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THE COLLECTED

WORKS

OF A. J.
WEBERMAN

Copyright © 2012 Author Name
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
ISBN-13:

DEDICATION
DEDICATED TO MY DOG PUGGLES

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

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1 Early Signs of Dementia 1
2 Dylanology

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5 Chapter Name

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6 Chapter Name

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10 Chapter Name

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE
EARLY SIGNS OF DEMENTIA IN AJ WEBERMAN

The pharmacies in Brooklyn would sell
you anything during the 1950's. I first
obtained the ingredients for gunpowder
in 1955, when I was ten years old, by
looking up any pharmaceutical value the
ingredients of gunpowder (sulfur,
charcoal,
and
potassium
nitrite)
possessed. Then I forged a note that
read, "I give my son Alan Weberman
permission to buy charcoal because he
has a stomach ache and it helps him.
Sara Weberman." I bought each
ingredient at a different pharmacy. Some of the pharmacists were
skeptical and did not believe I suffered from the condition
described in the notes. But they all sold the chemicals to me.
What did I do with the gunpowder after I made it? I put it on a
round metal tray, placed the tray on the toilet seat in my family's
bathroom and ignited it. The tray was so thin that the god dam
toilet seat caught on fire!!! My parents could not believe their eyes
when they tried to use it!! This episode makes me recall the antiwar slogan - "Nixon, liar, we gonna set your ass on fire!"
LES FLEUR DE MAL

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MY LIFE IN GRIME

HEY KID WANNA BUY SOME SPANISH FLY?
Thanks to a pharmacy on Flatbush Avenue I
got into the aphrodisiac (Spanish Fly) and
vomiting pill businesses. I would purchase 20
double-0 capsules by telling the pharmacist,
who was getting know me rather well by this
time, that I gagged when I took aspirin tablets,
so I had to crush them up and put them in a capsule. I filled the
capsules with salt and pepper then sold them as either vomiting
pills, or Spanish Fly. One of my customers, Sammy Fishman,
asked me to meet him Flatbush and Church Avenues. He said, "I
gave the Spanish Fly pill to my older sister. I put it in her food. She
got really sick." I thought fast. I said, "I mixed up the vomiting pill
with the Spanish fly, Sammy. They look alike." I didn’t want to deal
with the dude if he was giving them to his sister...the motherfucker
might try it on his mother next!
I had some other rackets going before I adopted a socialist
morality. When I was 9 I obtained stock certificates from bankrupt
companies (my dad was an attorney), and sold them to the kids
on my block, assuring them a high rate of return on their
allowances. When my father received complaints from the kid’s
parents he said, "You are nine years old and you committed a
Federal crime!! This is a violation of the Securities and Exchange
Act!!" I reluctantly returned all the kids stinking allowances and
apologized to their parents telephonically. When I was 10 I invited
a rather slow think kid named Eddy Greenspan over to my
parent’s apartment when they were not there to witness my crime.
Then I slipped a pair of leg irons I had purchased at an Army
surplus store on Cortland Street on Eddy and refused to release
him until he signed a Last Will and Testament leaving everything
he owned to me. This was a great Army surplus store – they
would sell a kid like me, who looked like his mother dressed him,
ANYTHING. I purchased all sorts of knives there along with DDT
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A. J. WEBERMAN

bombs that looked like little CO2 capsules. I took several of these
bombs to summer camp and when a counselor fucked with me I
set one off in his face. He beat the shit out of me but is now
probably dead of cancer. Later Eddy told me that since his Last
Will and Testament was written under duress it was invalid. I
guess he had sought legal advice. While attending Lefferts Junior
High School I obtained information that one David Held’s mother
had been committed to a mental institution. The information was
passed on to me in this fashion: “Held’s mother’s a nut.” Back in
the 1950’s there was a tremendous stigma attached to mental
illness, especially in the Jewish Community. Instead of having
sympathy for this boy who had to grow up bereft of a mother, I
fucking blackmailed him. I told him that if he didn’t give me his
lunch money every day I would tell everyone his mother was a
nut. David made the tragic error of giving into blackmail and for
several months turned over his money to me. One day when I was
making my collection Held went nuts. He said he could not take it
anymore. But before he could attack me Stevie Kurshner and
Bruce Mann beat the crap out of him. David Held lived in a
building on Flatbush Avenue and Lincoln Road that became the
center of controversy after a Judge sentenced its Jewish landlord
to live under the conditions he allegedly created for his tenants.
The problem here is that before the Jamaicans took over the hood
there was no problem with this building. They destroyed it but the
liberals could not handle this so they blamed it on the owner. By
the time I got to Erasmus Hall High School I was already a beatnik
but retained some Brooklynese characteristics such as an interest
in racing sheets. A boy sitting in back of me, Jeffrey Knapp,
offered to take my bets. It was then I coined this adage “It is better
to take bets than to place them” based on “it is better to give then
to receive.” When I got to college, Michigan State University, I
received information that a student named Steven Lupoff had lied
about his grades to other students. Lupoff’s father owned a
pharmacy in Detroit. I tore out the index to a book entitled Drugs
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MY LIFE IN GRIME

And The Mind and checked off various drugs I was interested in
such as Mescaline. I told Stevie that if he didn’t steal the drugs I
had checked off from his father everyone would be informed of his
real grade point average. He agreed to the deal with the Devil.
When he returned after Winter break he pleaded with me, “I tried
but there is no disease that is cured by Mescaline or LSD. My
father had none but I did bring you these.” I looked at the label, it
said
“Antorax
Children’s
tranquillizer.”
Another
said
“Chlorpromazine.” I said, “I guess these will have to do” and I
popped a few. Not only did they not get me high but they got me
straight.
REEFER
Marijuana was instrumental in the development of
computer hardware and software. Longhaired, pot
smoking, dudes from the West Coast, formed
Apple, a company similar to John Lennon's Apple
Records. They capitalized Apple on money made
from selling toll fraud devices - red boxes and blue
boxes - that had first been designed by Yippie Captain Crunch.
Crunch wrote the first Word Perfect-like program, Easy Writer.
Because pot improves creativity in already creative people, the
people at Apple found a use for the serial mouse, which had been
invented by the UNIX people at Bell Labs. This led to the
proliferation of computers using American made chips and
software and reinvigorated the American economy. The high tech
stocks fuel the market. Dig what STEWART BRAND laid down:
In the 1960s and early '70s, the first generation of
hackers emerged in university computer-science
departments. They transformed mainframes into
virtual personal computers, using a technique
called time sharing that provided widespread
access to computers. Then in the late '70s, the
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second generation invented and manufactured the
personal computer. These nonacademic hackers
were hard-core counterculture types - like Steve
Jobs, a Beatle-haired hippie who had dropped out
of Reed College, and Steve Wozniak, a HewlettPackard engineer. Before their success with Apple,
both Steve’s developed and sold "blue boxes,"
outlaw devices for making free telephone calls.
Their contemporary and early collaborator, Lee
Felsenstein, who designed the first portable
computer, known as the Osborne 1, was a New
Left radical who wrote for the renowned
underground paper the Berkeley Barb.
As they followed the mantra "Turn on, tune in and
drop out," college students of the '60s also dropped
academia's traditional disdain for business. "Do
your own thing" easily translated into "Start your
own business." Reviled by the broader social
establishment, hippies found ready acceptance in
the world of small business. They brought honesty
and a dedication to service that was attractive to
vendors and customers alike. Success in business
made them disinclined to "grow out of" their
countercultural values, and it made a number of
them wealthy and powerful at a young age.
The third generation of revolutionaries, the software
hackers of the early '80s, created the application,
education and entertainment programs for personal
computers. Typical was Mitch Kapor, a former
transcendental-meditation teacher, who gave us
the spreadsheet program Lotus 1-2-3, which
ensured the success of IBM's Apple-imitating PC.
Like most computer pioneers, Kapor is still active.
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MY LIFE IN GRIME

His Electronic Frontier Foundation, which he cofounded with a lyricist for the Grateful Dead, lobbies
successfully in Washington for civil rights in
cyberspace.
In the years since Levy's book, a fourth generation
of revolutionaries has come to power. Still abiding
by the Hacker Ethic, these tens of thousands of
netheads have created myriad computer bulletin
boards and a nonhierarchical linking system called
Usenet. At the same time, they have transformed
the Defense Department-sponsored ARPAnet into
what has become the global digital epidemic known
as the Internet. The average age of today's Internet
users, who number in the tens of millions, is about
30 years. Just as personal computers transformed
the '80s, this latest generation knows that the Net is
going to transform the '90s. With the same ethic
that has guided previous generations, today's users
are leading the way with tools created initially as
"freeware" or "shareware," available to anyone who
wants them.
Of course, not everyone on the electronic frontier
identifies with the countercultural roots of the '60s.
One would hardly call Nicholas Negroponte, the
patrician head of M.I.T.'s Media Lab, or Microsoft
magnate Bill Gates "hippies." Yet creative forces
continue to emanate from that period. Virtual reality
- computerized sensory immersion - was named,
largely inspired and partly equipped by Jaron
Lanier, who grew up under a geodesic dome in
New Mexico, once played clarinet in the New York
City subway and still sports dreadlocks halfway
down his back. The latest generation of
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supercomputers,
utilizing
massive
parallel
processing, was invented, developed and
manufactured by Danny Hillis, a genial longhair
who set out to build "a machine that could be proud
of us." Public-key encryption, which can ensure
unbreakable privacy for anyone, is the brainchild of
Whitfield Diffie, a lifelong peacenik and privacy
advocate who declared in a recent interview, "I
have always believed the thesis that one's politics
and the character of one's intellectual work are
inseparable."
Our generation proved in cyberspace that where
self-reliance leads, resilience follows, and where
generosity leads, prosperity follows. If that dynamic
continues, and everything so far suggests that it
will, then the information age will bear the
distinctive mark of the countercultural '60s well into
the new millennium.
Does the underground ever get credit for
this? Does pot ever get credit? All we get is
Newt Gingrich blaming the counterculture
for Afro-American crime by accusing us of
breaking down moral standards in the
1960's. Newt was once in the underground, in fact he was the
editor of an underground newspaper. Newt Gingrich smoked pot,
and introduced a bill to ease federal restrictions on medical
marijuana in 1981. On March 19, 1982 he wrote in the Journal of
the American Medical Association,
We believe licensed physicians are competent
to employ marijuana, and patients have a right
to obtain marijuana legally, under medical
supervision, from a regulated source. Federal
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MY LIFE IN GRIME

