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Monsters
Down in the Dirt, v151
(the November 2017 Issue)




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Monsters

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The Night I met Groucho on Acid

Drew Marshall

    My friend John and I were the first ones on line. We were waiting to get into The Stand Up New York comedy club. The place was a small hole in the wall, off Broadway, on the upper west side of Manhattan.
    There was a lull in our conversation. I glanced to my left, out into the street. A dirty white van pulled up. The side door slid open and out popped the man. With my pen in one hand and his autobiography in the other, I rushed over to greet him.
    He flashed that magnetic, killer smile. I shoved the pen and book towards him.
    “How are you doing? You look great man! It’s good to see you. Can I have your autograph?”
    As he signed my book, we were immediately surrounded by several beautiful women. They were fawning all over him and gushing. He continued signing autographs for them with my pen. I wasn’t about to ask for it back.
    “That’s all right Abbie, steal this pen.” I said jokingly. He was focused in the moment and I think he missed my remark.
    I returned to the line and the club soon opened up for business.
    John and I grabbed a little round table in the middle of the room, across from the stage. I doubt the place held more than fifty people. It was soon packed, standing room only. The stage was bare, except for a stool and microphone. We were lucky to get in.
    We both ordered a rum and coke. I left to visit the men’s room, downstairs in the basement. When I returned the drinks were on the table and the show was about to begin. John left to relieve himself and disappeared down the stairs.
    The house lights dimmed and “the radical activist’ stepped into the center of the performance area.
    It suddenly dawned on me, that this was no mere celebrity entertainer, sitting fifteen feet in front of me. Abbie Hoffman had made his mark on history and was continuing to do so.
    I was in grade school and junior high school during the turbulent decade of the nineteen sixties. Abbie was always popping up on the television news. His conviction and intellect made him stand out from the crowd. In an age where rhetoric overruled reason, his humor is what made me take notice of him.
    There was an extremely pale, thirty something woman, sitting alone at the table to my immediate right. So pale in fact, she seemed to glow in the dark. The girl was braless and wore a long, low cut black dress. She was lanky, with long, sandy brown hair. Her nose seemed to be long, not in sync with her other facial features.
    Hoffman was making his comedy debut. His presence and charisma filled the small room. Abbie commanded your full attention.
    About ten minutes into Abbie’s set, the glow in the dark woman started repeating the name of Jessie Jackson. Her voice was an abrasive, nasal whine.
    Twenty minutes later she started up again.
    “Jessie Jackson. Jessie Jackson. Say something about Jessie Jackson.”
    Hoffman shot her a side glance.
    “What about him? He can walk through Central Park after midnight. He’s doing all right!”
    This remark brought the house down, and we never heard another peep out of that girl.
    A perfect example of the activist’s rapier wit. His sense of humor was often compared to that of being like Groucho Marx on an acid trip.
    When I stopped laughing, I realized John was still submerged underground in the restroom. I was worried and thought I had better go and check on him. He resurfaced at that moment, mumbling something about stomach problems. John pushed his drink aside and told me I could have it. He seemed fine now so I continued watching the show. I nursed the booze throughout the rest of the evening’s festivities.
    The night quickly grew to a close. His fans and well-wishers rushed the stage. We split the club. John and I went our separate ways.
    Hoffman would be dead eight months later. Abbie was battling with Manic–Depression. We didn’t call it bipolar back then. He was in constant pain, resulting from a car accident he had, while driving alone. It came out later that Abbie emptied one hundred fifty or more Phenobarbitals into a glass of Scotch Whiskey. Downed several more shots and headed for the Big Sleep.
    He knew what he was doing. The man sold pharmaceuticals to supplement his income before becoming a full time activist. He had been through hell and back. The Clown Prince of the 60’s was no more.
    Millions mourned his loss. Many rejoiced as well.



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