie Hebdoassassins, whereas I am only trying to respond to the real threats of hitherto unimagined technologies. “The Satanic Verses,” I tell myself, is literature, where free play of the imagination is the rule of the game and the inalienable right of the creator. Twitter is, well, something else.

But the truth is I am not at all sure of this distinction. The truth is that the nature and proper scope of satire remain an enormous problem, one that is not going to get any easier to resolve in the political and technological future we can all, by now, see coming. 

Justin E.H. Smith is a professor of history and philosophy of science at the University of Paris 7, Denis Diderot, and the author of the “Irrationality: A History of the Dark Side of Reason.”

Dahbud Mensch ~ Stuck in the middle with WHO ?


Lobbying in the United States describes paid activity in which special interests hire well-connected professional advocates, often lawyers, to argue for specific legislation in decision-making bodies such as the United States Congress. It is a highly controversial phenomenon, often seen in a negative light by journalists and the American public, with some critics describing it as a legal form of bribery or extortion. While lobbying is subject to extensive and often complex rules which, if not followed, can lead to penalties including jail, the activity of lobbying has been interpreted by court rulings as constitutionally protected free speech and a way to petition the government for the redress of grievances, two of the freedoms protected by the First Amendment of the Constitution. Since the 1970s, lobbying activity has grown immensely in the United States in terms of the numbers of lobbyists and the size of lobbying budgets, and has become the focus of much criticism of American governance. [Continue reading at Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia]

Question: What's the difference between a
politician and lying big tobacco executive?

Big Tobacco executive “Nicotine Is Not Addictive” via joe

Answer: The word politician!

Nobody tells the truth all the time & should be President!

None of the Above should be a Valid Choice on Voter Ballots!

420 ~ End the Oppression!

Elvey Mussiki and Amestizo
Elvy Musikka opening a Federally grown cannabis bin at [Shaman] Amestizo's ranch.

Elvy Musikka (born August 10, 1939) is an American cannabis rights activist. Musikka is one of four surviving patients enrolled in the Compassionate Investigational New Drug Program, getting marijuana from the federal government.[1][2][3]

Musikka, who uses cannabis to fight glaucoma in her left eye after going blind in her right eye despite having surgery, was arrested for growing marijuana in 1988. At her trial, Musikka's doctor testified and she was acquitted. She applied and was approved to get legal cannabis cigarettes later that year.[4][5]

Musikka was named High Times magazine's 1992 Freedom Fighter of the Year. She resides in Eugene, Oregon, and serves on the board of advisors of Voter Power.[1][3][5] ~ Wikipedia Source

Bicycle Day ~ History: My Bicycle & Me, April, 19, 1943

April 19, 1943 My Bicycle and Me ~

On 19 April 1943, Hofmann intentionally ingested 250 micrograms of LSD. This day is now known as "Bicycle Day", because he began to feel the effects of the drug as he rode home on a bike. This was the first intentional LSD trip.[11]

Hofmann continued to take small doses of LSD throughout much of his life, and always hoped to find a use for it. In his memoir, he emphasized it as a "sacred drug": "I see the true importance of LSD in the possibility of providing material aid to meditation aimed at the mystical experience of a deeper, comprehensive reality."

Boptime ~ w/Even Steven Leech ~ Saturday Mornings

Even Steven's Boptime

We begin with a couple of hours of oldies back to back to back beginning at 6am (EST) on Saturday’s Boptime. At 8am (EST) on Rockabilly Ridge, Michael Ace plays tunes from singers with strange names, like Elroy Pretzel. Get it? At 9am (EST) on Beatlemania we’ll hear the Beatles’ Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, which was about to be released around this time in 1967. However, we’ll hear the Beatles on the title track only. The remainder of the selections will be performed by Elton John, Sonic Youth, and others. ~ Steve

BOPTIME: Saturday, 6 AM Eastern, 3 AM Pacific time
Go To:
Click on a listening link below the WVUD logo:
WVUD 91.3

Boptime available locally in DE on WVUD-FM 91.3, Shoutcast [Search: WVUD], and TuneIn

Remembering Dennis Banks

In Memory of Dennis Banks
April 12, 1937 ~ October 29, 2017

Dennis Banks (8673602267) (cropped).jpg
Dennis Banks By Neeta Lind - IMG_4247, CC BY 2.0, Link

Dennis Banks (April 12, 1937 – October 29, 2017) was a Native American leader, teacher, lecturer, activist and author, was an Anishinaabe born on Leech Lake Indian Reservation in northern Minnesota. Banks was also known as Nowa Cumig (Naawakamig in the Double Vowel System). His name in the Ojibwe language means "In the Center of the Universe." He was a longtime leader of the American Indian Movement, which he co-founded in 1968 with Native Americans in Minneapolis. [Continue Reading at Wikipedia]

Dennis Banks on the Prayers of Indian People

And as I look around and see people of different races coming to a Unity Fair, I know that some of those prayers are being answered. It's a small start here in San Francisco, but maybe next year there'll be a Unity Fair in Chicago, or one in Denver, or one of the Pine Ridge Reservation. That's the kind of changing that I want to go through. ~ Dennis Banks on the Prayers of Indian People, Unity Fair, San Francisco, California, September, 1976

