The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:
The convention hits full stride as
Tyger embarks on guerilla protest. He spends a lot of time with
convention protesters and reveals all the counter-culture events
pertaining to the gathering. Much time is spent at the Yippie
Peace Camp — the abandoned World’s Fair parking lot where the
box of troubles burned — and other Yippie events. Details of the
convention are considered and explained, as well as pertinent
historical correlations. The novel ends with a wrapping up of
details concerning the leading characters and relevant events.
“Pie in the Sky at Peace Camp”
By Wednesday August 17, Armor’s is mad as hell about events
pertaining to the convention. The utter banality of the
proceeding coupled with the unbelievably unconstitutional nature
of unpublicized mass arrests convince him to take matters into
his own hands.
Armor’s grabs Tyger by the proverbial lapel
taking it to the streets. Guess who is driving.
About 11 a.m. on a typically hot and humid New Orleans
mid-morning, Tyger climbs in the cockpit of his muffler — not —
bomb that somehow manages to navigate around town. Adjusting an
internal compass, he heads east beneath a cloudless sky for the
Armor’s mission is simple. Seek out Republican’ts
wherever they land, preferably in groups of three and smaller,
and destroy them with well placed barbs.
In other words, engage the invaders in one-on-one dogfights
using the quick verbal zap technique before fleeing the scene. It
is a classic guerilla campaign thanks to General Giap·s handy
training manual with a hardy assist from Joe Fine mobile Israeli tactics.
This way, mobility plus intimate knowledge of the
area can be used effectively to overwhelm the confused target and
defeat it. Then, executing a timely escape enables the
guerilla to seek and destroy another objective. The tactic has a
certain charm, plus the additional safety first factor.
Targets must be chosen carefully.
Of course, it is easy to spot delegates and their fellow
travelers. They stick out like Cajun pig sandwiches — cochon
d’lait for the goyim — at a kosher supper.
Repub delegates are the ridiculous fools wearing
jackets and dress suits plastered with ridiculous badges,
buttons, and symbols. Fellow travelers, as well, are costumed in
formal wear of the poorest taste. They all seem to be gunning for
Mr. Blackwell’s worst dressed list and quite a few appear to be
First up at 11:15 high — Armor’s blows reefer, as Tyger avoids
radio contact due to the need to concentrate on prosecution of
the offensive — is an insipid “well dressed man” right out of
“Blue Velvet.” He looks quite lost along the neutral ground just
past Napoleon Avenue. Josephine this, baby.
Tyger checks right and left; nobody else in the vicinity,
no traffic behind him, all systems a go go, big brother . Tyger
slows his vehicle to a crawl, waiting until the man looks· his way.
Then, Armor’s lets loose the initial volley
of his personal guerrilla war on evil. “Repuboscum
faggot. Everybody hates your shitty guts,” boom boom boom. Tyger
speeds away, leaving the guy with a pissed off expression staring
at mother the car’s dust.
Tyger checks in all directions. No one else has noticed.
Direct hit mission control. We bagged a dead live one.
Armor’s is somewhat disappointed in his
initial encounter. The tactic works great, but he wants
a more special brand of verbal abuse for a special brand of inbred
Another target about 11:30 a.m., 12 o’clock high about 50
yards down the neutral ground. Looking bad, two Repubbubbly
women replete in hideous suit dress camouflage with tell-tale
Tyger checks all directions, slows almost to a stop. Armor’s
attracts their attention by waving his right hand out the cockpit
glass. They take the bait and look his way.
“Hey bitches,” Armor’s yells. “How many Contras have you fucked. Why don’t
you die Repuboscums.”
The women appear highly disgusted in the rear view leaving.
Fun enough, but lame. While entertainment value
is high, verbiage, like snack rack, is a bit raw.
Armor’s spots three “young” Republicans lingering
at the neutral ground.
“Hey assholes,” Armor’s yells at the short haired freaks,
“You like the Contras? Go to Nicaragua and die,
chicken shit faggots.”
