by Dennis Formento
This Book" first appeared in The Temple, vol. 5 #2.)
Darlene Fife warned me that getting involved with NOLA Express,
even decades after its death, could get us in trouble. And yes, it finally
happened. Surregional Press is being sued in the case of Dorothy C. Higson
vs. Darlene Fife et al. Ms. Higson believes that Darlene's book, Portraits
From Memory: New Orleans in the Sixties, her recently-published Surregional
Press memoir of NOLA Express, has libeled her husband and caused
her mental anguish, public embarassment and financial hair loss, and constitutes
an invasion of her privacy. She is suing for damages & "injunctive
relief," i.e., we would not be allowed to sell or distribute the book.
Her husband, who remains a friend of Darlene
and of Surregional Press, supports us all the way. He did warn me that
his wife doesn't haveľ a sense of humor. Or maybe it was a sense of history,
like maybe she wants it all to be left blank. But in the course of a few
angry wake-up calls delivered to me between November and January, this
person made it clear that she thought her husband's association with NOLA
Express and the movements of the sixties was something so shameful that
it would certainly ruin the career of her son, who is a "professional"
The plaintiff had the good fortune in the
70s to marry an Englishman who had moved to Mississippi ten years earlier
to work in Freedom Summer. Subsequently he moved to New Orleans to join
the struggle here, associating with Darlene Fife, Robert Head, and others
who published NOLA Express, one of the finest underground newspapers
of the sixties. The pleadings are full of factual inaccuracies. Darlene
knows very little about the plaintiff from those days, and the Higsons
were not married until 1973. The plaintiff's name does not appear anywhere
in the book and her husband virtually disappears from Portraits from
Memory after 1971. She alleges without substantiation that in the
book Fife claims he associated with "assassins and arsons." There's a
lot of other crazy stuff in the pleadings too, which would compromise
our case to reveal now.
Darlene reminds us that the 60s were volatile
times, and that you can expect that when things get turned over which
were for years safely buried and forgotten, old wounds and anxieties will
be revealed. The full NOLA story could not be told in less than
twenty volumes the size of Darlene's novella-length memoir, and that means
a lot of old anxieties. Lives and identities have changed. Some people
don't like to be reminded of what we were like 30 years or even five years
ago. The hopes of those revolutionary times are now often seen as naive
even by some people who fought against the war and racism, and as obnoxious
stupidity (or worse, a dead ideology) by their opponents. If you look
at the way the times have been portrayed in the popular media, for instance,
in NBC's insipid "The Sixties" "television event" of a couple
of years ago, you would think it was only a foolish generational tug-of-war,
resolved in the end by a friendly game of touch football. The saddest
thing is the perception among some people born after 1960 that the New
Left and its hip/freak cultural counterpart formed a liberal/left conspiracy
that forced them to accept a narrow range of politically-correct opinions
that have ruined the democratic ideals of this country forever. Some young
people think that the times, as Darlene put it in an interview to be published
later this year in Mesechabe, were populated by millions of carefree
people running around in colorful costumes trying to avoid the draft.
But people of that generation, fifteen years older than me, are finally
coming around to tell the stories that have been repressed by years of
revisionism and obfuscation. The saying that, "If you say you remember
the sixties, you weren't really there," cloaks history under a haze of
pot smoke. Conveniently: If nobody remembers anything, no one can tell
This suit brings me around in a circle too.
Ironically, the plaintiff's lawyer has his office in the house on Canal
Street where I lived in 1978-1980, in a commune mostly made up of Oystershell
Alliance/safe energy alternatives activists. I thought at the time that
we were an extension of the movements of the sixties, and that was true.
Darlene Fife and Robert Head filed the first public intervention against
the Waterford III nuclear power plant in 1973. We were on the street against
it five years later.
Doubly ironic, Portraits From Memory
also has the privilege of being segregated from other less controversial
books in the original Maple Street Book Shop, a store founded in the 60s
by Rhoda Norman, who appears in Darlene's book as a Women Strike For Peace
activist. Its removal was due to a certain Playboy parody we reprinted
from the original NOLA Express. This parody got Darlene and Robert
busted on federal obscenity charges in 1970, but they beat the government's
lawyers in the spring of the following year. The plaintiff had been calling
around bookstores in town to demand that our book be removed from the
shelves, and Maple Street was on her hit list. Evidently the bookseller
she spoke to placated her by agreeing to remove it while actually doing
nothing, and the owner says she later decided to put it in purdah out
of concern that innocent children, browsing the autobiography section,
might accidentally come across the photo on page 44. Quick, go see. It's
really dirty. Removal wasn't related to the lawsuit, but rather to Liberal
Censorship Anxiety (LCA) which says that if a small child can pick a saddle-stapled
magazine-format small press edition off your bookstore shelf and find
a naked man with an hard-on, you will lose your ass in business.