What They Took Away: Reflections on Native Boarding Schools with Dennis Banks via Ron Douglas

Dennis Banks on Indian Motorcycle
Dennis Banks to Lead 18,000 Mile “Declare War on Diabetes” Motorcycle Run

C. Spangler
Dennis and I worked together. He will sincerely be missed., Sprung, a.k.a. C. Spangler

Remembering Marla Ruzicka

Marla Ruzicka
December 31, 1976 ~ April 16, 2005

Remembering Marla Ruzicka, December 31, 1976 - April 16, 2005
To have a job where you can make things better for people?
That's a blessing. Why would I do anything else?
~ Marla Ruzicka

Marla Ruzicka (December 31, 1976 -- April 16, 2005) was an activist-turned-aid worker. She believed that combatant governments had a legal and moral responsibility to compensate the families of civilians killed or injured in military conflicts. She and her Iraqi translator, Faiz Ali Salim, were killed by a suicide car bombing on Airport Road in Baghdad on April 16, 2005.

In 2003, Ruzicka founded the Campaign for Innocent Victims in Conflict (CIVIC), an organization that counted civilian casualties and assisted Iraqi victims of the 2003 US invasion of Iraq.

Born in Lakeport, California, Ruzicka attended Long Island University's Friends World Program, and spent four years traveling throughout Costa Rica, Kenya, Cuba, Israel/Palestine, and Zimbabwe. After graduating in 1999, Ruzicka volunteered for the San Francisco-based organizations Rainforest Action Network and Global Exchange. [Click to Continue Reading]

Tazmanian Devils ~ Re-release of 1982 Tazmanian Devils Live EP

Available Now
Tazmanian Devils

Re-release of 1982 Tazmanian Devils Live EP
Free Streams & Downloads at:

Boptime ~ w/Even Steven Leech ~ Saturday Mornings

Even Steven's Boptime

We begin with a couple of hours of oldies back to back to back beginning at 6am (EST) on Saturday’s Boptime. At 8am (EST) on Rockabilly Ridge, Michael Ace spins some tunes from group rockers. At 9am (EST) you’ll hear an hour of obscure rockabilly tunes from 1958 along with some of the events that occurred during that year. ~ Steve

BOPTIME: Saturday, 6 AM Eastern, 3 AM Pacific time
Go To:
Click on a listening link below the WVUD logo:
WVUD 91.3

Boptime available locally in DE on WVUD-FM 91.3, Shoutcast [Search: WVUD], and TuneIn

Boptime ~ Saturday Mornings ~ w/Even Steven Leech

Even Steven's Boptime

@ WVUD 91.3fm & www.WVUD.ORG

The next Boptime is our Radiothon program. We missed last year’s Radiothon because of the pandemic, but can’t afford to let this year’s go by, so we’re doing the best we can to make up ground.

We begin with a couple of hours of oldies back to back to back beginning at 6am (EST) on Saturday’s Boptime Radiothon. At 8am (EST) we begin by going psychedelic with some early 1970s sounds, including a rare Jimi Hendrix tune, then go obscure with two artists from the late 1940s who were immensely talented, but never given a real chance. We’ll tell you why.

I first started doing radio in the mid 1960s and for the 9am (EST) hour I’ll go back to 1966, when I did a morning program, and  play many of the songs spun around this time 55 years ago, while telling you why we should be keeping the kind of radio we do at WVUD alive. ~ Steve

BOPTIME: Saturday, 6 AM Eastern, 3 AM Pacific time
Go To:
Click on a listening link below the WVUD logo:
WVUD 91.3

Boptime available locally in DE on WVUD-FM 91.3, Shoutcast [Search: WVUD], and TuneIn

Alerts ~ Remembering Paul Krassner, Investigative Satirist

In Memory of Our Very Dear Friend
Paul Krassner
April 9, 1932 ~ July 21, 2019

Paul Krassner
Paul Krassner, San Francisco, 12 Sep. 1987 ~ Photo: Chris W Nelson

Paul Krassner  (April 9, 1932 – July 21, 2019) was an American author, journalist, comedian, and the founder, editor and a frequent contributor to the freethought magazine The Realist, first published in 1958. Krassner became a key figure in the counterculture of the 1960s as a member of Ken Kesey's Merry Pranksters and a founding member of the Yippies. He died on July 21, 2019, in Desert Hot Springs, California. [Continue reading at Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia]

A Funny Thing Happened
On the Way to Woodstock

by Paul Krassner
[The Unedited Version]

Prologue :

Newspaper headlines blared the massacre in Beverly Hills of Roman Polanski’s wife, Sharon Tate, their unborn baby and a few unfortunate friends. This was in August 1969, and the orchestrator of those murders, Charles Manson, would not be caught until December. But now I was on my way to the antithesis of that horror. Along with 400,000 others on a countercultural pilgrimage, I was heading for the Woodstock Festival of Music & Love. I was wearing my yellow leather fringe jacket for the first time. In one of the pockets there was a nice little stash of LSD. If you happen to be brand-name conscious, then you’ll want to know that it was Owsley White Lightning, and each tablet contained exactly 300 micrograms of excellent acid.