Boy should have been a military recruiter. Not
Slowing slowing almost to a stop, the masters of disaster
elicits a direct gaze from the walking asshole.
Tyger pretends to be an ally flashing a wide happy face grin.
Armor’s turns his ass on the spit.
“No abortion,” Armor’s cries. “You should have been aborted Repuboscum GeoPig fatass.
The world would be a better place. Abort this.”
Armor’s smacks left arm with right in the timeless fuck you obscene gesture.
Ker-boom! Bagged it mission control. Direct hit. Subject destroyed.
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
REDACTION OF CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION
Traffic thickens worsening tactical advantages.
Time to return to home base and leave
well enough alone.
Oh well, what he hell, the Repubs will vanish
in two days, only so much passive-aggressive fun to be had.
The convention rolls through the next afternoon
with the usual sickening rhetoric heard by no one.
Proceedings are not televised.
Conventioneers are disguised as empty seats.
Even if they were, no one can hear anything
due to the failure of the recently installed $250,000 sound system.
It is, therefore, the perfect Republican gathing.
Nothing is being said.
No one is listening.
Sure beats working.
That evening Shrubby gets the coronation
in a well orchestrated light comic opera.
An all-star celebrity cast takes over the ceremonial absurdities.
Charlton Heston — was it he or Rock Hudson who caught Aids;
who can ever keep them straight,
recites the Pledge of Allegiance. Groovy.
Bob Dole, senior senator from Kansas and former Shrubby presidential opponent,
gives a kind of valedictory address.
“Four years from now we will say, thank God for George Bush,”
he screams to the deafened and dumbed-up listening audience.
Joe Paterno pre-Sandusky disclosed child sex abuse scandal, and
Helen Hayes give Shrub seconding speeches.
“I’ll be damned if I sit here while people not fit to
carry George Bush’s shoes ridicule him,”
Paterno says of the nominated president who
later refers to himelf as Dr. Feelgood while
picking up young chicks in his post-presidential wheelchair.
Then, the artful dodger, Roger Staubach,
keeping with the pigskin motif
introduces U.S. Sen. Phil Gramm
who calls Democrats “amnesia merchants,”
talk about projection, adding that
a President Dukakis would
“wimp America and endanger world peace.”
Enough foreplay, Shrub officially won the nomination
Aug. 26, 1988 as he surpasses the 1,139 delegates
needed for coronation.
At 11:08 p.m., future outrage George W. Shrubby Jr.
announces the Texas delegation’s 118 votes
for dear old dad, ending all convention “suspense.”
Yes truth fans, the United States is officially doomed at that moment.
Tyger is not in the viewing audience.
He is on Frenchmen Street in the Faubourg Marigny
joining the anti-matter partying hardy
at a Cafe Brasil benefit for the Yippie Peace Camp.
Late to the political — if it’s not fun is it a — “party,”
Yippies have set up camp at the deserted
1984 World’s Fair parking are underneath the Greater
New Orleans Bridge by the Robin Street Wharf.
(The place where the 1987 box of troubles
burned to high heaven.)
Tyger takes Armor’s with him to the street party,
looping along Rampart Street to avoid the French Quarter
zombie night of the living dead traffic.
A right on Esplanade Avenue and Arrivederci Repuboscum GeOPig amnesia merchants;
yippie-ca-yay cayenne, howdy wowee zowee Yippies.
A sparse yet highly colorful group gathers on Frenchmen’s Street
more or less randomly milling outside the small coffee bar.
Only a few locally familiar faces present, present arms.
Congregants mainly hail from the national traveling circus.
Long hairs a’plenty, fit to be tie-dyed t-shirts,
somewhat grubby exteriors and mysterious interiors.
Wandering lost souls listen through pained glass outside Cafe
Brasil to the Dadbaggies inside rocking and rolling.