People like Darlene Fife and Robert Head
endured daily harassment in order to win the freedom of expression we
waste on "Temptation Island" every day. Or, like Ed Sanders said about
the early Fugs records, there is a lot of freedom out there that we aren't
using. Maybe the problem is that now, we done got so much freedom we forgot
what it's for.
Say Yes to N.O.
by Ronnie Burk
from Memory: New Orleans in the Sixties
by Darlene Fife
Surregional Press 1539 Crete Street New Orleans, LA 70119
Reading Darlene Fife's memoir makes me think about how times have changed
and not necessarily for the better. Her moving recollection told in a
simple down to earth style brings to mind certain moments in my life when
I realized things had changed. Like the time a boyfriend admonished me
for buying bottled water. He thought I was trying to be chic, or something,
when my real concern was with the lead pipes in the building we lived
in. This may have been 1979, I don't quite remember. What I do remember
was how heartsick I was at having to explain the probability that, because
we were poor folks, our immediate living environment was contaminated.
Such moments, in hindsight, portend what is to come. Darlene Fife's moving,
sometimes funny, sometimes scary, reflections on her time as editor and
publisher of the infamous underground newspaper NOLA Express is
a book filled with clues and signs of what was to come.
Broken into four sections Darlene
Fife tells the story of her adventures through the lives of her friends.
Fife's description of beautiful Lindy Brown's credo, "the most important
part I find myself playing in the revolution is to always be high," is
a key moment. Evoking a time when people made it a point to pursue their
bliss, it does not escape Darlene Fife that making life, work and play
an integral whole is the cornerstone to creating a truly just society.
"I have seen my neighbors...whose rhythms of planting corn, weeding the
garden and sitting on the front porch make life and work indistinguishable,"
an observation whose simplicity and sanity may yet save the world.
The section on Women Strike For Peace is
one of the most telling in the book, demonstrating that grassroots organizing
and visibility was what turned the nation around on Vietnam. To imagine
such brave people on the trolley on St. Charles leafleting against U.S.
involvement in Vietnam in the mid-sixties in New Orleans, Louisiana speaks
of a kind of bravery and commitment rare at any time or place. Much like
Fife's good friend Jim Degroff who "sold marijuana and LSD not for the
mundane purpose of making money but as a public service."
Allen Ginsberg makes a special guest star
appearance suggesting people shut off their air conditioners to save the
environment from further ozone depletion. Although not mentioned, as an
editor of NOLA Express Darlene published a number of beat poets
including Diane di Prima, Harold Norse, and Ed Sanders. A brief correspondence
with Charles Bukowski, whose stories suited the atmosphere of the French
Quarter, is featured.
Of course, not all was love and light in
New Orleans even in the sixties. The description of Kumi Maitreya, the
acid dropping Geraldine Hooper, as an "over weight, matronly, middle-aged
woman with brown stringy hair," known to herself and followers as an avatar,
a Living Buddha, is one of the most hilarious entries in the book. It
is also one of the most riveting. After all, isn't this the kind of weirdo
acid logic that made for Heaven's Gate, Charlie Manson, Hare Krishna's
Monkey on a Stick and all the rest? Luckily, Kumi's final bizarre crime,
driving her car in a continuous circle at a busy intersection, ends up
being a case dismissed after she tells the court she was performing a
Police State, drug war harassment, institutionalized
violence, militarism and pollution, the causes and concerns that so absorbed
the lives of Darlene Fife and her friends are as pressing as ever. Cancer
is now rampant. Cops killing black men is a daily event. Kids shooting
up the schoolyard seem to be a national trend. Acid festivals and pot
parties gave way to crack wars and meth factories. The rich got richer
and the poor got homeless. And the U.S. continues to bomb Baghdad, Khartoum,
Belgrade, Philadelphia. For a moment, a vision of something better was
in the air. One can only hope that the cause for clean water, uncontaminated
food, free erotic play, poetry and love, health and nutrition, peace and
general goodwill, will return to stir the minds of ever dreaming humanity.