The CIA originally envisioned using LSD as a means of control, but, without anybody’s permission, millions of young people had already become explorers of their own inner space. Acid was serving as a vehicle for deprogramming themselves from a civilization of sadomasochistic priorities. A mass awakening was in process. There was an evolutionary jump in consciousness. The underground press was flourishing, and when LSD was declared illegal in October 1966, the psychedelic San Francisco Oracle became politicized while the radical Berkeley Barb began to treat the drug subculture as fellow outlaws. Acid was even influencing the stock market. Timothy Leary let me listen in on a phone call from a Wall Street broker who thanked Leary for turning him onto acid because it gave him the courage to sell short.

With LSD, you could actually see music, you could taste ice cream in your toes , and you felt totally at one with Nature, in tune with the Universe. The blossoming counterculture--encompassing sex, drugs and rock’n’roll--was at its core a spiritual revolution, with religions of repression being replaced by disciplines of liberation, where psychotropic drugs became a sacrament, sensuality developed into exquisite forms of personal art, and the way you lived your daily life demonstrated the heartbeat of your politics. There was an epidemic of idealism. Altruism became the highest form of selfishness. You could trust your friends more than the government, and “Make love, not war” became a credo of the antiwar movement. The CIA’s scenario had backfired.

When I first told my mother about taking LSD, she was understandably concerned. “It could lead to marijuana,” she warned.

My mother was right.

wavey line

Abbie Hoffman was a reader of my magazine, The Realist, before we became friends. He tempered his fearlessness with a gift for humor that was sharp and spontaneous. On a particularly tense night on the Lower East Side, we were standing on a street corner when a patrol car containing four police cruised by. These were the same cops from the 9th Precinct that Abbie took great pleasure in defeating at the pool table.

“Hey, fellas,” he shouted, “you goin’ out on a double date?”

In December 1967, Abbie, his wife Anita and I decided to take our first real vacation, in the Florida Keys. We rented a small house on stilts in Ramrod Key. This was the week before Christmas. We bought a small tree and spray painted it with canned snow. Now, we were tripping on LSD as a hurricane reached full force.

“Hey, this is pretty powerful fuckin’ acid,” Abbie laughed.

We watched Lyndon Johnson on a black and white TV set, only LBJ was purple and orange. His huge head was sculpted into Mount Rushmore. “I am not going to be so pudding-headed as to stop our half of the war,” he was saying. And the heads of the other presidents--George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt--were all snickering to themselves and covering their mouths with their hands so they wouldn’t laugh out loud. That was the moment we acknowledged that we’d be going to the Democratic convention next summer to protest the war in Vietnam.

That evening, when the hurricane had subsided, I followed a neighborhood crow down the road, then continued walking to town by myself to use the pay telephone at a gas station. First I called Dick Gregory in Chicago, since it was his city we were planning to invade. He told me that he had decided to run for president, and he wanted to know if I thought Bob Dylan would make a good vice president. “Oh, sure,” I said, “but to tell you the truth, I don’t think Dylan would ever get involved in electoral politics.” Gregory ended up with assassination researcher Mark Lane as his running mate.

Next I called Jerry Rubin in New York to arrange for a meeting when we returned. The conspiracy was beginning. And so it came to pass that, on the afternoon of December 31, several activist friends were gathered at the Hoffmans’ apartment, smoking Columbian marijuana and planning the Chicago action. Our fantasy was to counter the convention of death with a festival of life. While the Democrats would present politicians giving speeches at the convention center, we would present rock bands playing in the park. There would be booths with information about drugs and alternatives to the draft.

We needed a name. What would be appropriate to signify the radicalization of hippies? I came up with yippie . We could be the Yippies! It was perfect--a traditional shout of spontaneous joy which had just the right attitude for a media myth. I worked my way backwards. Yippie could be derived naturally from the initials YIP. Then, for what words could YIP become an appropriate acronym? Youth --this was essentially a movement of young people involved in a generational struggle. International --it was happening all over the globe, from Mexico to France, from Germany to Japan. And Party --in both senses of the word. We would be a party and we would have a party. We would be the Youth International Party, and we would be called the Yippies.

It was simply a catchy label to describe a phenomenon that already existed: an organic coalition of hippie dropouts and political activists. Our culture was our politics. In the process of cross-pollination at civil rights demonstrations and antiwar rallies, we had come to share an awareness that there was a linear connection between putting kids in prison for smoking marijuana in this country and burning them to death with napalm on the other side of the globe. It was the ultimate extension of dehumanization. After we held a press conference, a headline in the Chicago Daily News promised: “Yipes! The Yippies Are Coming!” The myth was already becoming a reality. We opened an office. Yippie chapters were forming on campuses, and Yippies across the country were beginning to find out what to call themselves.