policies do not reflect a factual or balanced
assessment of marijuana's use as a medicant.
Ramblin' Gamblin' Willie Bennett, who came down on pot
smoker's as drug czar in 1990's, had an addiction problem that he
fed in Lost Wages. These men should be put on trial along with
Usama Bin Laden for September 11th, as they had the Feds so
focused on the drug thing, with THE PARTNERSHIP FOR DRUG
FREE AMERICA, that the Islamist scum were overlooked. Another
guilty party is Bill Clinton, the happy-time party cat who let the
Feds go off in the direction they chose because he was having his
asshole reamed by a high-level groupie! President Clinton smoked
pot. But he did not inhale. What a liar. Who would have ever
thought to say this?
I WANT TO FILE ASSAULT CHARGES AGAINST THE RABBI
WHO CIRCUMCISED ME!!
I was born on May 26, 1945, in Manhattan
although I grew up at 50 Lefferts Avenue
in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. The
first thing I remember is an image of a sick
demented looking motherfucker dressed in
black coming at me with a knife and
praying at the same time. I would like to
find this motherfucker today and fuck him up. Hey and what is this
bullshit circumcision anyway? It is fucking mutilation; no Rabbi
with a knife in his hand is going to improve on millions of years of
evolution. Yeah, not only is it unnecessary, it is a crime - you ever
heard of murder and mayhem? Murder is when you kill someone,
mayhem is when you dismember them. My member got like
dismembered. I have no idea of what it is like to have a foreskin. I
have read that numerous nerve endings are severed during
circumcision so sex becomes less pleasurable. But diminishing
male satisfaction only causes the male to seek more sexual
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experiences so instead of making you less horny circumcision
makes Jews more horny. That's why most male heterosexual porn
stars are Jewish. And the shit they tell you, the foreskin infection
story is lot of crap. Shit, when I went out to the Midwest I expected
to see hundreds of drive in foreskin clinics, to deal with all the
goys foreskin infections out there. Like "Foreskins Cleaned While
You Wait" shit like that that never appeared. So fuck it all, stupidity
in the world cannot be avoided, cause some of it comes upon you
while you are still dependant on your parents for life.
Hey, I never had my dogs' balls cut off
and I never will. They call it "neutering." What
the fuck does that mean? That the dog is
"neutral" like Switzerland allegedly was
during World War II? I call it castration!
These bitches at the dog run tell me, "Oh he
has a much less chance of getting testicular cancer if you have
him neutered." No shit! By that same reasoning I should have my
heart removed then I would have a much less chance of getting a
heart attack. Puggles motto is "Jump 'em Hump 'em and Dump
'em" and he already knocked up a bitch at the dog run. Now he
prefers males...he tries to cornhole them unceasingly. I would
have hated to have him as a cellmate....so what if my pug is a
homo thug? What am I supposed to do? Return him to
Christopher Street Pets?
TWENTY MILLION FRENCHMEN CAN’T BE RIGHT
Like 99% of the people in America believed in Christianity but
the Jews didn't. This sowed the seeds of dissention in the Jewish
psyche, since the majority was not always right. If we put it up for
a vote Jesus would win hands down, at least in America. If we put
it up for a vote worldwide Mohammad would have a landslide.
Nonetheless, I dont go for any of that shit. I had this fantasy of
going to Ireland while the IRA was active there and like going on
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the radio and giving a speech: "What the fuck are you killing each
other for assholes? Both Catholicism and Protestantism are both
equally absurd delusions. Get your acts together and give up the
bullshit." I would have gotten my ass kicked by both sides.
BEING JEWISH MEANT BEING “EXTERMINATED” LIKE AN
INSECT
Having been born just as the war
ended it was bound to have had
an effect on my brain. I don’t
remember when it was I found
out I was Jewish, it was just
always something I knew. What
Jewish meant to me then was
people waiting in line to get
gassed. Why wait in an orderly
line? What the fuck was wrong
with the European Jews, why didn’t they fight back more than they
did? This thought bugged many intelligent kidz at the time. In
Hebrew School we talked of possible extermination in America.
The answer was "They will get the Negroes first." We figured the
Nazis hated the blacks more than the Jews because the blacks
committed a lot of violent crime. When I studied the Nazis later in
life I found exactly the opposite was true. The Nazis didn’t want to
gas all the blacks - they just wanted to send them back to Africa. It
was the Jews that the gas chambers were reserved for. I also did
not know that the Jews were ignorant as to the real intentions of
the Nazis but they should have known something was up when
they were separated from their children. The only good Nazi is a
dead Nazi. So I modeled myself to be the exact opposite of the
Nazis. Why worry about being clean when the Nazis bathed
regularly? Why listen to classical music when the "civilized" Nazis
listened to classical music? Why not be a fucking communist, like
those who defeated the Nazi scum? Who knew what was going on
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inside the USSR at the time. I became a short wave listener and
tuned into Radio Moscow, which had very powerful transmitters at
the time. In my public school yearbook it stated that I listened to
Radio Moscow, which my parents felt would follow me through life.
Shit, the first time I wrote to a socialist organization the Feds
contacted my father. They had a mail cover on the group and
since this was my first contact with the left, they told my father I
could have another chance if I never contacted a leftist group
again. During the anti-war period the Feds contacted everyone
who subscribed to the Yipster Times. I had to go to John Shattuck
of the American Civil Liberties Union to get them to stop. America
is a free country as long as you dont try and exercise your
freedom. You are free to obey, free to conform. Shit, you can
dress anyway you like, mutilate yourself to your hearts content,
but dont cross over certain bounds.
SHUL IS OUT FOREVER
I never believed in religion from the word go but was forced to
observe the tenants of orthodox Judaism by my father, who dug
the lick. I was forced to go to the Prospect Park Synagogue, which
had moved from a walk up above a supermarket on Flatbush
Avenue. My first memories are of this walk up house of prayer and
a dude named Joe Barth, whose wife couldn't have kids, praying
like a motherfucker with his tallis over his head. I never prayed, I
only pretended to, rocking back and forth and mumbling. What
difference did it make. I couldn't understand what I was saying in
Hebrew. I was taught to read and write Hebrew but not to speak it.
Modern Hebrew is as difficult as Chinese to learn, there are no
vowels, so a lot of immigrants to Israel can speak it but not read it.
But a Jewish education, as absurd as it is focusing on superstition
like don’t turn on lights on the Sabbath, is a good way to teach you
to think. If you can memorize all these commandments your brain
would have had some good exercise. Yeah, I have to admit that I
believe Jews are smarter than the rest. Many are professionals,
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scholars, Noble prize winners or like really rich. But what Jews
really excel at is figuring out ways to destroy themselves. Both the
Jews and the Muslims voted overwhelmingly for John Kerry - the
Jews to destroy themselves, the Muslims to destroy America!
Kerry would have tried to gut the Patriot Act - hey the Patriot Act is
aimed at Muslims, not at the general population. And guess what the feds did black bag jobs, obtained confidential records and a
whole lot of other things long before the Patriot Act was passed.
Maybe they couldn't use the info in court but it didn't really matter
since there is no justice - just ice - if you go to trial. The Feds have
a 90% conviction rate - tantamount to a court martial. If you have
the temerity to question their investigative ability you gonna sit for
ten years my man! And guess what, while you be waiting to go to
trial - if you can't make bail or are denied bail - you be living under
worse conditions than after you are convicted. Hey, I been there
sports fans.
I have never read the entire Bible. I figure I might as well wait
until I get thrown in jail to do so. (First thing I did when they tossed
me into The Union County Jail in Jersey was beg for a bible. The
dude I was locked up with went to Erasmus, the same High
School I attended, so I asked him to sing "On Erasmus, On
Erasmus Fight on to your Fame" with me. He was a big black
dude who tossed some drugs while the cops were chasing him.
He had the top bunk and his feet dangled down. I felt like Huck
Finn on that raft in the river, locked up but free. I had Aron Morton
Kay call the dudes wife and tell her he was clinkified at the
crossbar inn because the brother couldn't do it himself for some
reason.

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Who the fuck knows why
but from the word go I
never fit in the mold.
Yeah, I went to PS 241,
where I peed in my pants
and left a big wet circle
on the floor. The teacher
tried to figure out who
did by reconstructing
who sat where. That fucking building was a fucking maze to me
and I had to leave little bits of paper in the hallways when I went to
the bathroom on the first floor to find my way back. Fear. Fear.
Fear permeated the Jewish community that survived in America,
fear they didn't know even existed. Death. Gas chambers.
Roundups. American Jews came real close to mass death and
this left an imprint on their psyches. Then there was the fear that
Jews would be labeled as Communists due to the Rosenberg’s
and so many others. The Rosenberg’s were guilty of either trying
to steal America's atomic secrets or stealing America's atomic
secrets - there is no doubt about that. I went through the entire
Rosenberg file at the FBI reading room and the sketch that they
transmitted to the Russians resembled a diagram of an atomic
device that some of my associates in the Underground Press
published in a Wisconsin newspaper. What they were also guilty
of was gratitude to the Soviet Union for defeating Hitler and saving
their lives. America would never have entered World War Two but
for the attack on Pearl Harbor. Sixty-five percent of Americans
were isolationists. The Germans were the largest ethnic group that
immigrated here. This image we have of a little old American lady
sitting in front of her radio in the 1940's listening to war reports
and saying: "Sonny we got to go over there and fight Hitler" is a
load of shit. It was more likely "Let’s not get involved in a war for
the Jews." Hitler dug Amerika. He wrote in Mein Kampf that unlike
the conquerors of Latin America, the Americans did not intermix
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with the indigenous population. Like the rest of Mein Kampf this
statement is historically inaccurate. American slave owners could
not stay out of the slave quarters and although blacks were
considered only a fraction human they were human enough to
fuck the shit out them. This created the race of blacks we see here
in America. The first time I saw an African, on a beach in Tel Aviv
in 1959, I could not believe it. They looked so much different than
American blacks. Well, shit those were Victorian times and
everyone was horny. But my take on this is that the Constitution
said that Blacks were only two thirds human beings. By implication
this means that the other third was animal. So any slave owner
that fucked three of his slaves was fucking someone who the
founding fathers considered an animal and should have been
busted under the laws against bestiality.
Hitler dug America for other reasons. The Americans
exterminated the natives or sent them to concentration camps (not
death camps) known as reservations. They gave the Indians
blankets contaminated with smallpox, germ warfare that even
Hitler temporarily shunned. The Rosenberg’s had a false picture of
life in the Soviet Union, they never visited there but were taken in
by CPUSA propaganda. I do not believe they were evil people,
just deluded and victims of the Second World War.

