Humor and Satire

David Peel: The Dope-Smokin’ Pope of the New York City Hippies

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By the time the Age of Aquarius hit my little Pennsyltucky town, it was already the Age of Libra. For years we stared at our cabinet TVs with envy at the scenes of flower-children burning draft cards in Chicago, marching for peace in D.C., and dancing in hallucinogenic stupor in Golden Gate park. Just when we’d nearly given up hope that we’d ever be hip, God answered our prayers and gave us something to break the monotony of our boring, bourgeois lives: a bearded, long-haired, blurry-eyed, sandaled dude whom the town elders affectionately called “The Dirty Hippie.” So touched was he by this moniker that he actually painted the nom de freak on the side of his psychedelically embellished pickup truck. What a treat to see him whiz by — “Sunshine of your Love” and fragrant smoke wafting from his windows — as we walked home from school. “Hey look! It’s the Dirty Hippie!” we’d cry out as we waved. I have no idea whether our token tokin’ rebel embraced the make-love-not-war ideology of the times, but he looked like he stepped right out of central casting for “Easy Rider.” And that was good enough for us. We didn’t want any trouble-making pinko types, anyway. We weren’t ready for our small hamlet to become infested with the city-bred rodent variety of hippie — like those personified by David Peel.

Larry Storch: My Corporal Crush, in the Land of Fort Courage

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I gave up trying to explain the appeal of my “crush objects” long ago. My fantasy figures, be they flesh-and-blood or fictional characters, have always been quirky types that never fit the traditional tall, dark, handsome, all-star, man-of-means mold. Such was the case with one of my earliest heartthrobs: Larry Storch. I’ve been in love … Read more

Let Me Sleep All Night in Your Soul Kitchen

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Heavens to Murgatroyd! How did I forget to post this item yesterday in honor of…you guessed it…National ‘Men Make Dinner’ Day? Shite, my man didn’t make me any vittles! Well, I guess it’s MY fault for not alerting him to this most important and manly of holidays. Geez, women have to think of everything. I’ll bet nobody … Read more

Come Together, Beatles: Here’s a Check for Three Grand

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April 24, 1976, marked the last evening that Paul McCartney would spend with John Lennon. That night, Paul and his wife Linda dropped in on John and Yoko, unannounced, and the two former Beatles spent a few hours together in the Lennons’ apartment in the monolithic Dakota Building in Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Don’t you just wonder what the Fab Two engaged in on that Saturday evening? Did they take turns bouncing 6-month-old Baby Sean on their knees? Nosh on a jar of Yoko’s expensive caviar? Play “Bohemian Rhapsody” on John’s turntable, hoping that Ms. Ono wouldn’t screech “scaramouche, scaramouche” along with Freddie Mercury? Well, as it turns out, they sat in the Lennons’ living room and watched Saturday Night Live! Imagine their surprise when SNL producer Lorne Michaels appeared on their TV screen, announcing an offer to pay the Beatles $3,000 to come together and perform three songs on his show!

Let’s Levitate Abbie From the Grave!!

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“Wanted: Charismatic crusader. Someone who can combine smarts, satire, moxie, and adrenaline to combat all that plagues modern society, from gas drilling to corporate pillaging.” Well, we have just the man for the job. Too bad he’s dead. Attention: this is an important history lesson for all you sweet young things born after the baby boom! The subject is Abbie Hoffman, who died 25 years ago today. He was one of the most colorful pranksters and political activists of the 1960s, and a hero to many. His outlandish behavior inspired many to become politically active, question authority and protest the Vietnam war. Hell, his FBI file consisted of over 13,000 pages.What an adorable little bad-ass Jew!