In Chicago that August, Robert Pierson, a supposed biker who had volunteered to act as Jerry’s bodyguard turned out to be a police provocateur. Indiscriminate, sadistic violence by the cops reached a peak during speeches in Grant Park. Eventually, the Chicago Tribune reported that Pierson was “in the group which lowered an American flag.” In Official Detective magazine, Pierson himself wrote: “One thing we were to do was defile the flag. The American flag in the park was taken down, then rehung upside down. After this had been photographed, a group of us, including me, were ordered to pull it down and destroy it, then to run up the black flag of the Viet Cong. I joined in the chants and taunts against the police and provoked them into hitting me with their clubs. They didn’t know who I was, but they did know that I had called them names and struck them with one or more weapons.” And that’s what set off the incident which resulted in what the government-commissioned Walker Report would describe as “a police riot.”

wavey line

One year later, as I wandered around the Woodstock Festival, I was overwhelmed by the realization that this tribal event was in actuality what the Yippies had originally fantasized about for Chicago. No longer did so many of these celebrants have to feel like the only Martians on their block. Now, extended families were developing into an alternative society before your very eyes. I had never before felt such a powerful sense of community.

The soundtrack was live, and the Hog Farm commune provided meals, servicing the largest Bed & Breakfast place in history. Actually, they had been hired to provide security. But to Hog Farm leader Hugh Romney, security meant cream pies and seltzer bottles. He planned to wear a Smokey the Bear costume to warn people about putting out fires. This was not merely a three-day outdoor concert. This was a Martian convention. Or, as Abbie Hoffman called it, Woodstock Nation.

The political contingent was encamped in a huge red-and-white-striped tent christened Movement City. In the afternoon, a mimeograph machine was churning out flyers proclaiming that the outdoor concerts should be free. At night, several festival-goers were busy unscrewing the metal-wire fencing that had been put up during the day. Yippie Roz Payne was among them. She helped take down the No Trespassing sign and changed it into a sign that read Peoples Bulletin Board.

On an afternoon when Abbie, Roz and I took a stroll down Merchants Way, which led to the stage that was still being constructed, they took down the Merchants Way sign and put up a sign that read Ho Chi Minh Trail. Lights had not yet been strung up along the path, and as it got darker, we kept walking and stumbling until we got lost in the woods. After a couple of hours, we saw a light through the trees, realized that we were right back where we started, and we laughed ourselves silly.

Abbie would get serious later on, though, ebbed on by his sense of justice and fueled by the tab of White Lightning that we had each ingested. While The Who were performing, he went up on stage with the intention of informing the audience that John Sinclair, manager of the MC5 and leader of the White Panther Party, was serving ten years in prison for the possession of two joints; that this was really the politics behind the music.

Before Abbie could get his message across, Peter Townshend transformed his guitar into a tennis racket and smashed him on the head with a swift backhand. Townshend had assumed that Abbie was just another crazed fan. When The Who played at Fillmore East the previous week, a plainclothes cop rushed on stage and tried to grab the mike. He intended to warn the audience that there was a fire next door and the theater had to be cleared, but he was able to do so only after Townshend kneed him in the balls. Now he shouted at Abbie, “Get the fuck off my stage!” To the audience: “The next person that walks across the stage is going to get killed.” The audience laughs. “You can laugh, but I mean it!”

I inadvertently ended up with a political mission of my own at Woodstock. For a while, I was hanging around the Press Tent, which later turned into the Hospital For Bad Trips. A reporter from the New York Daily News asked me, “How do you spell braless?” I replied, “Without a hyphen.” He pointed out two men with cameras who were from the Criminal Intelligence Division of the Army. And a free-lance writer who knew someone with a source in the White House told me how the Nixon administration had assigned the Rand Corporation think tank to develop a game plan for suspending the 1972 election in case of disruption. I decided to mention this at every meeting I attended, every interview I did, every campus I spoke at and every radio show that I was a guest on.

A year later, the story was officially denied by Attorney General John Mitchell. He warned that whoever started that rumor ought to be “punished.” I wrote to him and confessed, but he never answered my letter. Actually, investigative journalist Ron Rosenbaum was able to trace the “rumor” back and discovered that I was the fifth level down from the original White House source. I believed it to be true, and even rented a tiny one-room apartment I could escape to when martial law was declared. It had a fireplace so that if the power went off I could cook brown rice.

Although I never used the place myself (a friend and her young son had been evicted, so I was glad to let them stay there), when I stopped to witness the level of my own paranoia, I flashed back to a moment at Woodstock. While meandering around the grounds, I had spotted an old friend, Tom Law, who was leading a group in yoga exercises, and I warned him, “If the government finds out you can get high just from breathing, they’re gonna ban oxygen.”

In February 1969, a group of Yippies were busy rolling several thousand joints and wrapping each one in a flyer wishing the recipient a Happy Valentine’s Day and containing facts about marijuana. More than 200,000 arrests for pot-smoking were made the previous year, and Mayor John Lindsay had just petitioned Governor Nelson Rockefeller to raise the penalty for possession from one year to four.

Those joints were sent to various mailing lists, such as teachers and media people, and to one individual only because he was listed in the phone book as Peter Pot. A local newscaster who displayed one of these joints was visited by a pair of narcotics agents, on camera, while he was still delivering the news. It was a TV first. Incidentally, the contents of all those joints had been paid for by Jimi Hendrix.