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FIRECRACKERS
My major ambition when I was about
10 or 11 was to purchase an entire mat of
firecrackers so I could resell them by the
pack to other kids. I saved up my money
and along with my buddy, I believe it was
Stevie Kirchner, we headed down to
Canal Street to cop. Our first problem was
our dress. Like we looked like our mothers
dressed us, which they did. A dark
complexioned older kid approached us
and asked if we wanted to buy firecrackers. We said we did and
he told us that we had come the right place. As we walked down
the Manhattan old city street we stopped and the kid bought us
both Italian ices. Then we went into a red bricked housing project
building and were told to give him the money and wait on the
staircase. He was going up to see Joey Maldanado in Apartment
15-B. An hour passed. Than two. Soon we realized we had been
ripped off. We went to 15-B and knocked on the door. A PuertoRican lady answered. She didn’t speak English. I learned two
things from this experience - always ask to see the goods before
you turn over the money and the Italians will fill your stomach
before they rip you off.
This little piece of knowledge came in handy later on in life. It
was 1980 and Aron Kay and I were hitchhiking back from a Yippie
Conference in Columbus, Ohio. It was a strange night: First we
got picked up by a military policeman whose ambition was to join
United States Customs so that one day he could take a bribe and
become rich. He knew there was no other way this was going to
happen. Then a dude in an antique car picked us up. A skinny
dark haired Italian junkie from Brooklyn, the kind of guy even the
Mafia wouldn't touch. The evil that Brooklyn could produce often
gave me cause to wonder. This dude was all scarred up and
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began to reminisce about the various accidents he had been in.
Aron, who had a big scar on his neck from an old auto accident
began to chime in about his mishap. I didn’t dig the conversation
in the least. When he stopped off to get gas the dude bought us
some food and asked us where we lived and if he could come
upstairs and make a telephone call. I told him we lived on
McDougal Street in the village. When we got to the Holland tunnel
and stopped for the toll I opened the door and Aron and I got out
quickly. The dude drove off. The cops saw us and told us if we
were still there when they returned we were busted. Luckily we
were pretty well known in New York City at the time and someone
who recognized us gave us a lift home. I went over to my buddy
Lenny's pad on Sixth Avenue. Lenny was a professional poker
player who collected antique cars. I picked up a newspaper Lenny
had lying about and there was an article about a dude who had
placed an a classified ad in a newspaper stating that he wished to
sell his antique car, the same make and model car that we had
just driven in with the psychopath. The dude lived in Pennsylvania.
When the guy arrived to look at the short, he pulled a gun, tied up
the owner and stole the car. That was the last time I hitchhiked...
I became adept at the use of firecrackers. My parents hired a
baby sitter for me named Mrs. Suckman who I did not like. I
remember she was watching Ike’s first inauguration intently on our
Dumont television when I set off a firecracker a few feet from her.
She slapped me but that was the last I saw of her. I learned to
remove the gunpowder from the firecrackers fuse so it would not
ignite immediately. I would place one of these modified
firecrackers in a pile of dog shit and ignite it when a pedestrian or
pedestrians passed a certain point, a large tree in a garbage
collection area. I had it timed so just as they passed the dogshit
the firecracker would ignite sending the dog all over the poor
passerby whose only crime was to have encountered Alan
Weberman. I would be across the street pretending to practice

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stoop ball and pretend to be startled by the blast. I also trafficked
in cracker balls, these little round
explosive devices that would
explode on impact. They looked
like children’s candy and I am sure
that several kids bit into them
every Fourth of July. What I would
do with those would be to go over
to my friend Arthur Dyner’s parents apartment and wait until a
convertible passed under his 6th floor window then toss down a
barrage of crackerballs at the driver and occupants of the car. The
cops came and told us we had better stop before we caused a
serious accident. As I grew more sophisticated I switched from
firecrackers to Ash cans and cherry bombs. The ashcan was an
interesting device in that it had a magnesium fuse so it would
explode under water. I took a few ashcans to camp, went out
boating in the middle of Maple Lake and set it off. All of a sudden I
saw everyone in the swimming area get out of the water in a
panic. It seems that sound waves carry quite some distance in
water. I came close to getting kicked out of camp for that one as
the swimming counselor claimed I could have deafened all the
swimmers.
THE FIRST TIME I GOT TURNED ON
I lived under a very oppressive regime
thanks to my father, Ezra Weberman, who
was into Judaism. I was strictly forbidden
from eating pork. But I never believed any
of that horseshit from the get go. Pork
was supposed to contain trichina worm anyway, so you weren’t
missing anything. Of course finding a non-Jewish student who had
to stay home for school because he had trichinosis was unheard
of. The first one to turn me on was my friend Martin Levinson's
mother, Risha Levinson. And the first one was free. Risha
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Levinson was a living example of the creativity of secondgeneration Russian Jewish immigrants. She is still around today
as sentient and creative as ever at age 90. Her son Martin wrote a
book, Brooklyn Boomer, wherein he recalled the childhood
experiences we shared in common. Unfortunately this angelic lady
turned me on to ham, not lobster. But this was kewl cause it was
ham for the first time in years of ham free existence. Oh I had had
unkosher shit before. Like my mother washed my mouth out with
hand soap after I said SHIT a couple of times in the elevator. She
should have used Rokeach kosher kitchen soap. The soap was
like a gateway drug. So it was either Risha or my mom that got me
started on the stuff. The next unkosher experience I remember
was in a candy store near my public school, PS 241 in Brooklyn.
In Crown Heights, all black kids now. It was raining and I was
sitting next to Andrew Pulos whose father was a superintendent.
Pulos was a dummy, and I attributed this to his environment. I had
saved my allowance and I ordered a steak sandwich for the first
time. It came on a Kaiser roll, and consisted of several thin layers
of steak like Steak Ums. The meat had not been koshered. There
were still traces of blood in it. Blood. Blood is tasty shit, the
Chinese eat coagulated pig blood. Like Jews kidnap Christian kids
and eat them? Hey kids ain't kosher, they have no split hooves.
One problem that Jewish people have is that they are too
civilized. Non-Jews dont have this problem, they have another
one: civilization is merely a veneer that can be stripped off at any
moment. Koshering meat means civilizing meat, as if meat could
be civilized? But the Bible implies that you are what you eat. What
this boils down to is draining the blood and salting it to get rid of
the blood. Like I think the first commandment is not eat the flesh of
an animal while it is still alive. Like it is hard for me to picture a
bunch of Hebrews getting together and each taking turns taking
bites out of a live cow. They must have eaten smaller animals
while they were still alive. It also means only eating animals with a

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A. J. WEBERMAN

split hoof that chew their cud, only eating fish with scales. Now as
a garbologist I was at first offended by the fact that Jews were not
allowed to eat creatures that were scavengers like lobsters. I was
a scavenger. What in the fuck was wrong with scavengers? Then I
realized that these creatures were high in cholesterol and
especially unhealthy. It was also kewl to kill animals in a humane
fashion, humane for the times at least. Animals are eventually
going to die, why not slaughter them before this happens and
recycle them as food? That's why eating veal is uncool. Veal is
baby cow so the animal is not given a chance to live and
reproduce. Chickens that are locked in small cages all their lives
are also uncool. But if an animal lives out its life and is going to
croak anyway recycle the fucker. But dont pig out on the stuff.
One needs about half the size of a normal American portion to
thrive.

MY MOTHER
My mom, Sara Weberman, was no dummy. She was the
personal secretary of Rita Sands, a member of the Board of
Education who was paid $1. a year by the city for her services.
This, however, turned me into what is now known as....
26

MY LIFE IN GRIME

THE UNHAPPY CAMPER
My father was Orthodox, my mother was
secular. This made for strange karma. When my
father suspected my mother was buying nonkosher food, he went through our garbage and
read the labels. This inspired me to go through Dylan's garbage
and become the first garbologist. I went to P.S. 241 in Brooklyn,
instead of to Yeshiva; however, during the summertime I attended
Camp Maple Lake, an Orthodox Jewish summer camp. Suddenly,
I was forced to pray three times a day, wear a Kippur, and
observe the laws of the Sabbath. I took out my frustrations on my
bunkmate, Salo Belkin, the son of the President of Yeshiva
University. Salo was in an automobile accident, and was retarded.
This, I felt, was a major factor in his being a true believer in
Judaism, and I gave him many a chance to demonstrate his
loyalty to the Jewish faith.
I brought Salo to a remote part of Camp Maple Lake. I
grabbed his yarmulke then ran. I reminded Salo that the Torah
forbade him to walk without his head covered in the presence of
God for more than four feet. Later I learned that there was no such
commandment. It was merely custom that caused Jews to cover
their heads, not the word of God. Salo was PARALYZED. I left the
yarmulke on the ground just out of his reach. If he stretched his
body enough he could get his yarmulke back and be on his way.
Salo lay down on the ground on his stomach, extended his arm,
and reached for it with all his might ---- but he couldn't get it,
proving, God did not exist.

27

A. J. WEBERMAN

Salo never finished his evening prayers on
time. I finished on time, since I never really
prayed, but merely pretended to do so, rocking
back and forth and moving my lips as if I was
reading the Hebrew words that I could not
understand. Belkin finished his prayers in the
back room of the bunkhouse, after everyone
was asleep. I came in there one night, while
Belkin was in the middle of the Shamona
Esrick, a prayer where you are forbidden to
walk or talk, and I shut the light off, making it impossible for him to
finish. I reminded Salo "No walking or talking during the Shemona
Esrick!!!" Since he was in the middle of the prayer, Salo was
forced to stay in the backroom, unable to call for help and unable
to move. He was paralyzed by his religion. At approximately 4:00
a.m. one of my fellow campers had to use the john. He discovered
Salo and released him. He described Salo as having been
"foaming at the mouth or frothing at the mouth."
The esteemed Rabbi Belkin visited Camp Maple Lake. My
camp counselors, Alan Dershowitz and Daniel Chill, made me
return everything I had stolen from Belkin, so he would have some
stuff in his cubby when his father arrived. I gave him back his stuff,
knowing I could steal it again after Rabbi Belkin left. While stealing
Salo's stuff for a second time around, I found a Kodak flash
camera loaded with film. Rabbi Belkin also left a mailing envelope
with his home address on it, so Salo could mail him the film and
he could have it developed. I called my friend Tanny Berman.
Tanny and I entered the bunkhouse when it was empty, and got
the camera from Salo's cubby. I pulled down my pants. Now most
kids would have mooned the Rabbi, but I had Tanny take close up
shots of my pecker. (I had one public hair at the time). I mailed the
film to the Rabbi. Salo got to keep the camera because it would be

28

MY LIFE IN GRIME

evidence against him when his father tried to determine whose
hairless pecker was in the pictures. Salo had been Oswalded!
I never could figure out what happened to those pictures, no
one complained, or mentioned anything about them, ever. Alan
Deshowitz did the O.J. Simpson case. Danny Chill was an
attorney for Bernard Bergman, who ran a series of old age homes
where old Jewish people were neglected.

