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Three Pieces by D. Formento and R. Burk
Dennis Formento - Author's Links || R. Burk - Author's Links

Sue This Article
by Dennis Formento

("Sue 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" in Alabama.
     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 the truth.
     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.


Just Say Yes to N.O.
by Ronnie Burk

Portraits 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 religious ritual.
     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.

On Nola Express
by Dennis Formento

Some words in praise of Darlene Fife's Portraits From Memory: New Orleans in the Sixties
     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 my experience.
     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 thing.
     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 belt.
     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 his findings.
     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 State Committee.
     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 Murph Dowouis.
     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 at home.
     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 rights movement.
     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: A Bibliography

     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 (1971).
     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, 1970).
     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 (1984).
     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, 1998).
     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



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