My favorite musical moment at the festival was Hendrix’s startling rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” His guitar wailing of our national anthem brought me to tears. It was a wordless version of what I interpreted to mean, “It’s not that we hate America, it’s that we feel the American dream has been betrayed, and we will live our alternative.” On the other hand, my least favorite moment was when I discovered that my new yellow leather fringe jacket was stolen from the Movement City tent.


In 1971, Yippie co-founder Ed Sanders’ book about Charles Manson, The Family , was published. It raised several questions, and I began my own investigation. After having lived behind bars for most of his life, Manson was out on the streets again. He began to explore and exploit the countercultural value system, from Haight-Ashbury to Strawberry Fields. Driving his family around in a school bus painted black, he stopped at the Hog Farm, whose school bus was painted in rainbow colors.

While traveling, the Hog Farmers had found themselves at a fork in the road. Up above them, two sky-writing planes were playing tic-tac-toe, and the Hog Farm decided to go one way if the X’s won and the other way if the O’s won. Now they were back on their land, all standing in a circle, chanting “Om,” which somehow caused the visiting Manson to start choking and gagging, so his family began counter-chanting “Evil.”

It was an archetypal confrontation. Manson even tried to get Romney’s wife in exchange for one of his girls--plus the pink slip to the black bus. It was never made clear, if Romney had accepted this trade, by what means the Manson family would have departed, but that was a moot point. The black bus finally left, mission unaccomplished.

In the course of my research, I met Preston Guillory, a former deputy sheriff at the Malibu Sheriff’s Department, which aided the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department in the original raid of the Spahn Ranch. Guillory had participated in that raid, and I interviewed him at an apartment in San Francisco.

“We had been advised to put anything relating to Manson on a memo submitted to the station, because they were supposedly gathering information for the raid we were going to make,” he said. “Deputies at the station of course started asking, ‘Why aren’t we going to make the raid sooner?’ I mean, Manson’s a parole violator, machine-guns have been heard, we know there’s narcotics and we know there’s booze. He’s living at the Spahn Ranch with a bunch of minor girls in complete violation of his parole. Deputies at the station quite frankly became very annoyed that no action was being taken about Manson. My contention is this--the reason Manson was left on the street was because our department thought that he was going to attack the Black Panthers. We were getting intelligence briefings that Manson was anti-black and he had supposedly killed a Black Panther, the body of which could not be found, and the department thought that he was going to launch an attack on the Black Panthers.”

And so it was that the presence of racism had morphed the Sheriff’s Department into collaborators in a mass murder. Manson was portrayed by the media as a hippie cult leader, and the counterculture became a dangerous enemy. Hitchhikers were shunned. Communes were raided. In the public’s mind, flower children now had poisonous thorns. But Manson was never really a hippie. His real family included con artists, pimps, drug dealers, thieves, muggers, rapists and murderers. He had known only power relationships in an army of control junkies. Manson was America’s Frankenstein monster, a logical product of the prison system--racist, paranoid, violent--even if hippie astrologers thought that his fate had been predetermined because he was a triple Scorpio.

The ‘60s had come to an end, and the quality of co-option was not strained. “Today is the first day of the rest of your life” became a slogan for the Bank of America, and later for Total breakfast cereal. More recently, Tampax advertised its tampon as “Something over 30 you can trust. And names changed. Hippies became freaks. Negroes became blacks. Girls became women. Richard Alpert became Baba Ram Dass. Hugh Romney became Wavy Gravy, and his wife, Bonnie Jean, became Jahanarah. Yippie organizer Keith Lampe became Ponderosa Pine. My sister Marge became Thais. San Francisco Oracle editor Allen Cohen became Siddartha and moved to a commune where everybody called him Sid. They thought his name was Sid Arthur.

These days, there seems to be a mass awakening in process, comparable to the evolutionary jump in consciousness that took place during the '60s. It gives me a sense of hope, as well as a sense of continuity, that countercultural values have “infiltrated” mainstream awareness: the peace movement, organic food, animal rights, protecting rainforests, environmental sustainability, growing hemp, anti-pollution, recycling waste, racial equality, feminism, renewable energy, alternative healthcare, diversified spiritual practices.

The seeds that were planted then continue to blossom now. The spirit of Woodstock continues to be celebrated at such annual events as the Rainbow Gathering, Burning Man, Earthdance, the Oregon County Fair, the Starwood Neo-Pagan Festival, Pete Seeger's Clearwater Festival, the Coachella Valley Music & Arts Festival, and even such electronic magic as the montage of musicians around the globe playing and singing "Stand By Me" on YouTube.

