|the stones are still rolling and the story ain’t over till every drop of booze has been drunk and the fat lady sits quietly weeping on the edge of the stage. this part here is the theatre part and perhaps not for the faint hearted. who knows?well over 30 quarts of beer, several gallons of red mountain vino, jim beam and his brother jack daniels gone as well. not gallons but enough or maybe way too much. the girls didn’t drink much. the boys, 6 or7, made up for it.
way way later we found ourselves in the hotel cafe ordering up breakfast. sans any women. nothing unusual there. sop. or something like it. events at this point get sorta hazy. in the group was a youngster. even younger than we were and even further from 21 than any of us. a good kid and a very good local surfer. his folks lived in the trailer park. so of course when he went head first into his breakfast, it occured to some of the more sober among us that, shit, oh oh, this ain’t good or anywhere near cool. people were looking at us, even more so than before the dive into the eggs. an edgey night had just gotten edgier and was about to become surreal.
the bill was paid and we unassed the area as best we could before the cops were called. we made our way across the golf course. still night. summertime dark. perhaps a moon but what the fuck? quarts of beer left out on the grass for the walk home?
somewhere out in the middle of the golf course an idea sorta burst into what would be the theatre part of this sad tale. an idea that to this day lives in infamy. but we were drunk, young and stupid. a sad thing for sure. something only dean wormer might appreciate. not the theatre but the drunk bit.
out in the middle of the grass and night was to become the first of many future drunken jfk assaination re-inactments. yes, in all of it’s gory glorious details. right there. night banshee’s from some sort of kafkaesque delerium tremmor. acting out for all who were awake or were about to be, one of the saddest days of our collective history. true guerilla theatre knows no bounds, my friends. something all of us learned that night. a valuable life lesson i’m sure.
just who played who, is to this day still very murkey. the only thing we all remember is the youngest of us all played, jackie. sunny side up eggs still on his face. and he did a damn fine job as well. imaginary lincolns jack jackie lbj the gov lee secret service men gun shots running screaming dark death reigned.
it was over almost as soon as it begun. or at least as long as it took to get organized and done. we all knew the scene so very well. etched forever. it was easy to pull off. parts given and accepted. just do it. the really incredible thing being the cops never showed up. simplier times i guess. the real pale of human insanity hadn’t reared it’s ugly head, just yet.
the jfk assaination became part of our drunken repertoire and even sober theatre. cars were added later along with squirt guns. the youngest among us was always, jackie. regardless.
every time we did the jfk deal it got more involved. not that we did it all the time. just when, i suppose, it was a full moon and the hormones were running rampent untapped by feminine hands. however, the last time we ever performed the jfk assination it was in broad daylight and we were stone sober. but that’s for an other time. maybe.
‘exile on mainstreet’, ibid or op cit