Paul Krassner frying on the stand, Chicago, '68...
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men who ever lived. -rmjon23)
Full content for this article includes illustration and other.
Source: The Nation, Oct 11, 1993 v257 n11 p389(3).
Title: Disorder in Judge Hoffman's court. (excerpt from the book
'Confessions of a Raving, Unconfined Nut: Misadventures in the
Counterculture.')
Author: Paul Krassner
Abstract: The experience of testifying in court after ingesting 300
micrograms of the drug LSD is described. The case was the conspiracy trial
that followed the demonstrations at the 1968 Democratic National Convention,
however the people in the courtroom seemed like cartoon characters.
Subjects: Witnesses - Personal narratives
Conspiracy - Cases
Full Text COPYRIGHT The Nation Company Inc. 1993
The Youth International Party--the Yippies--founded by Abbie Hoffman and Jerry
Rubin, engaged in political street theater at the 1968 Democratic National
Convention in Chicago. Paul Krassner was involved with the Yippies from their
birth (he thought up the name) and was a participant in the Chicago
turbulence. Later, he was subpoenaed to testify at the trial of the Chicago
Eight, a group of radicals accused by the government of conspiracy to cross
state lines for the purpose of inciting a riot. The following account is
excerpted from Krassner's new book, Confessions of a Raving, Unconfined Nut:
Misadventures in the Counterculture (Simon and Schuster) --The Editors
I was scheduled to testify at the Conspiracy Trial in January 1970. On the
evening before, Abbie coached me with a chronology of Yippie meetings, but
trying to memorize all those dates and places made me nervous. It was like
being unprepared for an important history exam. And Abbie gave me mixed
messages. On the one hand, he told me, "There's nothing you can do to help us,
you can only harm us." On the other hand, he told me, "I want you to give the
judge a heart attack." I assured him, "I'11 do my best." I didn't sleep much
that night.
I had brought a stash of LSD with me, but things were too tense for an acid
party. Instead, I decided to take a tab of acid before I took the witness
stand---call me a sentimental fool-- but it wasn't merely to enhance the
experience. I had a more functional reason. My purpose was twofold. I knew
that if I ingested 300 micrograms of LSD after eating a big meal, I was very
likely to throw up in court. That would be my theatrical statement on the
injustice of the trial. Also, I wouldn't need to memorize so much information
that way. I had to psych myself up, to imagine it actually happening. The
prosecutor would ask, "Now where did this meeting take place?" And I would go,
"Waughhhhppp!" They couldn't charge me with contempt of court because they
wouldn't know I had done it on purpose. The judge would say, "Bailiff, get him
out of here!" But just as he was dragging me away, I would get one more
projectile off, onto the judge's podium-- "Waughhhhppp!" And, although there
would be no photographic record of this incident because cameras weren't
allowed, courtroom artists would capture my vomit with green and gold charcoal
crayons for the eleven o'clock news.
Next day at lunch, while the others were passing around a chunk of hash, I
took out a tab of LSD. Abbie said, "What's that, acid? I don't think that's a
good idea." Jerry said, "I think he should do it" I swallowed it despite what
both of them said. The acid really began to hit while I was waiting in the
witness room. A few volunteers were watching film footage of Dave Dellinger
pleading with a crowd at the convention: "Stay calm! Stay calm!" I said, "Boy,
when the jury sees this, it'll really be clear that Dave was doing anything
but trying to start a riot'' The volunteers laughed. "Are you kidding?" said
one. "They're never gonna allow that to be admitted as evidence." Then
suddenly I was thrust into the middle of a Looney Tunes cartoon. It happened
at the precise moment that I was escorted into the court by Tom Hayden and
Jerry Rubin--or, as I perceived them, Tom and Jerry. The furniture started
dancing merrily.
Judge Julius Hoffman looked exactly like Elmer Fudd. I expected him to
proclaim, "Let's get them pesky wadicals!" The court clerk looked exactly like
Goofy. It didn't matter that a Disney character was making a guest appearance
in a Looney Tunes cartoon--one learns to accept such discrepancies in a
dreamlike state. Now I was being instructed by Goofy to raise my right hand
and place my left hand on a Bible that was positively vibrating. "Do you
hereby swear," asked Goofy, "that the testimony you are about to give in the
cause now on trial before this court and jury shall be the truth, the whole
truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" The truth for me was that
LSD--or any other catalyst for getting in closer touch with your subconscious,
whether it be meditation, Zen, yoga--served as a reminder that choices are
being made every moment. So naturally I assumed that Goofy was offering me a
choice. "No," I replied.
Although I hadn't planned to say that, I realized it was a first in American
jurisprudence. Ordinarily, the more heinous a crime the more eagerly will a
defendant take the oath. However, my refusal to swear on the Bible was a leap
of faith. Everything was swirling around in pastel colors, but there was still
a core of reality I was able to grasp, and somehow I managed to flash back to
a civics class in junior high school when we had studied the Bill of Rights in
general and the First Amendment in particular. Now I found myself passing that
lesson on to Goofy. "I believe in the constitutional provision for the
separation of church and state, so I will choose to affirm to tell the truth."
