Dark Side of the 60's Moon, Mike Marino [list of ebook readers TXT] 📗

balls were yellow and red and blue and left tracer trails in their wake as they rose and fell smiling all the time.

Myrika was taken with her as well. Later, after the festival that evening  she would return with us to our small island hideaway lodge and for the next five days we  would be immersed and spent in a tempestuous menage a trois tryst before she had to bid adieu  for a job at Coney Island sideshow circus act. She would visit us often on her off time and even accompanied us to Woodstock Music and Art Festival coming up in August. Nudity, music, marijuana and mud. Who could ask for more?
Chapter 35 Spaced Out in Canada

 

 

Our first fest was a success no matter how you cut it. We managed to endear ourselves without endangering ourselves with the community. Unaware we were an underground group dedicated and sworn to toss a cog into the American war machine, we merely came across as a group of bearded bards and possibly slightly demented Druids from another sphere.

We cleaned the festival area and  returned to our small island enclave where Danny Two Horse, our Ojibway nation gatekeeper had our twin feature flicks and midnight stoner premier ready to race threaded through the projector while the patrons partake of popcorn and pot. All of our volunteer war resisters may be on the run from the law, but when it came down to getting high and watching  “Fantasia”  and “Reefer Madness” there was no fear.

“Myrika, you will now bear witness that there is such a thing as dancing brooms and rodent wizards!” I declared as if I was mighty Merlin the Magician himself. Poof, the magic dragon!

She pulled me close to her and gave me a kiss that made my mouth water and a hurricane form in my equatorial region. She could produce a Category 5 storm in my pants faster than a tornado can level a trailer park in Kansas.

“First, my love,” (in Germanic broken English) “Mary and I will  check on Olivia and China. They had long day and must be exhausted. Save  little grass for me, OK?” She knew I’d save Mt. Fuji for her if she asked for it. I also had figured out Myrika and Mary would probably fool around together under the big top before returning.

“Hurry back. Trust me, Baby….this is not Dumbo and some lame Los Angeles dwarfs, Baby. It’s full of  dangerous dancing dinosaurs, macabre mops, beastly brooms and flying flaming fairies all set to a musical backdraft bigger than the flash from an atomic bong bomb in Bonn  or even that  Family Dog light show when we were at the Fillmore  listening to Inna Gadda Da Vida on purple double dome last spring when I forgot my own name! It’s a Saturday morning cartoon for kids on Cheerios, amphetamines and marijuana dancing  a fandango while mescaline and acid do  a mental tango.” I tried my best movie review to entice her, but her reply was typical Myrika.

“I bet,” she began, “Snow White turns into a pile of cocaine and Sleeping Beauty takes a hot shot of heroin, while Mickey joins the SDS on LSD and takes to the streets of Chicago in  with a gang of dancing brooms.”

I added to her description of what would be one hell of a fucked up marvelous flick. “Yes and the Seven Dwarves become the Chicago Seven Dwarves and go on trial for Fucking up Beethoven, and Donald Duck gets banned in Sweden for not wearing pants!”

Her laughter faded into the wigwam where Olivia and China were already fast asleep, which left only one thing for her and Mary to do. Jesus, I thought. I wonder if Mary will remove her clown make-up first before they got hot and heavy? Maybe I should have a trapeze installed for future forays into big top foreplay. It’s only an idea.

Danny by now had the projector set up and we were waiting for everyone to get mellowed out first before we unleashed “Fantasia” under the blanket of stars and galaxies above a coal black sky.

I passed the bowl back to Danny who was as silent as a cigar store Indian contemplating the spirit world. Feeling I was floating on a raft drifting towards Aku Aku, I queried him. “Ever think about fucking a space alien, Danny?”

It was a perfectly  logical question, I felt. Outer space has beckoned humankind as tempting as any short skirted street hooker flags down a customer in a Cadillac on a Saturday night. Space is Sexy! Seductive! Seducing! Who doesn’t want be an astronaut enjoying sex in a gravity free space station floating aimlessly with the cosmic Kama Sutra co-ed of your choice? “Houston...we are having the time of our life.”

His response was typical of him. Honest and quizzical, as if he were deciding which Klatu Barada Nicto Trojan rubbers to purchase at the duty free store in Canada.

“It depends. Which planet is sexier than the rest? I guess it depends on your sexual persuasion. Probably if they were from Venus, I hear it’s a hotbed of Apache females so, I guess if you can breathe in an ammonia heavy atmosphere then fire up the old rocket booster. Remember, Mickey, Native women are  lovers! We Indians are also into lacrosse. We invented it by the way as a means of attacking forts and scalping ya’ll when your guard is down, so from that viewpoint I’d take a chance there would be hot to trot naked  Iroquois roller derby babes with buffalo skin bikini’s on  Mars!”