Salo only lived for 43 years. I was extremely sad to discover
this and realized that I loved Salo Belkin. I attributed my actions to
the human condition but that was just a rationalization.
We were all super-horney in those days. One of my fellow
campers, Norbert Ecstein, heard that there was a prostitute by the
name of Mary Vega in Manhattan. When we returned from camp,
Norbert got the Manhattan white pages and called up every Mary
Vega in it, to inquire if she was the Mary Vega who was a
prostitute.
TIMES SQUARE...NOW THE ONLY ONE TO FUCK IS DONALD
DUCK
I began to cut class and head
for Times Square, in order to
pursue my interest in African
culture. In those days the
courts had decided that the
breasts of African woman
could be shown in movie
theatres since they could not
possibly arouse passion in
the white man. (I am not a white man, I am a Jew, but I assumed
29

A. J. WEBERMAN

the law also covered me) So I became a devotee of movies such
as "Bare Africa" "Naked Africa." This brought me to 42nd Street,
and Hubert's Trained Flea Circus, the last freak show on Times
Square. By the time I got to Hubert’s there were no trained fleas,
at least I don't remember seeing any. I don't remember anything
about Hubert's except for a snake dancer who danced to Tequila
and a midget or two. The place latter became a peep show, which
was sort of a freak show in itself, and then was torn down by
Disney. Someday I hope to head the Times Square DeDevelopment Board, where I will supervise the destruction of The
New Times Square and recreate the old one - with its dirty movie
theatres, Modells, Richard's Dive Shop, titty shows, hot dog
luncheonettes, stores selling transistor radios and stilettos, dirty
magazine stores and Tanfastic - one of the raunchiest whore
houses ever...
THE GALLO BROTHERS
Strangely enough, my association with
the Gallo crime family started after I
became a Jean Shepard listener in the
mid-1950's. Shepard told of life in
Chicago during the Depression and
came up with a lot of good Americana.
His sponsors were mostly located in the Village and included Ed
Fancher of the Village Voice, the Paperbook Gallery, Ying and
Yang restaurant, the Cafe Bizarre, Marlboro Books - all that
survives in the Voice. Jean Shepard died on Sunday October 17,
1999 in Sanibel Island, Florida.
Shepard's obituary stated that he had
two children that he never acknowledged
were his. They apparently hated him,
proving, that the great artist is not always
the greatest person. A good example of
this is Dr. Destouches, also known as
30

MY LIFE IN GRIME

Louis Ferdinand Celine. Although he was a Jew hater and Nazi
collaborator there is no denying that he wrote some great books
such as Journey to the End of Night. One day circa 1958 I brought
a Jean Shepard LP with me to Erasmus Hall High School. A
homeroom classmate approached me. He said, "Hey man, are
you a listener?" Like Shepard would have all his listeners flash
their electric lights on and off at 4:00 a.m. so that they could
identify each other and groove on each other. His listeners were
termed "a cult". I said, "Yeah, I'm a Jean Shepard listener."
(Shepard also said that names were symbolic - pointing to his own
name) The classmate was Neil Hickey, and his mother was one of
Joey and Larry Gallo's sisters. The Gallo brothers were notorious
gangsters in Brooklyn. Joey had a pet lion at his headquarters on
President Street. When the cops caught him with his pet, Joey
had someone come forward and take the rap for him. Joey got
shot in Umberto's Clam House. Dylan sang a song about, him,
called "Joey," but I was buddies with his hippie nephew. Dylan
was just a sports fan. Neil told me that while visiting his
grandmother, Larry "Kid Blast" Gallo ran into the house, grabbed
Neil, took him to a bedroom, and threw up the mattress from his
bed, then took aim at the door with a handgun. No one appeared
and Neil split. I am sure Neil shit in his pants. The Gallos favored
admitting blacks into the mob. When Joey did time, he was the
first white to get a haircut from a Negro barber. Neil asked me
what kind of music I dug. I said, "I dig like My Fair Lady" the only
kind of music I knew about at the time. Neil took two steps back
and said, "Man, you don't dig jazz?" I said, "Like Bennie
Goodman?" He says, "No man, like John Coltrane." I became
close with Neil, who introduced me to Dennis D'Amico. When my
parents found out I was hanging with Italians, they freaked. They
wanted to know if they were dark skinned Italians, or light skinned
Italians. My parents were like weird. Whenever there was a report
of an accident, or murder, on the radio or television, they would
listen for the person’s name and then say "Not a Jewish name." I
31

A. J. WEBERMAN

did not get along with them and on return from college I found a
note written in my blood in which I vowed to kill my mother later on
in life for the repression I had suffered when I was a child. I vowed
never to chicken out, even if what my mom did to me seemed
trivial later on in life. I purchased a starter pistol in Italy and
smuggled it back to the States. Whenever I had a fight with my
parents I would come out of my room and pump a few blank
rounds in their direction. I was a strange, immoral kid. Before I
became a beatnik and leftist, I was into scams. I purchased
condoms from Mark Krause, who worked at a Pharmacy near my
school, PS 241, put pinholes in them, then sold them to kids.
Krause admitted later on that he also put pinholes in them. I once
stiffed Krause for a scumbag shipment and he came after me and
twisted my arm until I paid up. Krause contacted me via email and
is now a stage manager and a cool guy. It turns out his parents
sent him to military school - the ultimate threat back then - so that
was why he did not attend the same high school (Erasmus Hall)
that I did. The kids would attach the condoms to water faucets,
then turn on the water and watch them explode.
Neil and I played the African drums.
Our hero was Babalundi Olatungi,
whose record, Lumumba Died For All
Africa, was recalled by Columbia
Records. I purchased a Congo drum at
Macy's and Neil got a set of bongos.
We liked to jam, so we went over to
Neil's grandmother's house every
Saturday. Mrs. Gallo was a short, red-headed lady, who would
often say "See you later, alligator." Why she spawned a bunch of
gangsters was beyond me. Maybe it had to do with her marrying
one? Neil and I formed the Progressive Bible Readers. We read
from the first page of Genesis with bongos and Congo drum
accompaniment in between. It was weird. It was like "In the

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MY LIFE IN GRIME

beginning" (thump, thump, thump) God created Heaven and Earth
(thump thump thump)". I told Dylan about the Progressive Bible
Readers and he did a song that parodies it, "God Gave Names to
all the Animals, In the Beginning." One day Mrs. Gallo tells me
this: "Whena Joey wasa boy the Monkey Grinder used to come
around and a give Joey money." He shook down the monkey
grinder!!! Joey later went into the juke box business and juke
boxes began appearing in butcher shops, dry cleaning stores etc.
We would confront Neil: "Hey, we heard your uncle beat up
another butcher today." Gangsterism had lost its romanticism. We
had all become Socialists or Communists, and my career as a con
man ended abruptly, because this kind of thing went against
Socialist principles. It was wrong to cheat people. It was
something the capitalists did.
THE PERILS OF LIVING IN THE SAME BUILDING AS ALAN
WEBERMAN
I was always into running operations only back in the 1950’s I
had no one in particular to run them against so anyone within my
proximity was destined to have big problems. I was like into
photography and turned my parent’s bathroom into a dark room. I
also bought a tripod in Times Square thinking this would
automatically give me access to photographing naked chicks. I
stole a stereo camera from Lafayette Radio on 6th Avenue along
with a 35 mm camera. I really didn’t have too many subjects so I
took pictures of the people in my building including photos of a
“Mr.Furst” whose apartment faced my room via a courtyard. When
Mr. Furst died I figured out a great plan to basically drive the
widow Mrs. Furst fucking nuts. Now what I did was to project, not
a positive image, but a negative image of Mr. Furst into Mrs.
Furst’s apartment real late at night so she would think her
husband had come back to haunt her. What did Mrs. Furst do to
deserve this sort of thing? Absolutely nothing. Her only crime was
living next to a maniac. Then there was another couple across the
33

A. J. WEBERMAN

courtyard that would get into screaming
arguments very late at night, usually on
Sundays. The fight would begin shortly after
Jean Shepard signed off the air on WOR
radio. I had built a carbon arc lamp out of two
carbon electrodes found in D cell batteries to
which I soldered 115 volt zip cord to their
metal tips and mounted them in a box. It was
amazing the device did not catch fire. When I plugged the zip cord
into the wall it gave off a blinding light from the arc. I pointed it at
the window in question and the entire apartment lit up. “It’s that
crazy kid in 4-N again” then the argument stopped. They realized
they had worse enemies than each other. Perhaps my most
destructive operation was when I purchased long hollow glass
tubes on Canal Street just the diameter of a self igniting wooden
kitchen match stick. I put the match in the tube and propelled it
forward with my breath. Basically I turned it into a blow gun. When
the when the match hit the brick in the other side of the courtyard
it would ignite. The next time the couple across the way had a
fight I took my blow gun and aimed just above the top of their
window so lit matches came falling down one after another. “Now
he’s trying to set our apartment on fire” I heard the lady yell. They
reported me to the super who told my parents I would be arrested
for arson if anything caught fire. Later I observed that the couple
had the Wall Street Journal delivered to them every day so I
attributed my operation to class warfare. I had a crush on the girl
who lived in the apartment directly below me but she was like
older than me so I did the only thing a red-blooded American 13
year old boy would have done absent the existence of pinhole
cameras. I built a periscope so I could watch her get undressed
however she didn’t get undressed that often so there was a of
dead time involved.