In the meantime buy this book.
by Dennis Formento
in praise of Darlene Fife's Portraits From Memory: New Orleans in the
I used to hide NOLA Express in my
sock drawer the way other kids hid Playboy.
In 1968, Darlene Fife and Robert Head started
this newspaper as a weapon against the Vietnam War and the strangling
conformity of America in arms. They were two young poets who met while
going to graduate school at University College Dublin. Although they were
both involved with other people they felt an overwhelming attraction to
each other and broke up with their spouses at Easter 1965 to come back
to the States together. They settled in New Orleans, where Robert's family
lived and where he grew up in the same suburb I was raised in.
That was a weird coincidence I discovered
upon meeting them for the first time in the summer of 1999. It blew my
mind that Metairie, which was then and now a hopeless bed of Dixiecrats
and Republicans, had spawned one of the most significant subversives in
By that summer I had been in touch with
Darlene Fife for a year and a half, having searched first for her husband
through Joel Dailey's 'zine, Fell Swoop. Robert had published some
of his distinctive, phonetically-spelled poems in the Swoop, and
as usual, each poet's address was published along with their poems.
So I wrote Robert Head and never heard a
Some time went by & though I wrote again,
Robert never responded.
NOLA Express did as much to twist my
wig as Allen Ginsberg did. Named after William Burroughs's cut-up novel,
Nova Express, it was the Seed of New Orleans, The Barb
of Louisiana, and The Rat of the South. But the paper was unique
in the underground press because it published literature as well as antiwar
news and psychedelic art. Head and Fife ran poems by Charles Bukowski,
Lyn Lifshin, d.a. levy, Marcus (Jack) Grapes, Harold Norse and a lot of
lesser-known poets. Robert even interviewed Ginsberg himself for the paper.
The division between culture and politics
that hampered so much of the left in the 60s didn't seem to affect Head
and Fife. It was a hell of a lot wilder than Rolling Stone. The
art was raw and direct. The articles, written by antiwar radicals, poets,
and the editors themselves, dissected the power structures of the local
university culture, the electric utility, and the city government, exposing
the interlocking directorates that put CIA operatives in the halls of
academe. The paper was composed with scissors and paste, and pages were
sometimes laid out with original articles, typeset by Robert, alongside
clippings from the straight press. NOLA ripped the straight press
to shreds. NOLA Express was also cheap and easy to find. You could
pick one up for thirty-five cents at a concert at A Warehouse on Tchoupitoulas
Street or walk down Bourbon Street to get a NOLA from one of the
hundreds of longhaired kids who supported themselves by hawking the paper.
Many of them runaways or dropouts from the heartland, these kids found
their way to Mike Stark's shop, Stark Realities, where they could pick
up a stack of papers to sell. The vendors kept a quarter for each one
they sold, so they really didn't have to work too hard to get a thirty-five
cent plate of red beans at Buster Holmes's Restaurant on Burgundy. They
could check NOLA Express for a place to crash at the HEAD Inn,
or find treatment for the clap at the HEAD Clinic, both started by Stark
as a public service. NOLA's menu of art and politics was a seamless
web of service and imagination.
Head and Fife were everywhere. NOLA Express
sued Richard Nixon for abuse of power and filed the first legal intervention
against the Waterford 3 nuclear power plant, one that ended unsuccessfully
in 1974. The subsequent effort to stop construction of the plant was the
first political action I joined in 1977. But I first heard of the plant
when the NOLA Express lawsuit was covered on television.
Sometimes I got my NOLA Express from
Sidney's Newsstand. It used to be the best place in the city to get a
paper, and it still stands on Decatur Street near the last of the old
neighborhood Italian groceries. More frequently, I got a copy from my
older sister who was into the rock scene at the Warehouse and the various
clubs and bars of the French Quarter.
In 1968, the paper was a shock to my fourteen-year-old
mind, with its drawings of naked bodies and frank discussion of the war.
It would have had my parents in tears of revulsion. Naked breasts and
cocks! Open advocacy of LSD! Defense of the Vietnamese communists, who
to my folks were just an extension of the Japanese of World War II. In
those days, simply hinting that I wasn't willing to go get my head blown
off in Vietnam was to risk getting the crap knocked out of me by my father's
As the 60s gave way to the 70s and the war
went on, the possibility became more and more real: what if I was a corpse
in a year?
"Well, son," my mother told me
sadly, "at least I would know that you gave your life for your country."