And, yes, all the psychedelic relics I know have not stopped serving as agents of change. During the past four decades, there has been a linear progression from Jimi Hendrix playing “The Star-Spangled Banner” at Woodstock to Aretha Franklin singing “My Country, ’tis of Thee” at the inauguration of Barack Obama.

wavey line

Some Local Articles by Paul Krassner:


Censorship on NPR

Al Franken for President

Getting High Down Under

Nothing Will Ever Be the Same

Why I'm Optimistic About the Future

Other pages with Paul's Articles on

Paul's Home Page:

Paul Krassner and C. Spangler
Paul Krassner & Curtis Spangler ~ Photo: Dwight Dolliver

[Ed. Note Regarding, "WTF are you doing?": Photographer says to Paul, “I wonder where all the other warriors are today?” (referring to those brave enough to stand up against any form of injustice) and I lift my t-shirt to reveal a Maasai warrior belt (ref. 1ref. 2); not to be confused with marriage belt, which has diamonds.]

I sincerely miss this incredible human being! ~@~

Alerts ~ Remembering Dr. Richard Alpert a.k.a. Ram Dass & Nobody's Guru

In Memory of Our Very Dear Friend
Dr. Richard Alpert
a.k.a. Ram Dass & Nobody's Guru
April 6, 1931 ~ December 22, 2019
Ram Dass was/is Nobody's Guru

NOBODY'S STALWARTS ~ Curtis Spangler, left, and Ram Dass, right, lay out bumper stickers saying "U.S. out of North America" and other campaign paraphernalia. "Nobody for President" started when Wavy Gravy became disenchanted with presidential politics and decided Nobody should have that much power.

Stories & Letters

Yoga vs. Lysergic

Around 4:30 AM, December 6, 1969, I heard a bunch of noise outside the house, got up, peered out the window, saw a bunch of my friends getting out of a station wagon, and walking up the steps.

I made coffee as everyone settled on the living room floor and the topic of conversation was, 'today's concert at Altamont'.

One of my friends, who is no longer with us, was grinning ear-to-ear and announced he had some of Bear's 4-way wafers, made 'special for us'.

We each decided to take one wafer, figuring we would leave around 10:00 AM for the 'Stones' concert.

After about twenty (20) minutes everybody was 'feeling it', except me, so I took another one just to make sure.

By the time everyone was ready to leave I had eaten fourteen (14) wafers and still wasn't feeling anything, so I told my friends, "This is too weird, I think I'll stay home." and off they went.

Just to complete the end of that story, my friends got lost on the way and ended up on a back road that took them to the rear of the concert, where they parked, crawled under the stage, sat down in front, and saw the 'whole show'. Because of what happened, at that show, I am glad I did not attend.

Meanwhile, back at home I am still going about my daily routine as if nothing happened; all while trying to figure out why I was not affected like my friends. At this point I went to bed to take a nap. This is when something strange happened.

When I closed my eyes, I found myself sitting on the top of a ladder, with my head pressed against the ceiling, in a room with no windows or doors, that was dimly lit. When I opened my eyes, everything was normal; or perceived to be "normal".

The next day, some of the friends who went to Altamont dropped by to tell me their adventure, and I tell them mine, because it was still happening. After they leave, it was suggested I call my old friend Richard to see if he could offer any advice.

Psychedelic Review Issue Number 1 Summer 1963
Psychedelic Review, Issue Number 1 ~ (complete pdf)

I knew Richard before he became Ram Dass and used to hang out with him at his Dad's house on the lake in New Hampshire; so that's where I called him.

His assistant told me he had just returned from India, had been asked to speak at Esalen in California, gave me the number, and told me to call him there.

When I called Esalen, I was told he was giving a lecture out on the lawn and they would give him my message.

About two hours later the phone rings and it is Richard asking me, "What's up?"

I tell him the story and he listens while saying, "Ahhh..." a lot. I also closed my eyes to see if that strange effect is going on, and am still sitting on the top of that ladder.

It takes me about five (5) minutes to explain my story and then he takes over the conversation for the next hour, telling me about his experiences in India.

As he is talking, I start to experience this light beginning to radiate around me and had my eyes open.

When I shut my eyes, the room with no windows or doors had become, for lack of better words, a gold/pink/white luminous cloud; except this time, I am sitting on a ladder in the middle of the cloud, with my head pressed against a ceiling of brilliant white light.

I interrupted Richard and told him what was going on; to which he responded with a very long, smile sounding, "Ahhh...."

The moment he did this, a trapdoor slammed open in the ceiling of light and I looked into what appeared to be infinite time, space, and beyond; something no amount of words will ever describe.

[I did attempt to create a picture]:

DNA Ooops by C. Spangler

In the midst of phenomenal beauty, I saw this chubby old man wearing a blanket float by. As he passed, I noticed he seemed to be holding the earth, similar to the way one would hold an apple by the stem.

He lifted his head and gazed at me. When our eyes met this incredible smile came across his lips and the next thing I knew, I was jettisoned into another place I am not able to describe, other than say it was 'wheel like' and there were some incredible beings the same time, explaining this over the phone, as it is happening.

Richard said to me, "It has obviously happened to you, I'll send you a letter.":

Letter from Ram Dass

Letter Content:



It's obviously happened to you. The seed has been planted. You need not worry too much it will flourish and seek its own way to the light. What follows now is a very slow and gentle opening, a listening, a re-evaluating, re-assessing, a calming of the mind along with the opening of the heart. Be very patient and very calm. We are dealing with eternal time and infinite space. All else is melodrama.