Yes comrades, welcome to the ultimate outside at the inside
experience. Those for whom the benefit is staged, refuse to
attend. Just a habit picked up through many years of exclusion
from the system. How is that for purity of spirit.
A familiar soul wanders up to the Tyger-Armor’s connection
filling them in on the current scenario. It is Ralph, a well-known
local validator of significant experiences.
What it is Ralph? “Isn’t this typically funny,” he observes.
“The Yippies are down here for the convention but there is
nothing happening around town, as usual.”
“Yippies eh?” Tyger notes with interest.
“Didn’t think there were any left.”
“Oh yeah,” Ralph states. “Over there is the former editor of
Overthrow magazine, the former Yippie newspaper. And over there,
that fat guy in the tie-dye,”
“Which one?” Tyger asks. “That one,” Ralph points. “Do you
know who that is?” “No.”
“That’s Aron Kay, the pie guy. The guy who pied Phyllis
Schafley, John Haldeman, Henry Kissinger, Hubert Humphrey, Norman
Mailer, and a cast of thousands.” “Very impressive.”
Armor’s busies himself schmoozing with a better dressed man
as the Dadbaggies display a curious blend of rockabilly mixed
with art rock noise. Tyger approaches the pie guy cautiously.
You never know.
“Hey dude,” Tyger greets. “Heard you’re the guy with pies. What’s happening?”
“You heard right,” he replies affable and ever not so humble pie.
“I’ve pied all the rotten celebrities and politicians of our time
from Merv Griffin and Charo all the way down to Spiro Agnew and John Mitchell.”
“I used to read the Pie Times supplement to Overthrow Magazine,” Tyger says,
“What’s your secret to success?”
“Simple,” replies the huge as a wildebeest bearded pie throwing artist.
“Pick your spot, get a nice cream filled pastry,
plaster them right between the eyes.
The bigger they are, the harder they take a pie in the face
It is an educational device.”
Very down-to-earth in your face approach to practical politics.
“Pied anyone good recently?” Tyger asks.
“Got Mayor Koch the other day,” Pie Guy says.
“Nice coconut cream job smack in the kisser.
He had a bad attitude about it though.
Some people just do not know how to take a pie.
What a waste.”
The former editor of Overthrow Magazine,
a thin aging Yippie with long straggly grey hair
is dancing like a Turkish dervish
whirling in the black night with a blanket around his head.
A little girl, about six years old, mimics his motions
like a small Javanese shadow puppet.
“See that beautiful maiden dancing there,” Aron pie Kay guy asks.
“That’s my daughter Rainbow. What a sight. A ne-w generation growing.”
Short attention span theater takes a break-in to higher consciousness.
Aron joins the dancing fools on the sidewalk.
Tyger, now feeling quite at home with the visitors, approaches another fellow traveler.
“What is the deal with that long flat bed truck with the loudspeakers on the corner?”
“Oh yeah man,” answers a long hair. “That’s the Peace Truck.
We own the cab and rent the flatbed.
We have been taking it around to Rock Against Racism rallies.
Our plan is ssimple. We stage heavy metal, and rock and roll performances
from the truck to attract the younger crowd of kids. That is where our future will be.
We bring them in with the music, then give them a good old political re-education.
You would be surprised at how receptive they are to our message because we tell it like it is.
Those Reagan fuckers might think they have won the battle, but we will win the war.
Reagan shitheads don’t even realize that they have already lost.
Their greed and hubris has already sown the seed of their ultimate defeat.
The future belongs to the righteous purveyors of truth.”
“If you say so,” suspends Tyger disbelief.
“We must be strong,” Sir Yipster continues.
“There is solidarity in numbers. One person
can make a difference. You add one plus one
to get two and two plus to two to get four
and four plus four to get the idea until so forth
and so on and so forth, the numbers are more vast
than the waters of the ocean, overwhelming any land-stuck obstacle in their way.