What I had been hearing all my life about
doing your patriotic duty seemed a hell of a lot less noble when I thought
I might be dead at the age of eighteen. There was no other local paper
but NOLA Express that told me it was right to resist the war. "ENEMY
BOMBS HANOI," screamed the front page of a January 1972 edition.
That headline forced me to cross a line that I had shied away from before.
Was the U.S. government my enemy?
I first stepped up to that line while I
was still a freshman in high school. St. Aloysius High was a one-hundred-year-old
institution on the edge of the French Quarter. Catty-corner stood the
giant cloistered convent where two old women were still holed up, the
last cloistered nuns in a dying tradition of absolute denial. Surrounding
Aloysius on three sides was the mostly African-American neighborhood of
Treme. Across Rampart was the most famous Bohemian district in the American
South. This put me, a quiet white kid from the 'burbs, in the center of
action. To compound the cultural clash, Naval Junior ROTC was compulsory
at Aloysius. The atmosphere was hawkish and bigoted. Everyday longhairs
passing the school grounds were met by jeers and catcalls from the so-called
"cadets." These kids were the same ones who picked fights with
me daily. It took about a minute to figure out that I had more in common
with the weird-looking longhaired men and women than with my own schoolmates.
I wasn't ready to drop LSD but I could see that something, probably me,
had to change.
During the last week of August, 1968, something
happened that turned my head around. My father, who was a barber, didn't
work on Monday and on that day he picked me up from school and took me
and my mother to lunch. On the way home that day, the car radio was tuned
to the CBS affiliate for the evening news on the riots in Chicago at the
Democratic National Convention. My father was cursing and fuming about
the goddamn hippies ruining the country. I was riveted and planned to
watch the televised news later that evening. What I saw there was something
I didn't have a word for yet, a police riot, cops beating reporters bloody
with truncheons and spraying kids with Mace.
Every family was at war that fall of 1968,
wrote Jack Hoffman, brother of Abbie Hoffman, in his memoir, Run Run
Run: The Lives of Abbie Hoffman. Mine was no different. My mother's
ambition to get her son shot full of holes in the war was compounded by
my father's desire to cut his son's head off at the hair. I was "ruining
his business." It was a cultural war as well as a political one.
One Saturday in 1973 when I went to visit the shop, the whole aggregation
of old men let out a collective gasp when they saw "one of them"
come through the front door. When I gave my father the keys to his car
and walked out again, one of the customers pulled off the barber's drape
before my dad could put scissors to his head, turned to him and said,
"You can't control your own son." The man never came back. Over
the years, I heard about it every time some old fart recognized me on
the street and made my father pay for it with more lost business. I got
the belt for it until the day I hit him back. I could have laid him flat
on his back if I had wanted to but the blow was more like a warning. He
never swung on me again.
NOLA Express ceased publication in 1974
when Robert and Darlene joined the "back to the land" movement,
seeking a way of life closer to the earth's rhythms in West Virginia.
NOLA's successor, Broken Barriers, came out for a few years
following. It was edited, published, and hawked by a guy named Mark Carlson.
I used to read it but the moment had passed. In her memoir of the NOLA
Express years, Portraits From Memory: New Orleans in the Sixties,
Darlene recalls speaking to Charles Bukowski just once in all their years
of association. Talking with him by phone from the hill country, Darlene
told the poet that they would start something similar in West Virginia
and would continue to publish him.
"It'll never be the same," said
Bukowski, "never the same." He was right, she says. It's pretty
much the same with the underground press: the emergence of the Internet
makes information alternatives available, but only if you have a computer.
The 'zine phenomenon doesn't require a computer and connects cultural
and political radicals through mailing lists but each one reaches maybe
only a couple of dozen people. What made the underground press great was
the inexpensive reproduction of radically different news on the street,
available to literally thousands of people. The so-called "alternative"
weeklies of today, with their tons of space dedicated to flatware, spas,
and slightly left-of-right opinion, don't hold a candle. A truly underground
press might never appear again.
Mike Stark was a longhaired Baptist minister who made himself indispensable
because he was the one member of the French Quarter hip community whom
the city trusted enough to deal with. He explained this dispensation to
Darlene Fife in her book, Portraits From Memory: New Orleans in the
Sixties: "I was cute." Indeed. A big, rotund, balding man
who wore Christlike white robes and a red beard, who neither drank, smoked,
nor tripped, he became an avuncular figure to the kids who blew in from
nowhere. As a Baptist minister, he considered the streets his church and
the thousands of longhairs who passed through to be his parishioners.
