about time we started doin' our own livin' and dyin'.
And so, six months ago you watched two guys bring a milk can full of turkey stew into the panhalde and start the diggers. two weeks later free food in the panhandle at four o'clock was advertised in the berkeley barb and it never missed a day. somebody asked: Why free food?
and anyone answered: free clothes.
the first free store opened in a six car garage on page street and it was small and the crowd knew each other and someone had written winstanley on the door and then the rains came and the roof fell in the landlord was harrassed by the police and said please... and someone said it was nice while it lasted.
and the diggers grew.
at 520 frederick street the second free store formed. and everything was regular again. free food all time.
lieutenant korelac headed a panty raid on the joint charging one of the two guys with maintaining and operating an opium den. and the place folded with hot dog bike trash trying to show somebody their cocks.
1775 became the second wave greta garbo and things happened like birthdays in the street, benfits for the diggers were thrown all over the place with no admission, cover, or any charge, and free food was back in the park.
soon a pipsqueak prelate offered the diggers his church ladies' kitchen, and an office and all sorts of help.
and the two guys and the friends they had made sort of faded. the diggers changed hands and money suddenly became a necessity. 1775 needed rent money. people needed bail money. lawyer money. sound equipment money. gas money. and the diggers took donations. let's buy armenian hall! let's buy a bus! let's buy property somewhere. and free food got plenty scarce.
newspapers ran articles on the diggers and their mythical hero hogansand the stage got a little bigger.
a new breed slipped in and sat in the office getting sixteen dollar rewards for runaways, cashing 175$ checks into theirpersonal bank accounts, and didn't do a fucking thing for nobody! ever! factions grew: turner was going to have tobacco killed and apache wanted to confront the cops and nobody cared anymore. somebody quietly opened a trip without a ticket on cole street and someone else put the page street back together as a children's arts and crafts workshop and the street filled to a bulge and sunday dance concerts in the park are getting to be a drag. 1775 is now a closed shop complete with tenure and seniority. 848 was abandoned to the selfishness of sidewalk bike riders.
and free food hasn't been around for a long time.
jackson king of ksol annouces that chester anderson lays down techniques of surviving the haight scene without becoming a casualty...the chronicle still calls the people the love generation. well love is a slop-bucket and we are the children of awareness but our courage has yet to manifest itself within our floating community...we put down the merchants, the bullshitters, the hustlers and we sit around and it's all the same and there's nothing new under the sun and free food seems a long time gone because we're playing the game of the 1930's we're the new cry babies and james dean's tears have finally taken root in a shallow weak kneed series of cabals which expect someone to take care of their livin'. some revolution
printed 4/20/67 by the communication company (ups)