Besides, greed eventually turns upon itself like a worm and is entirely consumed by truth.
Our day will come.”
Such is the promise of karma.
Such the opposite effect of hubris, a sin that Ray-Gun junkies
possess in spades and is used with a spade to bury them forever.
Peace Camp numbers are small,
yet they possess the ultimate power to stand one day stand
above the Repub’s shallow graves, dancing John Belushi style
through the sands of time overturning. Hooray for the triumph of the spirit
signified in a small counter-cultural bash for the people
while the evil ignorant ripoff artists toast themselves in perceived victory
even as they are being soundly defeated in the street
by powerful forces invisible to their blind eyes.
Or so it seems one hot summer day Dadbaggies beating bummers.
Armor’s is swept away by the moment. He springs
like a Mexican jumping bean on top of the Peace Truck
“Fuck you Repubpscum loser Nazis,” Armor’s cries.
“We will bury you in the shit you pooped.”
About 25 goodly souls facing Mecca politely applaud.
Sometimes your buddy Armor’s makes a lot of sense,” Ralph says.
“Sometimes is a great notion,” Tyger replies.
“Not often,” continues the tall lean Ralph machine, “but sometimes.”
“You got to give the boy credit,” Tyger adds extra. “When he is right, he is awesome.”
If only. Armor’s now stands silently, right fist skyward,
saluting eternity frozen like a Grecian urn in time.
Yippies fill Tyger in about the final day·s activities to commemorate the convention’s end.
They plan to take the Peace Truck over to Peace Camp and bivouac there.
Strange as it may seem to outsiders, Peace Camp is indeed
the safest spot for dissent in all of the Crescent City.
Cops don’t even bother because why should they.
Peace Camp is well out of sight and out of its mind.
More power to them for they know not what they ignore.
Fine for the righteous, as well who, not bothered by authorities
unconcerned, live in joyous anarchy taking LSD and smoking reefer
until they are crunked bent; sharing food and raising political
Tyger will be there manana. But first, another sleepy
night must pass and day follow as it always does.
Tyger awakens about 10 a.m. still joyously hung over from
the night before. He briefly retraces his guerilla neutral ground
sorties zapping along Jackson Avenue before turning around towards
the home hangers. He claims a few confirmed kills before stopping
at noon for the “All My Children” update. A good day is at hand.
The cool spirit flows despite stifling heat. The Repub subs
should be well on their piggy ways within 24 hours. Life will
return to what passes for normal in the Big Easy. Given Mardi
Gras training, Tyger can do the remaining time standing,
like Igor, on his head.
College junior repubs hand out “Get out of Jail Free,” cards
that at the bottom add “compliments of Michael Dukakis,”
referring to the Massachusetts prison furlough program
soon to be immortalized by Shrub’s Willie Horton demagoguery.
The Repubs are completely hung over by their stay in the Big Easy.
They now wallow in smug self-congratulations.
“The system works,” exclaims John K. Wu, a delegate from Delaware beware.
(“Now, aren’t we pleased with ourselves,” observes the wise Church Lady.)
“Wednesday was the day the party pooped,” notes Susan Brenna of Long Island New York’s Newsday.
“A combination of rich cuisine, abundant watering holes, the stimulation of star-mingling with senators,
Pat B(o)one and too many free feeds —
Wednesday’s schedule included 118 pre- and post-session fetes –
finally had its effect on the Republicans.”
Even New Orleans Mayor Sidney Barthelemy, an African-American Democrat supposedly
is swept away by the “good” feelings.
“It was very important to pull this off,” he notes,
referring to pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes and selling out the city,
“to show that the public and private sector could work together.
“I think we’ll reap the benefits of this for years to come.”
(Think again. History shows this to be the last such outing
at New Orleans as the city hits rock bottom during his
misadministration. The good mayor is too busy taking trips financed
by developers, records and news accounts show, to look after the
interests of his constituency.)