34

MY LIFE IN GRIME

There were relatively harmless pranks compared to what my
associate Robert Schoonmaker cooked up for some noisy
neighbors who lived above him. What Schooney, who would later
design guidance systems for missiles, did, was diabolical. Before
he and his mother and sister left for vacation the Schoonmonster
attached a bone conduction speaker to the ceiling which was
hooked up to an audio frequency generator that was set a just
above the human hearing threshold. When the Schoonmakers
returned home Schooney found out that one of them attacked the
other and ended up in jail, while another ended up in a mental
hospital. Like so many other high tech hippies, Schooney was into
making blue boxes – toll fraud devices.

MOO U, EAST LANSING, MICHIGAN 1962
PARADISE LOST
My parents sent me to Michigan State University to get me
away from all the bad influences in New York City. However, what
they failed to realize, was that transplanted in a less sophisticated
environment, I became like a major bad influence on the other
students around me. When I entered Emmons Hall dormitory the
first thing I did was play the bongo drums. This brought every kid
on our floor to my room. Like my first roommates were Jewish.
The authorities at MSU lumped all the New York and Detroit Jews
35

A. J. WEBERMAN

together. I think my first roommate was Lyle Victor. I heard from
Lyle Victor sometime ago. He is now a doctor who specializes in
curing people who snore. I am trying to get him to help me with my
pug, Puggles, who snores like a motherfucker. Puggles is no pug,
he's a homo thug. He seems to prefer young male dogs. I made
him watch the re-enactment of the Michael Jackson trial but it had
no effect. I would hate to have
him as a cellmate. When it
comes to bitches his motto is
"Jump 'em, Hump 'em and
Dump 'em." Lyle had a
brother, Rick Victor, who could
fart voluntarily and was my
roommate at the smoke shop.
He was good people and would split when my lover Debra Dixon
would show up. Hey, you only get one chance in life for love man,
and if you blow it, than you are fucked for the rest of your life. I
realized this in prison and a lot of the prisoners agreed, for
whatever that is worth. Rick was amazing. He had control over his
involuntary muscular system. You could say like, "Rick would you
please fart" and Rick would blow one anytime, anyplace. He is
now a 3rd degree black belt in Shorin Ryu Karate-do and can not
only fart anytime he wants but he can fart anywhere he wants.
Don't fuckin tell me that this degree of mental control did not play
a part in his becoming a marital artist! Fuckin Rick is kewl.
My room at Emmons Hall looked out on a polluted stream but
I soon learned that beyond that barrier was beer store that
accepted my altered New York State learners permit as valid ID. I
removed my bongo drums from my luggage and began to bang
out some primal beats and soon every kid on the floor came to
see what was happening. Some kids there had never seen a Jew
before and thought they had horns. They had never seen a
beatnik either so they quickly forgot the Jew part and they all dug
the beatnik shit, they were friendly, receptive and some of the best
people I would ever meet.

36

MY LIFE IN GRIME

The next thing I did was remove the frame from the bed and
put my mattress on the floor. Like I didn’t want no dorm room, I
wanted a beatnik pad on 11th Street and Avenue B. The Resident
Advisor freaked. I explained that I often fell out of bed and the
college would be libel for any injury I sustained if I had to sleep in
a normal bed. They let it slide. Hey, guys, did anyone here every
take Romilar Cough Syrup to get high? Its dextromorphanine
hydobromide, get it, MORPHANAN, and if you take it it makes you
say GEEEEeeeeee!!! I hit the local pharmacy and bought a bunch
of bottles turned everyone on to this drugstore high. Everybody
was fucking wasted. But I took too much of the shit and began to
suffer from Brominism, a disease that old English ladies' would get
from taking too many bromides as sedatives. I checked the Lancet
and found that the cure for Brominism (I had a rash on my chest)
was to drink salt water, which I did, in huge quantities. Sure
enough the rash went away but somehow got replaced with
ringworm, or the ringworm resurfaced. Every pharmacy in town
sold out of Romilar. Kids were making runs to Detroit to get the
stuff. Then the East Lansing City Council passed a law banning
the sale of Romilar in East Lansing, Michigan. I was prouder than
shit to have a law named after me, the WEBERMAN ROMILAR
LAW, I figured they called it. If you kids who read this stuff are in
college right now, let me tell you that you are experiencing the
best days of your life, and it will be all downhill afterwards. They
say that youth is wasted on the young, I say the young are wasted
on youth but dont know it.
I got a job in the cafeteria working the garborator, a fitting job
for someone who would later invent the science of garbology. This
job entailed scrapping the uneaten food from the kids plates into a
garbage shredding device. Everything was going fine and I was
collecting my paychecks until I grew a beard. The Health
Department Rules forbid people with beards to work in the
cafeteria. I pleaded with my boss: "I work the garborator. I dont
come into contact with anything but garbage. What's the
difference if some facial hair gets in the garbage." But rules were
rules and it was either shave the beard or get fired. I quit.
37

A. J. WEBERMAN

I had a very high grade point average at MSU because there was
very little competition. When I got the highest grade in the school
on an American Thought and Language test the authorities called
me into a room and examined my paper in relation to those sitting
near me to see if I had copied from them. They wanted to know
why I erased so many answers. They thought I had cheated
because they figured beatniks had to be dumb. You could not win
with these fucks.
They say the Midwestern accent is the real American one
because Amerika's heartland had not been affected by
immigration. Well the Midwest turned out to be part of Amerika's
heartless land when it came to sex. I became friendly with a lot of
divergent people, some of whom were athlete's - a major pursuit
at Moo U, where the only distinguished part of the school was the
School of Veterinary Medicine. One morning a member of the
basketball team told me that his teammates had gang-banged a
coed whose name escapes and while they were in the process all
she talked about was me. I was flattered. Then there was my
buddy Bill Janeck, from Hamtramok, Michigan. Bill and his buddy
Jim were tough Catholic School boys from a very ethnic part of
Michigan who took a liking to me, the first Jew they had ever met.
Janeck's father was an ex-con and his mother had given birth to a
half brother who was black. You get the idea. Yet Janeck
possessed a certain sensitivity that transcended his past. Late at
night he would come into my dorm room and tell me stories of how
the kids would tie the nun's rosary's to a desk so when the nun
tried to walk she tripped. Janeck told me about the time he set up
a girl for a gang rape. He took the girl out on a date and
suggested they take a walk through a park. Janek's friends were
waiting for him there and jumped the girl and held her down and
removed her clothes. The way Janek described it his friends were
more anxious to do violence to her cunt than to fuck her. He said:
"There were more hands in her pussy than pricks". This only
reinforced my belief that I had been born into a sick culture and
that religion, especially the Catholic Church, was behind a lot of
this shit. See I didn't know too much about Fundamentalist
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MY LIFE IN GRIME

Protestants at the time, because there was a shortage of
Protestants in Brooklyn at the time. When my buddies at Erasmus
Hall High School introduced me to Richard Johnson, a part time
soda jerk, for the first time, they told me he was a rarity in this part
of America - a genuine washed out Protestant. I figured that the
Church had twisted these kids heads around when it came to sex.
What kind of bullshit is it that the holiest dudes dont fuck. Bertrand
Russell once said that celibacy was the weirdest of all
perversions. I got to admit I would later kind of dig Pope John Paul
because he fought the Nazis, was almost killed by an Islamist
asswipe and was kewl with the Jews. On the other hand telling his
co-religionists in Africa not use condoms when Africa is
experiencing the worst AIDS epidemic in its history is like a form
of mass murder. But the new pope, Pope Benedict Arnold, oh
man, this dude was a like a Nazi, and like a child molester, once a
Nazi, always a Nazi. It is said he was forced into the Nazi Youth
Movement. No one was forced to kill Jews, Goldhaggen revealed
that in his books on Nazism. You just could not speak out against
this shit. Then the part about him not firing a gun during the war
because he suffered from an infected finger? Lying motherfucker.
How did he get it infected? From sticking it up his ass? Oh yeah,
he deserted in April 1945. Guess what sports fans, the war was
over by then and there was no German Army to desert from. Then
he was locked up by the Allies...they knew what they were doing.
But before you think I just hate Catholicism, I don't, I was locked
up with Father Berrigan and respected him, and I gave up the
Jewish religion after having a dream that I orally raped the Rabbi's
daughter in front of the entire congregation. I long for that old time
Judaism where Temple Virgins got diddled. Give me that old time
Judaism, Give me that old time Judaism, if it was good enough for
the pagans, then it is good enough for me. When I told my buddy
and fellow prisoner Ari Unger about this dream he asked, "Was
she pretty?" When I told him that she was he said it was okay.
There were a lot of good people back there at Michigan State
and I will never forgive the pigs for arresting me and sending me
back to New York City. Before I got popped I had set up a date
39

A. J. WEBERMAN

with two Amazon twin sisters to trip on morning glory seeds with
both of them, to put the make on both of them and be in some
pornographic psychedelic paradise of images unknown to
Brooklyn asswipes. Color and smells and flesh already unreal
made more so by the seeds, which did not have strychnine back
then. Then they came to my pad, caught me when I was drunk,
and busted my ass.

BEAL GARDENS
WHERE I HARVESTED POT
There is no doubt that I was on the road to getting popped
long before it happened. My buddy Neil Hickey mailed pot to
Emmons Hall. I turned a bunch of kids on the someone gave me
the word that my room was going to be searched. I flushed the
stuff down the toilet. When one of my roommates switched rooms
they tried to put in a police administration major as my roommate.
A fucking spy. I transferred out. Having gotten paranoid about
having the stuff mailed to me I found another source for pot BEAL GARDEN. In the pharmaceutical herbs department there
grew cannabis sativa. I waited until it flowered then picked it in
broad daylight, dried it and turned the entire gymnastic team on to
reefer.
Michigan State University had a policy of in loco parentis, that
it they took over where your parents left off. You had to live in
supervised and approved housing which meant no alcohol and no
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MY LIFE IN GRIME

chicks. I wanted my freedom so I rented a room above a clothing
store at 211 1/2 East Grand River Avenue, the main drag of East
Lansing Michigan. Before Dwight Martin owned the store, it was
an establishment known as the "Smoke Shop" so the rooms
above the clothing store were known as "The Smoke Shop."
Dwight used one of the rooms for fuck fests - even though he was
married but he assured me "Don't worry about my wife, she's not
underfucked." "Underfucked" that word has stuck in my brain for
forty years. When I rented the room, which had only a skylight for
a window, blacks including Earl Latimer and other football players
rented the eight of the 10 rooms. In fact I think this is how I
discovered the smoke shop. Earl could get booze and one night I
had to track him down to cop so I was sent to the Smoke Shop.
Earl later became an all-American. There was no animosity
between blacks and Jews at the time, in fact I remember sitting
around with a bunch of blacks when the Civil Rights Bill was
defeated. One of them was Gerry Bray, whose father was a public
school principal in Detroit. I think Bray's sister had jumped out a
window after snorting cocaine.

