One Hand Jerking (50 page)

A few decades later, I would read in
Hollywood Is Four-Letter Town
by James Bacon: “Lionel Barrymore once told me, as he sat in his wheelchair crippled with arthritis, that he would have killed himself long ago if it hadn't been for [film producer] Louis B. Mayer: ‘L.B. gets me $400 worth of cocaine a day to ease my pain. I don't know where he gets it. And I don't care. But I bless him every time it puts me to sleep.'” So happiness wasn't a radio station you'd arrive at, it
was the wheelchair you were traveling on, and for Lionel Barrymore it must have been an express trip all the way.

I remember publishing
The Realist
(when
People
labeled me “father of the underground press,” I immediately demanded a paternity test). I remember celebrating the Summer of Love in 1967. I remember naming and co-founding the Yippies (Youth International Party) and going to the Democratic National Convention in Chicago in 1968 to protest the Vietnam war. I remember the Woodstock Festival in 1969—the music, the mud, the sense of community, the bare breasts, the warning not to ingest the brown acid.

Suddenly I'm 72 years old. I must have been in deep denial since years before I had automatically been accepted into the league of senior citizens, except in Portland, Oregon, where they refer to us as “honored” citizens. Whatever title gets me on the bus and into the movies cheaper is fine with me.

I've noticed that the network news shows seem to be aimed at middle-aged and elderly viewers. They are all sponsored by prescription drugs promising to prevent erectile dysfunction. The Viagra commercial—with background music by Queen singing “We Are the Champions”—features men dancing in the streets, ecstatic at the prospect of asking their doctors if a free sample is right for them. Personally, I don't have any problem getting a hard-on, but I've begun to worry that it's really rigor mortis settng in, on the installment plan.

Although any part of my body can attack me without warning, for no reason at all (okay, maybe revenge), I'm in pretty good shape for my age, except for an awkward, twisted gait due to a police beating—in 1979, while covering the trial of ex-cop Dan White for the murder of San Francisco Mayor George Moscone and Supervisor Harvey Milk—when I got caught in the post-verdict riot, and my injuries were exacerbated by hereditary arthritis. I went to a New Age healer who wondered if a brace might help. She placed one hand on my hip and with the other she held the hand of her receptionist.

“Yes,” uttered the receptionist.

“Yes,” repeated the New Age healer.

“I don't mean to be rude,” I interjected, “but would you mind if I look for a second opinion . . . maybe from another receptionist?”

My friends have grown older, and the musicians we listened to in the sixties have grown older along with us. I imagine myself emceeing the Geezerstock Festival, standing on an outdoor stage, looking out at a vast audience of grey-haired hippies with paunches and granny glasses, as I speak in a slow, shaky voice.

“Are you having fun? . . . I can't hear you! . . . No, I mean I
really can't
hear you! . . . I have an announcement. The Port-o-Potties that are painted green should be used only by those who have to pee at least once an hour. The Port-o-Potties that are painted red should be used only by those who have to pee less than once an hour. . . . It's now my pleasure to introduce the Rolling Stones. They've been very busy, gathering moss. Here comes Mick Jagger with the aid of a walker. And Keith Richards is being carried out on a gurney. . . . Oh, wait, I've just been handed another announcement: Warning—do
not
take the brown antacid. . . .”

Two years ago, I wrote a piece for the AARP magazine,
Modern Maturity
. When my subscription copy arrived—the issue that my article was supposed to be in—it wasn't in there. I checked with an editor, who asked how old I was. I told her that I was 70, but I didn't understand what difference that made. She explained that there were three editions: one for readers 50 and over, one for readers 60 and over, and one for readers 70 and older. I was too old to read my own article.

My dentist, in his early 50s, had a copy in his waiting room. I felt like I was cheating as I leafed through the pages, but it did include my article. There was a time when I was considered too young to read certain things, and now I'm considered too old to read certain things. Apparently something must've happened to me in between. Like, say, my life? But, as Lionel Barrymore once said on the radio, “When you stop growing old, you're dead.”

I still write columns and articles, I still perform stand-up satire—my 6th album has been released—and I'm finally working on my long awaited (by me) first novel, about a contemporary comedian inspired by my friendship and association with Lenny Bruce. I keep wondering what he would be saying in these insane times.

In 1964, Lenny was unable to get work because he had been arrested so many times that night clubs were afraid they'd lose their liquor licenses. Lenny's work was his life, so, with his permission, I wrote an obituary—this was two years before he actually died—and that became the excuse when, without my permission, a short-lived magazine,
Cheetah
, published a fake obituary of me. Associated Press called, and I explained that it was a hoax.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course,” I replied. “I'd tell you if I was dead.”

On WBAI radio in New York, Bob Fass was taking phone calls on his midnight free-form show,
Radio Unnameable
. Listeners were discussing whether that obit
was legit. Then someone called and said, “You know, I didn't even know that Paul Krassner was alive until I heard that he was dead.”

And, at that precise moment, my sense of false humility was finally restored.

PAUL KRASSNER is the only person in the world ever to win awards from both
Playboy
(for satire) and the Feminist Party Media Workshop (for journalism). He was inducted into the Counterculture Hall of Fame at the Cannabis Cup in Amsterdam, received an ACLU Uppie (Upton Sinclair) Award for dedication to freedom of expression, and was described by the FBI as “a raving, unconfined nut.” Krassner takes none of this personally.

 

 

Best of
The Realist [Editor]

 

 

 

 

 

Pot Stories For the Soul
[Editor]

 

Psychedelic Trips For the Mind
[Editor]

 

Magic Mushrooms and Other Highs: From Toad Slime to Ecstasy
[Editor]

 

Copyright © 2005 by Paul Krassner

 

 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including mechanical, electric, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

 

All the pieces in this book were originally published in
High Times,
the
New York Press
and
AVN Online
, except for the following: “Humor as a Spiritual Path” was published in
Wild Heart Journal
. “In Praise of Offensive Cartoons” was published in
The Education of a Comics Artist
. “Bite Your Tongue,” “Nonpartisan Harassment,” “Grammys, Shrammys” and “Media Mortuary” were published in the
L.A. Weekly
. “Bizarre Sexually Oriented Spam Subject Lines” was published in
Book of Lists
. “Marijuana vs. Cigarettes” was published in
Under the Influence
. “Harry Shearer Still Hears Voices” was published in
Funny Times
. “Occult Jeopardy,” “Jews in the News” and “The Devil in the Desert” were published in the
Los Angeles Times
. “The Rise of Sirhan Sirhan in the Scientology Hierarchy” was published in
Abuse Your Illusions
. “Kerik's Nanny” and “Geezerstock” were published in
The Nation
.

 

Seven Stories Press
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New York, NY 10013
www.sevenstories.com

 

IN CANADA
Publishers Group Canada, 250A Carlton Street, Toronto, ON M5A 2L1

 

IN THE UK
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Coburg Road, Wood Green, London N22 6TZ

 

IN AUSTRALIA
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College professors may order examination copies of Seven Stories Press titles for a free six-month trial period. To order, visit
www.sevenstories.com/textbook/
or send a fax on school letterhead to 212.226.1411.

 

 

Krassner, Paul.

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-609-80114-4

I. Title.

PS3561.R286O54 2005

814′.54--dc22

2005022195