The pre-packaged media presentation actually loses viewers
during the week. Only 18.4 million Americans — 40 percent of
those watching the boob tube at the time watch Shrub’s acceptance
speech, a decline of nearly two million from opening night
festivities. Popular dude, Herr Shrub.
And in the equally moronic acceptable to Repuboscum fake
protester department, one Jack Defandorf, if that is his name,
claims to the media newsflakehounds: “The thing that bothers me
is where are the people of New Orleans? I don’t know if they’re
afraid the CIA is taking pictures of them or what, but I know
there are a lot of people who don’t agree with the policies of
the Republicans. Where are they hiding?”
Peace Camp, that island of serenity set among tall weeds and
broken glass that once — teemed? — with World’s Fair non-traffic
as that developer’s bonanza went bust. (Oh, developers
boomed along alright making gobs of money after the taxpayers of
Louisiana were forced by then Gov. Edwin Edwards to bail the
financiers out with state funding.)
Damn wham thank you ma’am.
Why won’t they get the government off our backs?
Hahaha. The laugh is on us.
Peace Camp is the one place in the City that Care Forgot
where the Bill of Rights — among those rights, freedom of
expression — actually is cherished. It is the only place locally
where the July 4, 1776 Declaration of Independence rings true. We
would be a lot better off if the Republicans knew what was
declared in the document. It begins:
“We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are
created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with
certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty
and the Pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these Rights,
Governments are instituted among Men,
deriving their just Powers
from the Consent of the Governed,
that whenever any Form of
Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of
the People to alter or 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.”
Ring a bell libertarians? Hell, we have already witnessed
the fate of anyone muttering the previous sentiments while
walking towards the Superdome within
four blocks of that facility.
They get arrested.
Comrades in search of an accurately recalled Declaration of
Independence and Bill of Rights must conclude that it is
not in vogue during the last week of August 1988 circa New Orleans.
The American flag lapel poseurs have replaced the shining
light of truth with their squalid imitation of death-in-life just
like any run-of-the-mill tinhorn dictatorship.
These free floating spirits at Peace Camp dance in pure joy,
even as the Repubs conclude their exercise in cynical deceit
for public consumption. About 50 survivors of the previous
psychic holocaust have passed through to the other side, left by
the forces of oppression in splendid isolation to lay the karmic
foundation for a coming coalition of truth and justice.
Peace Truck as centerpiece is outlined against
a red-and-orange background stretched
half a football field in length. A local
dog and pony duo butchers Bb Dylan songs
while tiny groups of suddenly best buds
mingle, sharing philosophical discourse, food, drink, acid, reefer, and laughter.
“This is the safest spot in town,” reiterates Sir Aron of the pie toss.
“There isn’t a cop within miles.” All smiles.
Well dressed suit and tie type festooned with badges and
politically incorrect buttons stands out in the crown not caring.
Who is this guy anyway? Is he a GeOPig plant?
“Hey, what is the deal with the get-up?” Tyger asks as he approaches the suit.
“Why, don’t I look nice. Aren’t I with it? Isn’t this great?” rat-a-tat-tats the cheshire cat,
only a grin showing.
“Don’t I make a fine Republican delegate?”
Pie guy, ever the scoundrel, joins the conversation.
“You look great. How is it going pal?” bear-hugging da suit
who smiles brightly; responding,
“Going much better inside the convention. You know,
they have air conditioning, free food and everything.”
Tyger begins to buoy along in the drift. “Wait a second,” he
stops time. “You aren’t really a delegate…are you?”
“I’m not? I have all the proper credentials.”
“Come on man. Come clean. You are a Yippie, right?”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t attend the convention. I am a
Yippie Republican. Yay!”
Laughing laughing nitrous fit subsides finally as Tyger
looks over the Yippie Republican’s, er, credentials.
“These are fake, right?” he concludes.
“Well, no one has stopped me from going anywhere I want yet.
I certainly have not been arrested.”
