In The Time of Job When Mischa Was A Zippie - January 20th 1973 Part 2

Part 2 - The Procession

As we discussed our planned street tactics, a few joints were passed between us all. Our task was now known without another word being spoken, and we began our movement toward our mission. With utmost determination, we advanced as a small unified force eager to link up with the other Zippie groups in the area. We proceeded to the targeted destinations. Our ranks began to swell as we hooked up with other radicals moving en force toward The Rat Parade itself: King Dick's Inhogurational Presidential route.

There was so much excitement in the air. Imagine me, barely a 15-year-old lass, tripping out while meeting others not just from my own country but from all over the world. And what were we talking about while sharing joints and getting high? Vietnam, drugs, politics, and music—indeed, we were becoming cosmically connected by the very music that we were discussing. It was getting zany, and I was loving every minute.

While we kindled our new-found friendships via asphyxiating hits of the magic herb, we began organizing into small squads for our upcoming aggressive attack upon the Rat King. Surprisingly, even in our drugged-out state, we took this mission against the imperialistic enemy as seriously as we could. I thought it kinda funny that these small groups of Zippies, some mildly stoned and others tripping out mercilessly on LSD, could, along with some died-in-the-wool anarchists and SDS remnants, potentially disrupt the procession and inauguration of the President of the United States.

However, there was something else that loomed larger than just disrupting this procession. We recognized that in order to end the war in Vietnam—in order to end all war—the corrupt politico/capitalist system itself had to be eliminated. What the Hell, I thought to myself, this criminal establishment is so inherently evil that even I, a buzzed-out teenager, can see through the facade of propaganda to its imperialistic atrocities. So why not smash the state and have some fun with outrageous antics while doing it!

We resolved to attack via street theater, or “agitprop,” the procession of King Rat's motorcade. However, even though our determination was evident, I was now realizing how difficult this task was going to be. Hippie cultured, street-rock fashion youths attempting to scramble through the hoards of mainstream well-wishers, not get caught by the do-gooders and plainclothesmen among the crowd, and then break through the police line and make it to the motorcade itself? This was going to be paramount to Mission Impossible!

The flaw in our strategy—if it could be called a strategy—was that there was no synchronization to our assault. Each Zippie group, in conjunction with scattered anarchists, acted independently. I imagined what could have transpired if even a few hundred of our number could have attacked simultaneously. As it was, our small groups were easy prey to apprehend by those opposed to our mission. It seemed that for every Zipster squad of ten to twenty people attacking at a specific location, only a few Zippies, if any, would make it through to the police line, only to be immediately taken down and arrested. Those of us who remained active and free were continually being chased by the establishment dupes. Such was our plight. However, even in all this confused madness, it seemed that someone somewhere always had time to fire up another joint! So this was the Zipster meaning of the phrase, “Hit and Run”!

The police were everywhere in sight, all to protect and serve the power that had immorally declared this ungodly war. They would defend the state with their weapons and muscle, much as the SS had defended the National Socialist cause. Complete and blind obedience to the man and his paycheque, along with Pavlovian adherence to the systems and its demands. We had already witnessed the atrocities in Chicago in '68, in Alabama, at Kent State—the Pig, without questioning, would beat and even kill their own children.

We marched along with the most radical leftist, anarchistic, absurdest assemblage of protesters in this demonstration. We were here to disrupt this Presidential procession, to give the Rat King what he so deserved. Many of the Zipsters sported mouse ears. I did not have a pair to begin with, but was soon handed some by a fellow Zipster named Cathy. Her boyfriend, while being chased by the cops earlier that day, had lost his pair, and Cathy had rescued them. As he was now in jail, she passed them on to me. I immediately placed this pseudo-official Zipster lid upon my head.

A few remnants of the original squads were now regrouping. Our small brigades began attempting to attack the procession's motorcade at various points in the parade route and smash through. Yet it was always the same—few made it through to the street, only to be then arrested, while us others had to once again make our escape back into friendlier crowds.

I had seen the films of the Third Reich and knew that it would have been easier to nail Hitler on one of his mass parades. No chance here to even get through and toss a harmless cake. Although a few did manage to throw some debris near to the procession, most of these offenders of the state were rapidly busted.

