Abby Hoffman's 1960s political treatise was called Steal This Book. I hope that soon indeed there will be enough copies of Jay and the Americans out there to steal; in the meantime, PLEASE BUY THE BOOK; help to fund AM. In the meantime, here's a Magical Mystery Tour teaser from the novel:
Between
Doheny and Laurel Canyon, the Sunset Strip was littered with giant billboards,
much of it my father’s work. You'd find
him above it all, like Michelangelo in modern times. He painted the billboard for Tommy by the Who and Disraeli Gears down by The Classic Cat. He did Led
Zeppelin IV and Aja and 461 Ocean Blvd.
"Can
I come up?" He looked at me from the
scaffolding above.
He
was working on So Far by Crosby,
Stills, Nash and Young. Joni Mitchell did the painting for this anthology
of hits, but my father brought it to life, made it big and bold and out there
for the world to see. It stood above the Chateau Marmont on the north
side of the Strip. I think he captured Neil a bit better than Joni did;
something about Neil, that crazy look of his. "Can I come up?"
"You're
not allowed to come up."
"But
I need to come up."
"Then
come up." It was the kind of
conversation one had with my father. I
climbed the ladder to the top of the billboard, Los Angeles spread out beneath us
on one of those few clear days, the days you wait for, the sun warm, the air
cool and crisp. I liked being at the top
of the city, at the top of Mulholland, or sneaking up by the Hollywood
sign. There were times growing up when
we'd drive up Blue Jay Way and park in front of George Harrison's house, even
though he didn't live there anymore.
Sunset Plaza, stay to your left, drive up and up and up. There was no street sign because everyone stole
it; they just painted Blue Jay Way on
the curb. And we'd sit on one of those
big flat boulders that hang like a balcony over the lights and the geometry and
smoke weed. That was my L.A. growing up.
"Mom
died," I said, a little out of breath.
He
did something funny with his brush. It
wasn't what he was supposed to
do. He stood a second or more, and then
he just started painting again as I watched.
He looked down at his samples, at what he was supposed to do. There was a geometry to it. The samples were cordoned off into little
squares and he had only to paint each square and connect them together like one
of those sliding block puzzles; just a trick to make it big.
So Far. How far we'd come to get just so far. I sat and looked out over the city on that clear, clear day. There was the Troubadour. There was Paramount and MGM.
We
went to Carney's for a chili dog and sat in the old train car as if we were traveling cross county. He said, "Did she say
anything?" What he meant was, "Did she
say anything about me?"
"She
didn’t say anything.” He kind of winced
or winked a little, and I think I caught a glimmer in his eye of the girl who'd
turned him down, the girl who ultimately gave up everything. I saw that something in his eye, that moment
in time when she’d say yes and it
meant something. Suddenly obliterated
was every other moment when she said yes
and it didn't matter, or no and it
did. As if it didn't matter that she'd
taken him to court for child support, that she took me away in the middle of
the night, that she ran into the arms of another man. Or that he’d done the same with the woman two
doors down. Didn't matter. It might have been nothing, just a gleam in
his eye.