“Tell me about the inside of the convention,” Tyger asks the
Yippie infiltrator. “What is it like being outside on the inside?”
“Weeeeeeelllllll, they are very comfortable and the food is great.
Can’t hear what’s going on, but no one cares. I have been inside
every day and observed their sheepish behavior. Bah bah bah.
What a freaked out rabble.
l fit right in, but of course I have to be blasted out of
my mind with acid and marijuana to appreciate the completely
horrific ambiance. Overall, I have enjoyed myself. It has been
“I hope to attend the next one too.
“Maybe bring along a bomb or aomething just for an additional thrill.
Ker-boom! Hahaha. That will shake ·em out of their lethargy some.”
Tyger laughs his ass off as the well dressed imposter,
pie guy, and pie guy daughter, dance to the next group;
what do you know, the Dadbaggies again.
Guess the New Neanderthals couldn’t be bothered for such a politically correct event.
Roots and Heave are around some nowhere land pretending they are “Democrats,”
Good, just keep out of the way of the real event.
Hypes like them give Repubs the excuse to give liberals a bad name.
A sign reading “Evil U.S. Empire out of the Persian Gulf,”
prophetically hangs from the elongated Peace Truck
sound system flatbed. Two young acolytes stroll around
distributing small pieces of paper to all who desire.
Tyger checks it out and, yes comrades, it is indeed LSD.
Not just any acid either, but the purest acid
America’s finest secret San Francisco scientists have ever developed.
Take another hit, immediately appreciating the awesome purity of acidic perfection.
Wowee-zowee, finally having fun, yes.
Quick surveillance of the scene reveals the total ecstacy
of unfettered by authority monumental anarchy of the highest
The former editor of Overthrow walks in a straight — for him —
line towards the bridge. A pretty girl walks the opposite
direction south to a portalet left behind
by a construction crew that knocked off work early.
Small groups of countercultural types maintain commos,
smoking blunts, passing around a wine-skin, trading
literature and free expressions of opinion sorta
promised by the Declaration of Independence
as codified by the U.S. Constitution. African-American
rastaman sells Tyger a colorful peace symbol cloth
suspended from a silly string that Tyger
slips around his neck. The guy also hands Tyger
a flyer for a group called U.M.O.N,
“United Mankind Organizing Naturally.”
A tall thin man, about 30 years old with
long grey Elijah the Prophet beard and
countenance, sits on a car passing out
orange pamphlets t the ever-curious.
Meet Calvin Peterson from Kansas City, Mo.
Tyger trades internal New Orleans gossip
for Calvin’s great work, titled
“The Truth Has Been Thrown To The Ground.”
The name of Calvin’s game is that he is sick
of the U.S. Government’s oppression of its people in general
and himself in particular.
He feels that the government naturally would want him to leave the country,
and he wants to leave.
The only catch is he does not have the money.
Therefore, he has been walking around town looking as grungy as possible
trying to sell his pamphlet to GO(im)P(osters) based on the premise
that their contributions will get him out of their hair sooner,
which is what everyone wants.
The ingenious tactic
is not working very well,
so he has a lot of these pamphlets left,
which he is trying to hawk to those at Peace Camp
who perhaps are a bit more amenable to his message.
“I hate the God of the Easter Bunny,” rails Calvin to Tyger
listening with acidically amplified attention.
“This is the nation of the Easter Bunny, of Santa Claus, of the false symbol.
We have forgotten our past and substituted the fake for real.
I have given the matter of searching for the truth of my life
a high priority and I tell you Tyger Williams, the God
of the Easter Bunny is a false prophet.”
Alrighty then. Tyger thumbs through the 50-page anti-tome.
It’s inevitable conclusion:
“If everybody that loved this country sent one dollar,
thousands of my people could be set free to live
some place far away from your great society
where you would not have t look upon them again.
They would not sleep in your streets anymore,
or panhandle for your change.