HAROLD HENKEL'S WINDOW
The last room in the Smoke Shop was rented by one Harold
Henkel, a white haired hunched over old man who looked a lot like
Howard Hunt. Henkel worked in Kewpee's cafeteria as a busboy
and audited various classes at MSU. There were all kinds of
rumors circulating about Henkel, but none of them proved true. I
41

A. J. WEBERMAN

dont think Henkel liked blacks all that much, although he was
forced, through economic circumstance to live there. We all
shared a common bathroom. Although the blacks used depilatory
to shave, they took the stuff off their faces with a straight edged
razor. There was talk that one day that razor might be used to
castrate Harold Henkel. At one point Larry Mervis and myself
broke into his room and went through his possessions. I guess I
was on a break-in kick at the time and I broke into an Indian dudes
pad when I heard he had hash. The dude later put out a political
newsletter. I was crazy back then. All that we found in Henkel's
trunk were pictures of him skating in Detroit. Emptiness, nothing
but emptiness.
The room next to Henkel was rented by Bill Armstead. This
tall handsome looking dude's father was head of the Veterinary
College at MSU, a most prestigious position. How did Armstead
end up at the Smoke Shop among misfits, shoplifters and fences
(me)? Armstead was a Marine and was taught to kill. One night he
was in a bar and some dude came on to his old lady and he killed
the man with his bare hands. Armstead became revolted by what
America had turned him into. More emptiness, more sorrow.
So I rented a room and got some paint and painted the words
"SEX DRUGS AND ROCK AND ROLL" on the door. The first
chick I got up there was a girl who had been expelled from
Michigan State for not stating that she was an epileptic on her
admission application. I had fantasy that she would start
undulating like a motherfucker while we were making it but nothing
happened.
SUICIDE ATTEMPT
Hey, dig it, suicide attempts were popular around this time. I
tried to hang myself after I broke up with my first fuck at Michigan
State University. I took a rope, went next to the Beal Tower in the
middle of the campus, slung the rope across a tree, put a noose
around my neck and tried to hoist myself up. I didn't even know
how to fucking hang myself.
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MY LIFE IN GRIME

THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE HITCHHIKER
I took the money my father gave me for summer school and
headed to the Yucatan Peninsula in Mexico. This is an excerpt
from a book written by Alan J. Weberman in July and August
1963. I went there to see what the Third World was all about. After
I discussed this trip with Dylan and its existence appeared in
Rolling Stone Magazine Paul Simon, a good hearted person
immortalized my journey in a poem whose other verses
characterized my relationship with Dylan:
A man walks down the street
It's a street in a strange world
Maybe it's the Third World
Maybe it's his first time around
He doesn't speak the language
He holds no currency
43

A. J. WEBERMAN

He is a foreign man
He is surrounded by the sound
The sound
Cattle in the marketplace
Scatterlings and orphanages
He looks around, around
He sees angels in the architecture
Spinning in infinity
He says Amen! and Hallelujah

Angels can be guiding influences and architecture can mean
the way in which anything is physically constructed or designed.
So I saw the hand of imperialism shaping the economies and lives
of the impoverished Mexicans. Man, Paul Simon actually wrote
something nice about me and I came down on him like a ton of
bricks for his Broadway play, The Capeman. This is from The
Philosophy of the Hitchhiker.
Death has always been a favorite subject of
philosophers, poets and theologians on account of
a scanty amount of empirical knowledge being
available and the belief that knowledge goes
beyond the senses thusly almost anything can be
said about it with little fear of reproval. It has been
said to be heaven, hell, holy, sacred and empty. It
brings to philosophers the whole problem of
existence. To theologians its brings a piece of
candy to hold over the heads of the people. To
scientists it brings an unanswered mystery. I,
personally, am concerned little with death in
general including life after death, etc. My main
concern at present is preventing my own death, or
at least stalling it off for as long as possible. It is
also of primary importance that I should be as
happy as possible, even if my happiness must be in
the world of fantasy and exaggeration.
I hope that someday some philosopher or
scientist finds the answer but in the meantime we
must be content to simply question.

44

MY LIFE IN GRIME

Right now a neon sign flashes the word
"PHARMACIA" and a breeze cools me from the
Gulf of Mexico. A band plays and Mexicans walk
around a large public square, in circles. I am 200
miles from Vera Cruz, a victim of hitch-hiking,
tossed from the road by some act of providence,
into this small fishing town. Today a Mexican
wanted to give me a peso, so that I could take a
bus to a better place to hitchhike from. I turned him
down seeing as he needed the eight cents more
than me, but didn't know it. Later on I picked up a
lift in a Mexican assembled Ford which left me
here. I tried to hitch-hike (it is beginning to rain on
the people in the square and the music has
stopped) to another town closer to the Yucatan, but
all I managed to stop were taxis who offered to take
me to town for five pesos. It was really a gas
because every time I would put my thumb out to
hitchhike, I would attract another taxi. I wish there
was a word in Spanish for hitchhike, but it seems it
is rarely done, and the word is non-existent. I found
a hotel for 15 pesos after looking all over the place.
It is a crazy place with my room opening to a
balcony over (of all things) a radio station.
I got a ride going to Vera Cruz with some
Americans evidentially studying at the University of
Mexico. They were going to a fiesta and when they
saw my Michigan State University sweat shirt in a
small village in the mountains of Mexico they
flipped. At first they passed me by but then they
turned around and asked:
"What are you doing here with a Michigan
State sweat shirt?"
"I'm evidentially hitch-hiking."
"Where are you going to?"
"Where you going to?"
45

A. J. WEBERMAN

"Vera Cruz"
"Vera Cruz." How about a lift?
I got in and they started questioning me about
how long it took me to get to where I was, how I
lived with so little money etc. etc. Every time I
would make one of the witty remarks I was famous
for (my friend Neil Hickey summed it up: “Don’t
make any witty remarks around my stepfather and
no stories") it would be followed by a chorus of
giggles. Then I told them about Willie and the ride
to Mexico City, and how Mexico was a pregnant
country, not realizing of course, that Sybil, the girl in
the front, was also pregnant. After a while I shut up
to go to sleep. There were two girls in the back
seat, along with myself and Sybil and her husband
in the front. It seemed they had traveled this route
before, and were acting as guides for the two
Southern Belles. Every time we would pass some
hole in the road the chick in the front seat would
spout something irrelevant (the lights of this city just
went kaput after a stroke of lightening hit. I am
writing by flashlight, waiting for the power - it just
came on)bit of history followed by moans from the
gallery. We passed some cobblestone road used
by Cortez, the kind of road you find a peso-adozen in Mexico, but this one was used by Cortez
so Oh! Oh! Eh! (the lights just went out again. This
is getting to be a drag.) like you hear on a quiz
program when one of the prizes is displayed. A
crumby cross or miserably poor little village on the
side of a mountain. If this was the exception and
not the rule with American tourists it wouldn't be so
bad. But Americans seem to be more interested in
places and things than in people.
Traveling the way I travel is strange. I start off
with a little money and an average amount of luck,
which I hope will be sufficient for my voyage. I end
up with very little money and a backlog of much
luck.
46

MY LIFE IN GRIME

*VERACRUZ IMPRESSIONS*
A bunch of people have gathered around the
docks while the Mexican Navy lands the majority of
its ships in a space no bigger than 2,000 meters.
They repair some, others are left to rot. The
Mexican Navy is like the Mexicans. The long black
chains and ropes reminiscent of long black hair.
Portholes painted black like big dark eyes. The
uselessness of the Navy. For there are few that
would attack Mexico from without, but many who
would attack it from within. What could they gain?
Shirts with the monogram "Social Justice" on the
back? Myriad shoeshine boys who line the streets?
An economy based on Coca Cola and Chiclets? A
people who increases by 50% each year and a
food production that remains almost static? Mexico
will never be attacked by a foreign power. She is
entangled and bound by numerous treaties with the
Coca Cola imperialists which protect her. The rich
remain in control in Mexico, and its people are
content to search all day for enough pesos to buy
food. Then search all night for a place to sleep. In
Mexico City some live in a hole in the road. Others
wander from fire to fire to keep warm. Others sleep
in great houses with little to worry about except how
their hair looks or if the weather in Acapulco is
pleasant. Yet Mexico moves: more children earn
their living by selling newspapers in the streets and
on buses. More of the population is able to read.
More ships pull in and out of the harbor, the goods
going mostly to the rich, but they must be moved by
land, sea and air. The poor can service the goods
and use the packing material for the roofs of their
shacks. The wealth trickles down. The Communists
say it will pour, the moderates say it will flow. But it
still trickles.
When I write, I wonder. My lifetime is not worth
mentioning though to me it is eternity. I have seen
more than most people have seen, and have done

47

A. J. WEBERMAN

more than most have done, but it only makes me
wonder more than most wonder.
WEELEE!
After I left Monterrey, I picked up a lift with an
American student from Perdue and a MexicanAmerican girl from El Paso. I was lucky to get a lift
so fast, usually I had to wait an hour or so and even
then they were probably only going a few miles up
the road. But this lift was going straight to Mexico
City. I thanked them and got in the car. As we
drove, the girl banged loudly on the roof of the
vehicle in time with the tiny car radio, while I tried to
sleep. When she had finished about half her coke,
instead of handing it to the children surrounding the
car, she began to pour it out. I told her it would be a
nice gesture to give it to the children, but she
refused. We drove on as she nursed what was left
of it, not returning the bottle to the kids and
screwing the out of their profit. We started again on
the winding mountain road, and she began to work
on the guy. Willy this, no not Willy, but Wee-lee
this, and that, and on and on. She talked of a third
person, a child apparently. It began to rain and
Willy started to complain about her driving. He said
we needed gas. We passed restaurant and about
five minutes later the girl began to complain about
being hungry. "You want to go back?" asked Willy.
"Oh, Oh, bullshit, you should have stopped, oh why
didn't you stop Willy?" By this time I was getting
sick to death of these two schmucks, Willy being a
tall, light math major and the girl short, dark and fat.
I was also a little shook up about missing the gas
station, seeing that the Mexican roads are not
famous for an abundance of gas stations. It started
to rain harder and we moved on, under the premise
that if we did not pass a gas station in a long time,
there was bound to be one coming up soon. We
were running low on gas when a major hastle
began.

