Bob Fleck

[by R. Fleck, Little Nancy Goodvibes & Alfie]

What’s worse than watching Walt Disney’s version of Winnie the Pooh? Sitting through “I Am Curious Yellow.” At least Disney is a goof for the kids.

Drawn by the press’s public publicity, the over and under-40s righteously attended their first opportunity to legally dig a skin-flick and feel “real arty” at the same time. Poor fools. Shucked again.

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Special to the Fifth Estate

OAKLAND, Calif.—1969 has been a year of increasing pig repression in all areas where the movement has been active.

The black movement has many political prisoners already sentenced and the New York 21, the New Haven 8, and other key Panthers are awaiting trials with bails for individuals set up to $200,000 for each of the New Haven brothers and Sisters.

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It was all so easy back in the ‘50s—Eisenhower and Dulles had learned a lesson from Korea and kept us busy smelling the reds out from under our own beds while they concentrated on sewing up the Iron Curtain with brinksmanship. And when McCarthy’s purges palled, juvenile dee-linquency was off and running with your hub caps (remember, the Teenage Werewolf was just a mixed up kid who couldn’t keep out of fights or the clutches of know-it-all shrinks).

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Hot diggity! Free food and good vibes on a Wednesday evening at Royal Oak’s Memorial Park, courtesy of potluck and the Yipfugs.

Tomatoes, rice, guitars and flutes were shared by pretty suburban hi skool frocks who are into turning on their brothers and sisters heads with feed festivals and films instead of TV and pep rallies.

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It’s mother’s little helper that boosts the harried housewife over that mid afternoon hump; an added push to help the busy student deal with last minute cramming to ace that last exam; the wonder drug that makes dieting fast, easy, and effortless—and the liquid fire that eats away bodies and minds from the veins on out.

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(by Bob Fleck, with a little help from his friends—Alfie, Acid, Dena, Nancy and Barb)

“Naked Angels” is the worst movie we have seen. It’s a hype, a ruse and a shuck on the audience that only serves to exploit the image of bikers and titillate the over-40s. And what’s worse, three issues back, Art Johnston did a lyrical piece heralding this flick as the vision of our culture’s rise to total freedom.

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Back in the late ‘50s or so, when Brubeck was just beginning, complacency wasn’t quite dead yet and beatniks were still in bloom, the walls of galleries, stately homes, and civic auditoriums displayed a new art—abstract expressionism.

Style and idealization carried out to cool jazz endsville, chilled out of time and mind. Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day strained to understand it: Time magazine was pedantically vague.

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Smokin’ more now and enjoyin’ it less?

The Feds would rather see heads come up to the cool taste of speed and smack than stay down in the valley of harsh reefer fumes (and they’ve been plenty rough lately).

Sound unreal? Hardly.

Courtesy of the R. Miltown Nixon thugs, Operation Intercept is underway, a marijuana eradication program tailored to keep the weed from the minds and lungs of our nation’s youth.

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It’s my wife

It’s my life

Cause the needle to my vein

Leads to a center in my head

And then I’m better off than dead

Cause when the smack begins to flow

I really don’t care any more

About all the Jim-Jims in this town

And all the politicians makin’ crazy sounds

And thank God that I’m not aware

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John Mayall is one of the most respected white musicians playing the blues today. While the blues are popular and being utilized by many pop musicians who are good copyists and technically proficient, there are few original or innovative performers.

Mayall, who has been playing the blues since 1963, has released seven albums. He is serious about the music and is no longer interested in performing good imitations of black bluesmen. Instead, he has developed a personal and unique style.

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