Could you think of a better way to spend
what is your labor than to send the homeless,
the poor, the lame and those in captivity
far away from you. Send you payment today
so we leave immediately without delay.
When the list of those who donated to send us away
is published, would not you want your name
to be on there so your friends and neighbors
can see that you sent those ungrateful people
far away from your presence and that you
had a hand in ridding those people from your places.
Send your farewell gifts to: CALVIN PETERSON; P.O. Box 17634; Kansas City, MO 64123.”
Tyger nods his head in agreement as he looks up.
“If you say so Calvin. I just gave my last dollar to the rasta guy for the peace symbol cloth.
But good luck.”
Bless his soul, Calvin understands.
“Yeah, it is tough getting out of here,” he says.
“You would think the Republicans would want us to go in the worst way.
But, they don’t seem to care.”
“No shit, Sherlock. it’s a strange world.”
Moving on, a box flyers squat unattended near Tyger’s mother the car.
He asks the closest person nearby, a girl with short sandy hair,
who belongs to the stack of attacks. No sale.
They are titled: “BUSH IS GUILTY!…
THIRTY YEARS OF DIRTY TRICKS & TREASON.”
Watergate: Bush, implicated in dirty tricks as head of
Republican National Convention, narrowly escaped
being named unindicted co-conspirator
1980: Bush, one of two or three principals
who actually flies to Europe to negotiate Treason:
In return for assuring Reagan’s election by holding
the hostages an additional 3 months,
the Ayatollah gets a better deal than the one
being offered by Carter. On behalf of U.S. Intelligence,
Bush promises to facilitate both the arms and heroin
business interrupted by Carter.
Other charges include various Bush dealings
with Panama strongman Manuel Noriega, tax breaks
for associates, and various involvement with other
Tyger places the flyers in his car and remembers
he has a time-worn mini-cassette recorder
previously used for insurance investigating in the glove compartment.
He retrieves the tape recorder in order to record the final moments
of Peace Camp as Dan Fail is nominated veep and
the convention winds down.
What follows is a partial telling of the tape:
“They are probably starting to play baseball in some distant stadium.
But here, the peace truck rallies on proving that you can’t have too much fun
at a place like this except when you’re …
Look at he colors; orange, red pink, on the wharf, it is
approximately 7:35 (p.m.), sun is setting, so it is actually
an incredibly beautiful vista. Kid you not.
And that guy is not even waiting to use the porta-let.
He is just kind of using whatever is available, I suppose.
The former editor of Overthrow Magazine is speechifying.
‘I want to explain for a minute a couple of banners we have
up here,’ he begins, long grey hair flowing in the evening breeze.
‘It wasn’t me that came up with this evil empire business,
after all. It was Ronald Reagan. He said that anyone who shoots down a civilian air
liner is an evil empire. You qualify if you shoot down a civilian airliner.
So, either the United States should quit acting like an evil empire
in shooting down those civilians or they should get out.
And this other thing over here on the end of the cab is a personal message
to you from Peter Tosh who came up with the design before he unfortunately lost his life
in a dispute over the music business which in Jamaica can sometimes can be fatal.
But his idea, this symbol — we’re trying to popularize it.
The idea was that we don’t think the government can solve anything.
We are the only people who can solve things and that is by taking
our own lives into our own hands. And we just happen to believe
that herbs are safer than refined chemicals. Rock Against Racism
brought this truck and this concert to this parking lot tonight in order
to celebrate a significant event, the self-annihilation, the suicide if you will,
of the Republican Party, who at this time across town is finishing the nomination process
to elect as their nominee just about the most unpopular guy in America in political life.
So, the only good thing we can say about the Regan years is
it’s over. Thanks God they didn’t blow up the world, although they really
fucked up the ozone layer. But we will have to deal with that
under the next guys.
The event rolls to a conclusion within the endless tape loop
with which we have grown familiar. The final band that is
scheduled to play, a lame punk rock outfit called the Scandals,
disagree with the banners from the Peace Truck and refuse to
perform. The rally disintegrates in anarchy and darkness.