48

MY LIFE IN GRIME

"Weelee, how much gas ave wee got?"
"Not enough, very little."
"Weelee, how much is very liddle?"
"I don't know."
"A litro?"
"Yes."
"Two litros?"
"Yes"
"Weeeeleeeee!!!”
Then we ran out of gas. The rain poured down
upon us from the lonely sky and we waited. Some
kids approached the car and the girl asked if we
could buy some petrol from them. Then she got out
of the car and went with them, returning in a half
hour with a gallon of gas. We needed more to
reach the next gas station, so we drove around to a
small shack and waited. I asked what was going
on? She said that the kids went out to get more
gas, and wanted more money or something.
Finally, with none of us knowing what was going
on, a kid appeared out of nowhere and gave us
another gallon of gas. We got to a gas station
where we filled up then we went to some crazy
castle, turned into a restaurant. I will never forget
this place, it was right out of a Hollywood horror film
movie set. And the waitress was dressed in black
lace. While Willy was in the bathroom the girl
turned to me and asked me if I was very lucky. I
explained to her that I was lucky to get such a good
lift today, and, ever since I lost my good luck ring,
my luck had been very good. She told me that life
could be sweet if you are lucky but very bitter if luck
doesn't favor you. Then I realized the girl was
pregnant.
Her dress was wet around her breasts, and she
began to be overcome with peasant shame. While
she was in the bathroom Willy started to tell me
how hard it was. When I told him I was a writer, he
said I could write about his problems. It was nice of
him to offer, but there were enough problems
49

A. J. WEBERMAN

around to write about. Willy took a dollar from me
for the meal, instead of offering to pay. And he
wanted me to write about and listen to his
problems? I slept the rest of the way and woke up a
few times and found the girl staring at me. I gave
her a dirty look but really felt like punching her in
the mouth, or better yet the stomach. She started
banging along with the radio again, but I had
shoved down the antenna when he wasn't looking,
so she gave up.
When I woke up again we were in the outskirts of
Mexico, Districto Federale (DF). We wanted to get
to the center of town, so the girl asked a cab driver.
He directed us, and we went on for about half an
hour. When we didn't hit the city, old Willy-boy
pulled over not knowing what to do. The girl didn't
know what to do. Willy was tired. The girl was tired
and afraid for her child. I told them to turn around,
go back to the road we came on, and ask again.
What a spineless crew. When we reached
downtown Mexico City, by some stroke of luck, I
asked if they were going to sleep in the girls home.
She said she didn't know what to tell her father, her
husband, being in jail in El Paso (where Willy fit in I
will never know, but he was stuck with her and
probably still is) and if her father saw Willy he would
jump to the erroneous conclusion that Willy was the
father and would kill Willy. Willy, by the way, was
threatening suicide most of the way. What a ride!!
I ended up staying in a cheap Hotel near the bus station, The
Hotel Commercio, the same hotel Lee Harvey Oswald stayed at
during that very same summer. Holy Molly!
When I returned to MSU I turned Dana Beal, founder of the
legalize marijuana movement, onto pot for the first time

50

MY LIFE IN GRIME

Freedom runs through Irvin Dana Beal’s blood, the freedom
that is being lost in America. Beal was originally from Ravena,
Ohio. In fact when he was three his mama Marjorie tried to throw
him in a ravina. Beal's father was an archivist for the State of
Michigan and a veteran of World War II. His ancestors can be
traced back to the Hessians and to a signer of the Declaration of
Independence. As a high school student, Beal began to immerse
himself in philosophy and mathematics. He associated with
students from Michigan State University (Okemos was close to
East Lansing and MSU) rather than high schoolers.
One evening a niece of the actor Eli Wallach brought him to
"The Smoke Shop." I saw Dana with a copy of Bertrand Russell's
Principia Mathematica under his arm wandering about looking at
the girls. I asked him if he wanted to smoke something that would
give him real insight into "Uncle Bertie". (I had reprinted Lord
Russell's essay, "Why I Am Not A Christian," under my own name
in the ''State News''.) I had introduced Beal to marijuana.

51

A. J. WEBERMAN

I was arrested for possession of marijuana in March 1964 and
sent back home to Brooklyn. Beal eventually came to New York
City where he got a job, enrolled at New York University, became
an A student. He rented an apartment in the East Village with a
really hot Puerto Rican girlfriend and amassed a collection of
science fiction books in a floor to ceiling bookcase he constructed.
The only problem he had was having once gotten up at a 1963
political meeting to say that if a tyrant ever takes over the
government of the United States he should be shot. Someone in
the crowd reported him to the U.S. Secret Service and every time
a President of the United States came to New York City for many

52

MY LIFE IN GRIME

years thereafter, the Service would interview Beal or check on his
whereabouts.
Dana was living the American dream until 1967 when I turned
Dana on to his first hit of LSD-25. Beal dropped out of college and
formed the New York Provos. The Provos had been active in
Amsterdam and had held the first smoke-in on the steps of the
City Hall there! The underground newspaper, the East Village
Other gave the Provos its old office on Avenue A and Dana put a
large sign in the window reading PSYCHEDELIC REVOLUTION.
Every undercover cop in the 9th Precinct stopped by to inquire
what differentiated psychedelic revolution from normal run of the
mill revolution? Dana started Street Sheet and organized marches
through the East Village whenever there was a pot bust. The
residents of the East Village showed their support by throwing
flowers from their windows - unfortunately they also threw the
flower pots.
In the Summer of 1967
Dana allegedly sold acid to a
snitch named John Henry and
was locked up. The Community
Bail Fund got him out, and
hundreds of hippies carried him
from the jail at 100 Center
Street back to the Provo office.
In a few months Dana opened
a Free Store on 2nd Street
between Bowery and 2nd
Avenue. By this time the police
had decided that Dana posed a threat of leading the hippies into
violent acts against the American policy in Vietnam and targeted
him for arrest on another drug charge. When they came to arrest
him Dana made a run for it. As a detective was in hot pursuit he
slipped through a small hole in a hurricane fence. When the fat
beer-bellied detective tried to follow him he got wedged in the
fence. So Dana jumped bail in January 1968 and went
53

A. J. WEBERMAN

underground - joining groups aligned with the Weather People.
His associates at the time included Pat Small and Jerry
Weatherman. Whenever Jerry Weatherman returned to his home
in small town Wisconsin a bunch of townies would attempt to
attack him as they believed he had burned down the local draft
board. Luckily Jerry was a Golden Gloves champion and the fools
came out the worst for it. Dana moved to Canada and Milwaukee
where he wrote perhaps his most prophetic piece, RIGHT ON
CULTURE FREAKS, in which he stated that someday the Culture
Wars would transcend politics in its importance to change.
Apprehended in Madison, Wisconsin, after a child-molester
disguised as a Reverend turned him in, Dana did a year in clinck
in Madison, where he was allowed to have his own typewriter.
William Kunstler represented him in this matter.
Freed in the summer of 1972 Beal made his way to Miami
where he helped Tom Forcade lead the protests against the
Republican and Democratic Conventions with his trusty crew that
included Wisconsin radical Pat Small and Aron Kay and others.
Beal returned to New York and moved into a basement apartment
on East 3rd Street then to 9 Bleecker Street, which now houses
the Yippie Museum. From Number Nine Dana organized
demonstrations against the Unification Church, against Roy M.
Cohn and John Mitchell and numerous anti-war rallies and
RIOTS!! He organized affinity groups to trash D.C.. He proved
himself to be a genuine American dissident and revolutionary.
At about this time, Beal helped with the "Rock Against Racism"
concerts and has continued over the years to organize the Million
Marijuana March (MMM) on the first Saturday of May every year in
New York City. The worldwide MMM event began in 1999 with
Beal as the major organizer, and now takes place in hundreds of
cities around the world in addition to NYC. I have stated on
numerous occasions, "With that one joint I gave Dana I created a
monster." NYC has had marijuana rallies since 1967. Despite a
problem with over-consumption of alcohol Dana was able to
organize a World Wide Marijuana March with pro-pot
demonstrations in countries too numerous to mention. The worst
54

MY LIFE IN GRIME

repression of these freedom marches took place in the former
Soviet Union. In Hungary Nazi scum tried to break up marches in
small towns but not Budapest. In Kiev the police protected the
marchers from the counter demonstrators. There was minor
repression in Bulgaria but things went smoothly in the Czech
Republic. The action in Toronto drew at least 20,000 people and
was led by Mark Emory. I formulated the idea of National
Marijuana Day but Beal took it to new heights with International
Marijuana Day.
Dana has been working for the legalization of marijuana and
other issues since at least the mid 1960s, and is particularly
known for his association with the Yippies. He soon made an
enemy in Lyndon LaRouche, after leading a protest in front of the
erstwhile Presidential candidate's office in midtown Manhattan. In
1981, LaRouche published a Dope Dossier on Beal in
Investigative Leads, the LaRouchian newsletter for law
enforcement personnel, in an unsuccessful effort to trigger a
police investigation.

55

A. J. WEBERMAN

THE ONLY DOPE WORTH SHOOTING WAS NIXON!!!