[snipped traveling to the Bay Area and getting together part]

Shanti, (peace)

Ram Dass

Along with the letter there was a booklist and names of some people I was to look up; which led me to Neem Karoli Baba, who explained there were two types of acid, Yoga and Lysergic and here is what I heard.

Neem Karoli Baba

If one takes lysergic acid, finds a quiet, calm, cool place, and meditates, one might expect four (4) to six (6) hours of Darshan and come back down; whereas, when one works on themselves (Yogi Acid) and discovers where to turn on that 'switch', one never needs to come down, ..which began a new quest.

From Bindu To Ojas or what later became known as Be Here Now
Original copy of what became the book known as, "Be Here Now"

Since this is the Internet (smile), here is a handwritten letter from Ram Dass regarding a problem I had about 'running up against psychic walls':

Hand written letter from Ram Dass

Letter Content:


By not acting upon desires one weakens their hold. This ultimately follows non-attachment or desire - all things come to you By calming the mind through meditation you will see that desires are based on a misconception - i.e., mistaking yourself for your body or thoughts. Further meditation shows you that all is impermanent, all is changing and there is no place to stand anywhere. Then we merge and float into the One - where we are always together in Love.


Ram Dass

Becoming Nobody | Official Trailer | 2019 via Passion River Films

I sincerely miss this incredible human being! ~@~

Notes from ~@~ Remembering Emmett Grogan

Emmett Grogan

Emmett Grogan from Wikipedia

November 28, 1942 ~ April 6, 1978

Emmett Grogan (born Eugene Grogan) was a founder of the Diggers, a radical community-action group of Improvisational actors in the Haight-Ashbury district of San Francisco, California. The Diggers took their name from the English Diggers (1649-1650), a radical movement opposed to feudalism, the Church of England and the British Crown. [Continue reading at Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia] ~ [Emmett Grogan's wake was held at the United State Cafe.]

Dreamstreets #66 ~ Steven Leech


Since 1977, the Dreamstreets project has showcased progressive artists, photographers, and writers of the Delaware Valley. Conceived by John Hickey and a cohort of visionaries in 1977 and carried forward under the executive editorship of Steven Leech, Dreamstreets has appeared almost continuously in print, radio, and television, its largest hiatus being 2006 to 2015. We now publish regularly in the spring and in the fall, with an occasional special issue. We accept submissions from resident and diaspora Delawareans during the months of December and June. [Continue reading at:]

Dreamstreets #66 ~ Art by Roldan West
Dreamstreets #66 is now available.

Art by Roldan West [large (1,320 x 1,710) image]

Disclaimer #3

3. The most powerful tool on the planet today is Tell-A-Vision. That is where I tell a vision to you, and you tell a vision to me. That way, if we don't like the programming we're getting, we can simply change the channel.

Distant Relatives [Patience] via nabil elderkin

Karl Cohen ~ Association International du Film d'Animation, SF Newsletter

ASIFA-SF Newsletter

ASIFA-SF April 2021 Newsletter [PDF Format]

Feetlines ~ Reject the Evidence of Your Eyes & Ears

Tainted News:

The lie can be maintained only for such time as the State can shield the people from the political, economic and/or military consequences of the lie. It thus becomes vitally important for the State to use all of its powers to repress dissent, for the truth is the mortal enemy of the lie, and thus by extension, the truth becomes the greatest enemy of the State. ~ Joseph Goebbels

Tomi Lahren should fight addiction and not have to step on "used heroin needles" to get high?

Saluting the Heroes of the Coronavirus Pandumbic The Daily Show w/Trevor Noah via Joey deVilla
Murdered by Political Incompetence?

Forget the politicians. They are irrelevant. The politicians are put there to give you the idea that you have freedom of choice. You don't. You have no choice! You have OWNERS! They own you! They own everything. They own all the important land. They own and control the corporations. They've long since bought, and paid for the Senate, the Congress, the state houses, the city halls, they got the judges in their back pockets and they own all the big media companies, so they control just about all of the news and information you get to hear. ~ George Carlin

Nobody for President 2020 = NONE OF THE ABOVE on Voter Ballots
Eliminate voting for lesser of evils,
None of the Above should be a choice on voter ballots?

Whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. ~ Declaration of Independence

Boptime ~ Saturday Mornings ~ w/Even Steven Leech

Even Steven's Boptime

We begin with a couple of hours of oldies back to back to back beginning at 6am (EST) on Saturday’s Boptime. At 8am (EST) on the Heart & Soul of Delaware Rock & Roll we play a couple local artists from the late 1970s. One of those is Vic Sadot and his Crazy Planet Band, the other is Snuki Tate who we’d heard previously as the lead singer of Lonnie and the Crisis and the Matadors. After the Morrie Sims Show at around 8:30am (EST), it's the Club Baby Grand at 9am (EST). We’ll hear previously unheard selections from Fostina Dixon, Aniya Jazz with Ron Sutton, Don Glandon, Judith Kay and others. ~ Steve