"Let him affirm," said Elmer Fudd--begrudgingly, it seemed to me, as if to
say, Let 'im resort to the goddamn Constitution! I had seen only artists'
charcoal renderings of the missing defendant, Bobby Scale, on TV newscasts,
and now I was hallucinating a generic courtroom sketch of Scale, tied to his
chair with a gag over his mouth.
The defense attorney, William Kunstler, looked exactly like the Wise Old Owl.
The prosecutor looked exactly like the Big Bad Wolf. I felt exactly like Alice
in Wonderland. The Wise Old Owl was questioning me about the original Yippie
meeting.
Q. And which one is Jerry Rubin at this table?
A. The man trying to hide behind Mr. Dellinger.
Q. Can you identify Abbie Hoffman at this table?
A. (Pointing) He looks familiar. Yes, I would say that would be Abbie Hoffman.
ELMER FUDD: Would be or is it?
A. It definitely is. It would be him too, but he is...
Q. Can you identify Anita Hoffman?
A. Yes, the young lady who is standing.
Q. What about Nancy Kurshan?
A. The young lady who is now standing.
THE BIG BAD WOLF: I object to this, Your Honor.
ELMER FUDD: Yes, I think it is inappropriate that the spectators here be
identified by witnesses.
THE WISE OLD OWL: Your Honor, they were at the meeting. He has just stated
they were at the meeting. I am asking him to identify them.
ELMER FUDD: He hasn't been identifying them. They stood up when their names
were mentioned. He hasn't gone down there and identified them.
ALICE IN WONDERLAND: Do you want me to go down there and identify them?
ELMER FUDD: No, I don't want you to do anything but to answer questions
properly.
THE WISE OLD OWL: Your Honor, I am going to object to his not being able to
identify these two women. If they had been men, they would probably be
indicted here as defendants because they have been in every one of the
meetings. They have been stated by witness after witness as being present.
(The Big Bad Wolf objected.)
ELMER FUDD: "If they had been men, they would probably be indicted here" and
anything else that followed these words, are stricken from the record and the
jury is directed to disregard them. I will say that if there is anyone else
that this witness identifies, I would ask them not to wave back at the
witness.
ALICE IN WONDERLAND: Now, look, I'm a man and wasn't indicted.
THE BIG BAD WOLF: May we have that comment stricken,
Your Honor?...
During recess, I started fiddling around with a gavel that was on the witness
stand, and the bailiff took it away from me. I recalled when Jerry got busted
in New York for marijuana, and Abbie and I got the giggles in court because
someone had changed the motto on the wall behind the judge to read in GOD WE
RUST. And I recalled when Abbie got busted in New York for throwing a bag of
blood at a demonstration, but I testified that I had flashed the V-sign to him
and he was simply returning it. The judge asked me what the V-sign meant, and
I explained that it had different meanings--it could mean hello or it could
mean victory. "Well," asked the judge, "what did it mean to you on this
occasion?" "It meant, Hello, victory."
Recess was over and the trial resumed. Although I felt myself being sucked
into some kind of psychic whirlpool, I was still able to speak with lucidity.
But then, as the questions continued, I became increasingly nonlinear about
the dates and locations of various meetings. I really had wanted to throw up,
but now I didn't feel the slightest bit queasy. When my testimony was
completed, in order to get centered, I asked myself, "All right, now why did
you take LSD before you testified?"
"Because," I answered myself, "I'm the reincarnation of Gurdjieff." This was
slightly confusing, inasmuch as I didn't believe in reincarnation--l thought
it was the ultimate ego trip--and besides, I had never even read anything by
Gurdjieff. Then I flashed back to a conversation with Dick Alpert during my
first visit to Millbrook (the upstate New York LSD research center). I had
been curious about Tim Leary.
"Do you think Tim ever gets so involved he forgets he's playing a game?"
"Well, you know, he's an old Irish Catholic boozehound, and he tends to get
caught up in his own game sometimes, but Tim's a very skillful game player,
and he knows what he's doing."
"Well, who would you say--among all the seekers you've ever known of--who
would you say was always aware of playing a game, even the game of playing a
game?" Alpert thought for a moment and then said, "Gurdjieff," So that's why I
had taken the LSD, because the Chicago trial was just another game. But not to
Abbie. He was furious. He felt that I had been totally irresponsible.
"You were creamed on the stand!" he shouted. "You were mean to the judge!" I
couldn't explain to him that somehow my original courtroom scenario had been
short -circuited. Try as I might, I just hadn't been able to vomit. "You're
not a leader" Abbie yelled. "You're a fuckin' social gadfly. You're not an
organizer. You don't urge people to do things. You never make demands. That's
what organizing is.''
From Abbie's point of view, I was guilty of self-indulgent betrayal. As
penance, he wanted me to turn The Realist into a Yippie organ. I refused, and
Abbie broke off our friendship. Ten months later, I would notice a little ad
in the movie section of the paper--The Professionals (Abbie's favorite movie)
was playing at the Charles Theater on Avenue D--so I clipped it out and mailed
it to Abbie. Apparently that gesture broke the ice. A mutual friend, Bob Fass
of WBAI radio in New York, called and said that Abbie and Anita would like to
have dinner with me, and we had a reconciliation.
Paul Krassner publishes The Realist, a newsletter of irreverence, and is an
award-winning stand-up satirist. He will perform at a benefit for the Village
Gate in New York City on October 7.
-- End --