Though I never met him, he was a familiar sight to me. His HEAD clinic
(no relation to Robert) got him into hot water with the city for allegedly
treating young people for minor sexual infections. As late as 1974 nomads
were staying at his HEAD Inn, a hostel also located on Burgundy Street.
Years later, he presided over The Little Shop of Fantasy, a mask shop
on St. Peter Street. Parents relaxed and entrusted their runaways to him
once they met Mike Stark.
They might not have felt the same about
Robert and Darlene. Their work was considerably more confrontational toward
the society that created the war and the American sexual hypocrisy that
inspired its kids to desert the American Dream in droves. Having begun
their conversion to radicalism in the working class bars of Dublin, Head,
the son of a prominent local psychiatrist, and Fife, a former physics
major, came to New Orleans and contacted the New Orleans Freedom Press,
a newsletter published by veterans of the civil rights movement. These
activists now were working not only against segregation but also against
the military buildup in Southeast Asia. Their first contact was Jack Minnis.
Minnis was older than Robert and Darlene, and he authored an acerbic column,
"Life With Lyndon in the Great Society," which presented statistics,
facts, and commentary that objectively showed that our government was,
in fact, fascist because it favored the race and class-based hegemony
of the rich and powerful over American society. Minnis's did not use the
word "fascist" in an emotional sense, as Fife points out, but
in the objective manner of a political scientist who had a couple decades
of walking picket lines with labor and civil rights groups to back up
Head and Fife got involved with the newly-formed
New Orleans Committee to End the Vietnam War (NOCEVW) and picketed the
Custom House, where eighteen-year olds were required to register for the
draft. Thousands of young men would be shipped off to the Army after their
visit and thence to Vietnam. Darlene soon grew tired of simply walking
the lines, trying to bend the opinions of passersby while enduring harassment
by ordinary people and observation by the New Orleans Police Department.
She studied the draft laws and set herself up as a draft counselor. She
notes in her book that no young man she counseled was ever drafted. She
was so good at it that a movement heavy like Bernadine Dohrn, whose voice
later announced the birth of the Weather Underground on a taped message
to American tv and radio, wanted to meet her upon visiting New Orleans.
During their first years in New Orleans,
Darlene was employed by Chrysler at the NASA assembly facility in the
New Orleans East community of Michoud, a job she later abandoned. Meanwhile,
Robert busied himself learning the printing trade. He worked for a couple
of years in the print shop of a swanky Quarter hotel until he knew he
could assemble a newspaper. Darlene eventually quit her job at the aerospace
plant and took on part time work keeping the books for Michael and Barbara
Scott, who owned the Fatted Calf Restaurant. Michael had also worked for
Chrysler, and although Barbara was a Republican, she was an outspoken
opponent of American foreign policy, and Darlene once registered as a
Republican so she could vote for Barbara in her run for the Republican
Having acquired the skills and free time
they needed, they launched NOLA Express, sending out the first
issue using a copy of the New Orleans Freedom Press mailing list,.
Mimeographed at first on the NOCEVW's machine, the paper soon graduated
to offset printing and a big, newspaper-style format. Their layout, mocked
by the straight world as random and amateur, was done by hand with scissors
and paste. It included items from the aboveground press juxtaposed against
their original journalism and radical or acid-inspired art. Charles Bukowski's
stories were illustrated by art from locals like Francisco McBride and
At its peak, the paper reached 11,000 readers
a week through the street vendors and newstands where they were taken
by Jack Frazier's Atlantis Distribution. Atlantis was a one man-operation
started by a West Virginia expatriate for the sole purpose of bringing
the underground press into New Orleans. Jack had arrived in the winter
of 1961 with a freak cold front that froze water pipes all over the city.