We both felt no pain and laughter ushered forth from us. Hell, we were so stoned, we’d laugh at anything, even The Diary of Anne Frank. I could picture a bevy of three breasted blue and orange  beauties on Saturn. A sexy planet with all those accessorized rings.  It has to be the most flamboyant of the planets  screaming  FASHION STATEMENT! It’s actually a planetary  runway with ten moons! Some moons are rated PG and others are rated, well….if you’ve seen “Deep Throat” then you’ll prefer the moon Pandora just for her box alone…

For the gay liberation  crowd, they’ll clap hands in glee when they take in Uranus (so to speak!) It would have to have  a cabaret nightlife to die for. Plenty of piano bars with sequined Liberace impersonators from the Outer Limits of Uranus and the Lesbian Review from the Torrid Twilight Erogenous Zone from the Venusian Vagina Vector.
After a time Myrika and Mary emerged from our canvas quarters, slightly disheveled with looks of great satisfaction on their faces. The clown make-up slightly smeared and some of it left traces on Myrika’s face. I guess clowns mark their territory too.

Both joined us as we fired up another joint, Mary digging into Danny’s arms while Myrika took her rightful regal position at my side, her arms around me. I could detect that faint feminine perfume of secreted musk sex produces. It was addicting. Intoxicating. Kept me locked in her emotional cage...a prisoner for life chained to her heart, imprisoned in her soul, a slave at her feet.

We were silent and heard and felt only our hearts beating...then the projector switch was thrown on...it was showtime. Mickey and his dancing brooms were about to emerge on the screen...while Myrika and I worked out way back out of sight in the bushes behind us sheltered in the white pines.

There we began making  love during the musical score of Sorcerer’s Apprentice and the Fuge in D Minor with a mutual one on one  oral orgasm crescendo during “The Rite of Spring”... Igor Stravinsky would be proud.

Chapter 36 - The Dark Side of the Sixties Moon

 

 

Midway through 1969, we began to see flower power wilting, but it’s full prophesy hadn’t kicked us in the balls yet. Our Can-Am Fests continued as did our midnight movies. Cultish to be sure, but political messages began to infiltrate our happy hunting ground of wigwams, yurts and log cabins. We would air films of a more serious nature such as “Salt of the Earth” and “Our Daily Bread” focusing on labor strife and poverty. We did managed to mix in a series of silent movies of bootleg Lon Chaney films as the deformed  Quasimodo, bell ringing outcast that we all identified with,  and the equally deformed, yet organ proficient, “Phantom of the Opera.”

Something on a much larger scale was out of whack. A wobbly planet out of alignment. An aberration called Joey Russo. Junkie deserter who was released and stamped CURED by the SHAR House drug rehab program where house residents dwelled in their own never never land where Peter Pan walked perilously on Lou Reed’s wild side with a chorus of colored girls going..do do d do….

He found his way to our island enclave after making arrangements by phone with us. Danny Two Horse had the distinct displeasure of delivering he and a friend he met at a Resistance meeting in Detroit on the campus of Wayne State University.

Myrika was busy helping Mary the Clown and Oliva the New Madonna and child, find firewood for tonight’s bonfire of the vanities. I decided to lie down on the grass near the beach and await Joeys second coming. The sun on my face, the waves lapping gently on shore. Closing my eyes I let the intoxicant of pine, sand and juniper fill me. Sensual smells that permeated the wet woods that surrounded the hunting lodge we had since painted red. The red was no ordinary American red either. Nor a communist red that appealed only to Slavs. Naw, it was that deep, rich, dark, pumping blood red you see in photographs of log lodges buried ass deep in the blowing white snows of blonde Scandinavia with whole villages of Scandinavians, also buried ass deep in the same snows, yelling with accents for more snowshoes. That kind of red.

The early morning sounds of the navy of early morning Canadian fishermen from Manitoulin Island and American fishermen from the Les Cheneaux islands of the coast of the UP had launched their  fleets of Johnson and Mercury motors to depth charge full speed ahead and damn the friggin' torpedoes urgency in their quest for the nazi fish just below the surface. Bass battling battleships chasing a silent service U-boat wolfpack of smallmouth looking to evade capture and sink the Lusitania first. I could picture Old “Papa Hemingway” Man and