So it ends and begins on the same blank page, comrades, of
what can be set down about Tyger Williams· life and times
between Christmas Day 1987, a good Friday, and the last day of
the Republican National Convention on Thursday August 18, 1988.
Shrubby and his minions finish their dirty little business
at the Superdome and blast into outer space, fleeing the Big Easy
as if a fire alarm suddenly has been sounded. Tyger, under cover
of nightfall, returns to his Uptown apartment and catches the
Cubs-Padres game from the West Coast.
Cubs win! Cubs win! Cubs win! Americans lose! All is as it
always is with the world of 1988.
Time continues to flow beyond the range of our thick file
on a small portion of Subject Williams’ activities. An
accounting can never be completely made as he and his associates
timelessly walk the earth engaging in their various trials and
This much can be appended to the public file for the
purposes of a summation on a need to know basis;
Armor’s is the first of that old gang of Tyger’s to evacuate
these hallowed shores. He has had it with the urban lifestyle and
retreats to a life of quiet contemplation in rural California at
the foothills of a national park that shall remain nameless in
order to preserve his privacy.
Shortly thereafter, Mac takes his world to the quiet little
burg of Barataria — the resting place for the pirate Jean
Lafitte — southwest of New Orleans past the national park just
off Lake Salvador.
Mr . Milty disappears suddenly one fine night as he loads up
a moving van — sort of like the Baltimore Colts — eventually
emerging in the Texas Hill Country where his Belt of Tools band
becomes a local sensation. He is heard from only on special and
Sandy Alexander along with wife Mary Ann relocate to the
mountains of western North Carolina so they can raise a family in
a friendly hard-working place that is the total opposite of the
steamy and lazy Big Easy environment. More power to them.
Dorothy LaFleur has a bouncing baby girl whom she dresses in
lovely pink ribbons and pretty flowered dresses. She assumes the
role of working mother-housewife as Jack rises to a position of
small importance in her father’s warehouse business.
Fine, and Joe Fine? What of the Super Sleuth, one wonders.
Who knows. He disappears from the known universe possibly
maintaining a useful undercover existence that he finds
personally satisfying. Perhaps he finally snares the evil Bingo
LeBeouf. There is no telling, although one can only hope.
And the other extras, heroes and villains alike, considered
for these purposes in the same breath. To the heroes: Well done.
We have psychic medals in the closet should you come over for
brunch. To the villains: Who cares. Get fucked. You suck.
Tyger, Tyger, what of the centerpiece around whom the others
revolved? What of the dear boy with whom we have sat surveillance
these wonderful, awful, groovy, horrible moments, and all that
could be cited in-between? What of the Tygermeister brewery of
consciousness drunk deeply?
Well comrades, he is well. As noted earlier, all is well
that is well ended. Tyger gets by for those who try and never
quit, never say “enough,” never give up the ghost, never die.
As John Heisman — after whom is named the trophy signifying
the best player in college football — told his Rice Institute
(now University) football team at half-time in a 1924 game they
were losing: “A team that won’t be beat can’t be beat.”
And the Fighting Owls flew out that second half and kicked
some sorry Longhorn butt, dominating a squad from the much larger
University of Texas, 19-6.
Yes, Tyger Williams and all he stood for, sat for, wished for,
lived for, lives on in your well wishes and the memory
elicited through these long pages.
We leave him for now as we found him,
a figment of the mind’s eye imagination,
a surreal out-of-body, place and time
existential presence sitting by the lake
at Audubon Park, flipping pebbles
into the placid waters, watching circles crop,
expand and disappear.
He dreams of a beautiful dancer, of that
equally beautiful time when all of God’s slaves
Only you can make that happen, comrades
of the sacred moment. You have
Tyger’s best wishes as forever you strive
succeeding through that striving
regardless of any final outcome.