BOPTIME: Saturday, 6 AM Eastern, 3 AM Pacific time
Go To:
Click on a listening link below the WVUD logo:
WVUD 91.3

Boptime available locally in DE on WVUD-FM 91.3, Shoutcast [Search: WVUD], and TuneIn

Carolyn Garcia ~ Mountain Girl

On the Bus, Carolyn Mountain Girl Garcia via vimeo

Notes from ~@~

Freedom of expression and freedom of speech aren't really important unless they're heard...It's hard for me to stay silent when I keep hearing that peace is only attainable through war. And there's nothing more scary than watching ignorance in action. So I dedicated this Emmy to all the people who feel compelled to speak out and not afraid to speak to power and won't shut up and refuse to be silenced.~ Tom Smothers

Carlin Step, DJ Steve Porter & Eli Wilkie via Roland Kardeby

The Great Bell Chant (The End of Suffering) via R Smittenaar

Beautiful Child

One Day, Matisyahu via ShalomLearning

Unsung Hero via Rattakarn Srithavatchai "Garn"

The Sacred Clowns ~ Heyókȟa

The Heyókȟa symbolize and portray many aspects of the sacred, the Wakȟáŋ. Their satire presents important questions by fooling around. They ask difficult questions, and say things others are too afraid to say. By reading between the lines, the audience is able to think about things not usually thought about, or to look at things in a different way.

Principally, the Heyókȟa functions both as a mirror and a teacher, using extreme behaviors to mirror others, thereby forcing them to examine their own doubts, fears, hatreds, and weaknesses. Heyókȟas also have the power to heal emotional pain; such power comes from the experience of shame--they sing of shameful events in their lives, beg for food, and live as clowns. They provoke laughter in distressing situations of despair and provoke fear and chaos when people feel complacent and overly secure, to keep them from taking themselves too seriously or believing they are more powerful than they are.

In addition, sacred clowns serve an important role in shaping tribal codes. Heyókȟa's don't seem to care about taboos, rules, regulations, social norms, or boundaries. Paradoxically, however, it is by violating these norms and taboos that they help to define the accepted boundaries, rules, and societal guidelines for ethical and moral behavior. This is because they are the only ones who can ask "Why?" about sensitive topics and employ satire to question the specialists and carriers of sacred knowledge or those in positions of power and authority. In doing so, they demonstrate concretely the theories of balance and imbalance. Their role is to penetrate deception, turn over rocks, and create a deeper awareness.

Develop Your Mind, Not Sacred Sites

Develop Your Mind, Not Sacred Sites

Cree Prophecy

Only after the last tree has been cut down,

Only after the last river has been poisoned,

Only after the last fish has been caught,

Only then will you find money cannot be eaten.

Nobody for President ~ NONE of the ABOVE should be a choice on voter ballots!

Nobody for President 2020 = NONE OF THE ABOVE on Voter Ballots
Curtis Spangler & Wavy Gravy, Nobody for President San Francisco Rally, October 12, 1976 - Photograph: James Stark
Curtis Spangler & Wavy Gravy, Nobody for President, 197610.12 ~ Photo: James Stark

American Dream, George Carlin via Ishtar [Not Work Safe] Nobody should have that much power
NOBODY should have that much power!

Disclaimer #6

6. If we want world peace, we must let go of our attachments and truly live like nomads. That's where I no mad at you, you no mad at me. That way, there'll surely be nomadness on the planet. And peace begins with each of us. A little peace here, a little peace there, pretty soon all the peaces will fit together to make one big peace everywhere.

Nothing else matters, Metallica arr. Karianne Brouwer violin, Maaike Schoenmaker cello

Message via Mike Pinder

Oh, I hope that I see you again I never even caught your name As you looked through my window pane ~ So I'm writing this message today I'm thinking that you'll have a way Of hearing the notes in my tune ~ Where are you going? Where have you been? I can imagine other worlds you have seen ~ Beautiful faces and music so serene ~ So I do hope I see you again My universal citizen You went as quickly as you came ~ You know the power Your love is right You have good reason To stay out of sight ~~ But break our illusions and help us Be the light ~ by Mike Pinder

Why I Think This World Should End, Prince EA via Prince EA
Without love in the dream, it will never come true. ~ Jerry Garcia/Robert Hunter
And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make. ~ John Lennon

Artist, John Flores

The man whispered, "God, speak to me" and a meadowlark sang. But the man did not hear. So the man yelled "God, speak to me" and the thunder rolled across the sky. But the man did not listen. The man looked around and said, "God let me see you" and a star shined brightly. But the man did not notice. And the man shouted, "God show me a miracle" and a life was born. But the man did not know. So the man cried out in despair, "Touch me God, and let me know you are there" Whereupon God reached down and touched the man, But the man brushed the butterfly away and walked on.

Somebody is looking at whatever you do, so always present your most charming you
Don't miss out on a blessing because
it isn't packaged the way you expect!

DuckDuckGo ~ The search engine that doesn't track you

{ ͡ʘ ͜ʖ ͡ʘ} Is Daylight Saving Time Dangerous? { ͡ʘ ͜ʖ ͡ʘ}

Archive ~ Links ~ Top of Page