Hundreds of people took refuge in French Quarter bars and Jack felt right
He got involved with the coffeehouse scene
and helped establish the Ryder Coffee House on Rampart Street, where the
parking lot of the Landmark Hotel now is. The Ryder was announced by a
wooden sign bearing a reproduction of Albert Pinkham Ryder's macabre "The
Race Track (Death on a Pale Horse)." It was lit within by lights
set inside coffee cans that had been painted black and perforated with
dozens of tiny holes. It was said that Lee Harvey Oswald and other shadowy
persons involved with the Kennedy assissination drank coffee there. But
its chief clientele were the local affiliates of the beat scene: painters,
poets, jazz musicians and wannabes of all stripes. The building was owned
by the Mafia, however, and eventually the owners received a notice saying
they had to leave. Some of them soon found new quarters in a three-story
house near the corner of Royal and Esplanade that became the Quorum Club
coffee house. It was a similar place except that instead of poets, painters,
and musicians, most of its habitués were activists in the civil
Although the top two floors and the separate
building in the back (known anachronistically as the slave quarters) were
private residences, the first floor of the house was dedicated to folk
music, voter registration and desegration. Jack Frazier managed the Quorum
Club for awhile. So did Robert Cass, a legendary scenemaker who still
lives near the Quarter. The place was the target of police and hate-group
harassment. Members of the White Citizens Council beat on the doors and
windows in the middle of the night. Once, someone threw a bomb-like object
into the front room that a brave soul named Mark Holian swept up into
his hands and carried outdoors. It was only a smoke bomb but the intent
to terrorize the racially-mixed group was clear.
The Quorum Club got a little national notoriety
when in July of 1964 it was raided by the New Orleans Police Department.
Seventy-five people were arrested, with profoundly ludicrous citations:
"communist agitation, integration agitation, homosexual socializing,
pointless intellectual conversation and tuneless playing of guitars."
New Orleans flautist Eluard Burt, a friend of poet Bob Kaufman, Jack Frazier
himself was the target of racial harassment when, as the only Caucasian
driver for Nighthawk Cabs, his windshield was smashed with a brick. The
daily Times-Picayune ran a picture of the "bearded civil rights
worker" staring down disconsolately at the broken windshield of his
car. Eventually, he was fired by a remorseful boss who simply couldn't
afford to keep him, because continuing to do so would endanger the lives
of Frazier and other drivers in the fleet.
Frazier started Atlantis with the
intention of getting underground papers like the Berkeley Barb, the
L.A. Free Press, The Chicago Seed, Screw, and so on, into area newsstands.
He didn't get anywhere until he also started selling porno magazines.
I used to get my own copies of NOLA Express from a shop a few blocks
from my parents' house that also carried "dirty magazines."
The Chicago Seven Trial:
Steal This Movie (A film about Abbie
Hoffman, to be released in May, 2000, sound and video.)
Bobby Seale's Home Page
Country Joe McDonald's Home Page (Includes
Chicago Seven Trial Testimony)
Hayden a delegate at Democratic Convention
in Chicago in '96
Yippie Minister of Education reminisces
about Abbie Hoffman
Steal This Book (so much easier on line)
PBS' American Experience "Chicago 1968"
Memories of Columbia Professor John Schultz
Excerpts from The Chicago Conspiracy Trial
by John Schultz
A friend remembers Abbie Hoffman
Four Radical Groups
Open Letter From David Dellinger
CV of Leonard Weinglass
Excerpts from Steal This Dream
Clavir, Judy and Spitzer, John, eds., The
Conspiracy Trial (Bobbs-Merrill, 1970).
Contempt: Transcript of Contempt Citations
with Foreward by Ramsey Clark (Swallow Press,1970).
Epstein, Jason, The Great Conpiracy Trial:
An Essay on Law, Liberty and the Constitution (Random House, 1970).
Kunstler, William, Deep in My Heart
Lane, Mark, Chicago Eyewitness (1968)
Langum, David, William M. Kunstler: The
Most Hated Lawyer in America (1999).
Lukas, J. Anthony, The Barnyard Epithet
Rubin, Jerry, Do It! (Simon and Schuster,
Mailer, Norman, Miami and the Siege of
Chicago: An Informal History of the Republican and Democratic Conventions
of 1968 (1968).
Pierson, Robert, Riots Chicago Style
Shultz, John, Motion Will Be Denied:
A New Report on the Chicago Conspiracy Trial (Morrow, 1972)(published
in revised form in 2000 under the title, The Chicago Conspiracy Trial).
Shultz, John, No One Was Killed (Big
Table Publishing, 1969 & 1998).
Sloman, Larry, Steal This Dream: Abbie
Hoffman and the Countercultural Revolution in America (Doubleday,
Walker, Daniel, Rights in Conflict: Convention
Week in Chicago, August 25-29, 1968.
Buckley, Tom, "The Battle of Chicago From
the Yippies' Side," New York Times Magazine (Sept. 15, 1968).
Arts & Entertainment American Justice
Series, Riot: The Chicago Conspiracy Trial (1996).
HBO Productions, Conspiracy: The Trial
of the Chicago Eight.
Steal This Movie (2000).
Chicago 7 Trial Homepage