We loudly chanted, “We Want Dick! We Want Dick!”—for he was our anointed Rat leader. Although outwardly silly, this was street theatre at its finest—a chapter right out of the Wiemar Republic street protests of the late '20s and early '30s. I was vibrating in living history, straight from the streets of the past to the avenues of the future. Or was the past being relived in future time? Oh!—my psychedelic thoughts were beginning to get the better of me. My trance into historical space was loudly interrupted when—“Look Out for that PIG!” a compatriot suddenly screamed.

Dodging the pig's grasp by a split second, I high-tailed it outta there in a neon flash! Moving quickly with the others, we all escaped from the grip of the man, who was still in hot pursuit, but with all his swine-gear he was hindered in this chase. However, one Zipster was not so fortunate, and was nabbed by a plainclothesman. Speedily, four of us ran back to his rescue. The two guys knocked the pig down, while us gals, like vicious gum-smackin', teeny-bop mouseketeers, kicked the pig-man where he lay, til we were able to pull our fellow Zipster to safety.

My emotional fervor sky-rocketed to new heights. I was experiencing previously unknown levels of exhilaration, enhanced by the dazzling effects the drugs were having in my system. And the day was still young.

Our group temporarily joined up with a large semi-orchestrated wing of a more moderate group. We migrated over to where a few Cuban Marxists were giving speeches. Unfortunately, it appeared very few, if any, in the crowd knew enough Spanish to understand what was being said. I thought it was cool to have such speakers present, but it was a shame that most of their message was lost on us. Perplexed, I moved closer to the podium, as though my proximity could somehow help me decipher the words. Just a few feet away, I was now looking directly up at the speaker, baffled by the crowd's unmitigated applause and enthusiasm. Why the cheers and applause? I thought. Perhaps this could be attributed to being in the moment. Did everyone feel this way? I firmly felt that the message of anti-U.S. Imperialism was at the crux of the Marxist speeches. I still thought it odd to agree on faith that whatever these individuals were ranting about was something that we should all get behind and encourage, but we did.

After a few other speeches were given, we began marching toward the White House as one huge mass. The mass continued to grow and grow, until it subdivided and then was two huge masses, each of which itself continued to grow and grow, til they too subdivided, and so on and so on. Eventually, other Yippie and Zippie remnants from the earlier attempts at the motorcade made their way to the larger protest crowds, where we began linking up and planning further activities. Eventually, our ranks became a large and scheming vocal minority within the larger mass of protesters.

It was now that segments of the Zipsters began singing Weatherman songs. I heartily joined in the chorus, for this was one of the greatest rushes I had ever felt. I reflected momentarily upon Andre Breton and his work, Le Manifeste du Surrealism, as this was very much surrealism as a revolutionary movement coming alive from the inside of a book to the outside in space and time. A protester topped with mouse ears raised high a sign that read “All Power To The Imagination.” Others held signs with sayings such as “Fuck Dick” and “Get High.” I was in a near frenzied state of mind that went beyond euphoria to a psychedelic deja-vu of the definitive re-creation of an event in time.

I had always been a voracious reader, becoming familiar with Jacobs' book about The Weathermen a few years earlier, and now the writings had come alive. I was marching to words that had rocked right off the pages. Yippies and Zippies within the mass began singing “All our friends are all in jail, and many more of them are out on bail” to the tune of Yellow Submarine. “We demand a jury trial, because we know it drives them wild. We all live in a Weather Machine, a Weather Machine, a Weather Machine....”

Damn, I relished being part of this, and blissfully joined my Zippie comrades in song! The enjoyment that I had previously felt while reading I was now realizing in my life at this moment in time. The pages moved and breathed as a living entity. As we moved closer to the Washington Monument, the words of the next song burst forth from my heart, in unison with my Zipster Sisters and Brothers, as we rocked out in verse to smash the state...“Deck the pigs out on the pavement! Fa la la la la, la la, la la! We are now a fighting movement! Fa la la la la, la la, la la.....!”

1. Weathermen, Edited by Harold Jacobs 1970 Ramparts Press (Weatherman Songbook, p. 356-357).