Back in 1965, Jimi Hendrix came into the cafe Wha where i
worked as cashier and dishwasher and told me that Eric Burdon
dug him over at the Cafe Au Go-Go and was taking him to
England to open for him. Hendrix said "Weberman, now i have
enough money to take every drug there is!" i said "you sure every
drug man?"
Okay, Jimi did not die of a smack overdose. It was on
Mandrax, the U.K.'s equivalent of Quaalude or Sopor. Jimi had
gone to one of his female acquaintance's apartment, and she had
made him a tuna salad sandwich. He had gotten high on Mandrax
and passed out for the night. Apparently, he had regurgitated his
food during his sleep, but he and his friend were so drugged out
that he wasn't able to awaken himself, nor was his friend able to
arouse herself in order to turn him onto his side, which would have
56

MY LIFE IN GRIME

saved his life. So, he ended up aspirating the contents of his
stomach into his lungs, which caused him to suffocate. But a
downer is a downer.
THE BAD-ASSED ORIGINS OF SMACK
Created in the same Bayer/I.G. Farben labs that gave the world
Zyclon B that was used in the Nazi
death camps, and Methadone (originally
named Dolophine after Adolf Hitler) and
Tabun and Sarin (nerve gasses still in
many arsenals around the world and the
first toxic gasses used in World War
One), heroin might be called the world’s
first designer drug. Wherever there is
misery, there will be heroin. People
become junkies for different reasons. Bob Dylan became a user
after being exposed to it by Ray Gooch, who let Dylan crash at his
crib, when Dylan first came to New York. Dylan was about 19 at
the time. Dylan began by "experimenting" with dugi - in a parody
of a Woody Guthrie song that Dylan sang in 1961 he changed
some lines to "Howdy Hoodie Hugie, how'd you like to do some
dugi." Dylan soon began to realize that it took him into the world of
dreams where symbolism resided. After all the first symbolism in
literature comes from the Bible, where dreams are interpreted to
mean all sorts of things - in retrospect of course. Dylan a crasher,
doper, basket house case, and queer-dodger was a hardcore
motherfucker, I'll give him that. He had fucking balls compared to
most Jewish kids his age who had been nurtured by
overprotective Jewish mothers.
Jim Morrison used smack more and more as his career
progressed. His first interest in flooding his brain with dopamine
was provided by sex. His bitch used it because she was missing
love in her childhood. She got him more and more into it, just like
the Bible says.
I draw a distinction between middle class junkies and lower
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A. J. WEBERMAN

class junkies. Blacks in the ghetto use it as a short cut to
happiness cause there is no other route for them to travel. Hey if
you can't dine at Lutece (the best French restaurant in NYC now
closed) or if you don't even know that the place exists, you can get
the same or greater feeling of happiness from smack. I have had
many a discussion with people in and out of prison, who pointed to
the fact that one kid living in the PJs or in the ghetto would
become addicted whereas the kid next door, under similar
circumstances, would go on to enter the professions, live the
American Dream. I am sure that is the case but for one thing we
are talking similar circumstances, not identical circumstances. We
are also talking about predominant trends, not about deviations
from the norm. For most people in the world their script in life is
written for them by racism (when you are rich, white and
protestant you win the office gene pool) economics (how the
material wealth of the planet is distributed) and by other factors
rather than by themselves. The only script they end up writing
themselves is a script for heroin. Dig, there is also the proximity
factor: The closer you are to heroin or morphine itself, the more
likely it is you are going to be addicted. That's why many doctors
and nurses have "drug problems." When I was locked up I heard
stories about kids in the hood (Sunset Park) who witnessed
dealers getting shook down by the narcs. The dealers would
discard the bags of smack they were holding and the 12 year
olders would pick them up, at the least the bags the narcs missed,
then sell some, and use some. Heroin fell into their lives, literally.
It’s true.
EVEN DUST HEADS SAY SMACK IN UNCONTROLLABLE
Smack is no good for you no how. When I was locked up in
Central Booking in the Tombs I heard I heard angel dust heads
warn others about the dangers of heroin. These guys were
exchanging the location of various crack houses in Harlem, exact
locations, and I figured that these places could not have stayed
open without corrupt cops going along with the game because
every low life motherfucker knew of their existence. But I was not
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MY LIFE IN GRIME

about to go up to Harlem and investigate. Even these dusters said
no one could handle dugi. One doesn’t have to try everything in
life, for example I am not going to try strychnine. The shit turns
you into a psychopath in many instances. Junk is like a weird
social scene. Another time, when I got locked up for throwing a
tomato at Nixon I heard all these junkies talking about various
shooting galleries on Avenue C on the Lower East Side of
Manhattan. They were saying "Man there was 100 people in that
place all doing up." Like these were stone cold junkies, they are
dead or have AIDS by this time. That is another problem with junk,
you get so stoned out that you forget about junkie hygiene and
pass around the works. You get too fucked up to think, it is difficult
to determine the dosage inherent in a white powder. I was first
offered smack by my buddies Donald Ingram and Jeff Blonder in
the first car of a subway train in New York City in 1964. I turned
the white powder down - one of the smartest decisions I ever
made in my life. I attribute this to the fact that I was raised in a
Kosher home. When I looked at the bag of junk they offered me
there was no
or
on it and I believed it was traif. So
far I have still been unable to find a glatt kosher bag of junk.
The closest I ever came to becoming a white powder person
was in England in 1967, after my judgment had been clouded by
numerous LSD trips. I bought opium and smoked it. After about
three days I started getting a "chippie" the first signs of addiction. I
vomited and was sick. I said to myself, William Burroughs is the
devil, he claimed in his book Junkie that you have to shoot the
stuff for a month before you became addicted. Burroughs was
lying in order to cause more people to become addicts. He killed
his wife in Mexico trying to shoot an apple off her head. This was
no accident. Burroughs hated women and for years refused to
even talk with them. I witnessed this first hand when he refused to
talk to my old lady, Ann Duncan. How do I know this? I knew the
dude during the 1980's. I never smoked opium again.

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A. J. WEBERMAN

THE ULTIMATE MATERIALISM: GENERATION H
I assume heroin is very pleasurable, euphoric drug, otherwise
intelligent people would not devote their lives to it. The problem
with heroin is that, as stated, it changes personality for the worse,
people lose their human values, and devote their lives to a thing, a
substance, rather than to an idea or to another human being.
Heroin is a toxic substance. It is a dangerous poison. I will be
honest: I never liked junkies. There were times I would have liked
to see a Compulsory OD Program instituted. Now I feel sorry for
them and just want to see a Voluntary OD Program instituted.
They make me puke.
EXAMPLES OF HEROIN KARMA
Heroin Karma destroys people's lives. The people who deal in it
have bad karma about them. I feel happy when they OD. For
example Linda Twigg of the Lower East Side, a snitch and a rip-off
artist who was in bed with cop killers, but never got arrested,
cooked up some new designer drug that resembled insecticide,
and OD'd. Great! Her ex-husband, Billy Twigg, who figured
prominently into Federal Search and Seizure Law, was shot to
death by a jealous husband in Texas. Billy Twigg contributed to
death of Gail Moscowitz a basket case child of holocaust
survivors. Linda Twigg's associate, Hank Nueslein, let his bathtub
overflow, and when the landlord entered his apartment along with
a police officer, an arsenal of bombs, handguns, shotguns, and
grenades was discovered. Hank was intent on killing everyone
who resided at Nine Bleecker Street in Manhattan, the
headquarters of CURES NOT WARS, an anti-heroin, pro-pot
organization, headed by Irvin Dana Beal. Hank was a one-time
member of the Nazi Party who I met at Abbie Hoffman's office.
Hank worked for the telephone company at the time and gave us
some very valuable information. I should never have introduced
Hank to the Yippies, after having been told by him of his former
connection to the Nazis. Being a Nazi is like being a child
molester, once you cross that line it is unforgivable. After these
two events occurred Dana made up this verse "Hank's in Attica,
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Linda is dead, all that's left is a fellow named Fred." Fred was Fred
Gottbetter, another child of holocaust survivors and long time
heroin addict. Within a month Fred was Dead. (The autopsy
reports indicated Fred died of pneumonia.) So long suckers. This
is East Village Heroin Karma. Sid Vicious. His mother was a
registered heroin addict. She copped the smack he OD'd on for
him on that fateful night. Sidney, your heroin is getting cold!!
Lenny Bruce: The late slime ball high level Federal Informant Chic
Eder once told me: "My best friend sold Lenny the bag he OD'd
on." Chic figured prominently into the late Albert Goldman's book
on Lenny Bruce. Chic was close to Lenny. Chic was in prison at
the time for bombing the Bank of America. (Part of his cover). This
is heroin karma. It stinks.
LOTSOFF DISCOVERS METHOD OF INTERRUPTING HEROIN
ADDICTION
In the 1960's Howard Lotsoff was a dude who never met a
drug he didn't like. As a result, according to Dana Beal, he
became the first person ever busted for L.S.D., although I believe
that distinction belongs to Nicky Sands. Unfortunately, Howie also
became a heroin addict but this did not deter his appetite for new
and exotic drugs and the dude stumbled upon Ibogaine, a root
that was used by the indigenous population of Gabon. Howie had
a far out trip and was moving and a-groovin along when the fucker
discovered he no longer wanted to shoot smack! What the fuck?
Not take smack? It had to be the Ibogaine trip! IBOGAINE
WORKS. It interrupts addiction. How do I know it works? I have
never been a heroin addict nor have I have yet to take Ibogaine,
although I plan to do so. I know the people who promote it - Dana,
Cisco, Howie and others. These guys are not in it for the money,
these guys know the drug culture from top to bottom and these
dudes have been helped themselves by Ibogaine. If they say it
works - they don't say it cures addiction, they say that it interrupts
it - it gives addicts a chance to ask themselves, "Do I really want
to be an addict?"

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LSD GOT A HOLD ON ME
The problem with acid was that the potential for a bum trip
was always there. You had to take it under the right
circumstances, and with the right people. Once, as I was walking
to my apartment on Sullivan Street high on acid, some Italians
sicced their dog on me, because I had long hair. I couldn't even
see the dog through the hallucinations, and just stared at it with
disbelief. The dog did not attack, and I walked away. Often we
would visit Ratner's Resturant while high on acid, or while coming
down from it. Ratner's had old Jewish waiters who hated their job
for 20 years. They didn't like hippies either.

WHAT A WAITER AT RATNER’S LOOKED LIKE
COMING DOWN OFF OF ACID

I stopped taking acid around 1969 because it became an
ordeal. It was becoming a greater and greater effort to handle the
stuff. You had to keep telling yourself, "This is all the result of
having taken LSD." You had to trust the person from whom you
were buying it. The stuff got you so incredibly high that at one
point in the trip you would be questioning this person's motivation
in selling it to you. There was no way to determine the purity of the
LSD, or the dosage. In 1967 Dana Beal had vial in which acid had
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been kept. There was a slight residue on the bottom of the
container. Dana added some water then drank it!!! He ingested
about half a milligram of acid, when dosage was measured in
micrograms. Dana kept it together, and did not run down the street
with no shoes on screaming, or hallucinating that he was a
fountain when in reality he was pissing on a cop.

Not long after that the cops came to Dana's Free Store on
East 2nd Street to bust him. I was there. Dana saw them coming
and ran. He reached a fence with a small hole in it. Dana, a
revolutionary, was thin, and fit through. But when the beer bellied
cop tried to get through he could not make it. Dana escaped, went
underground and joined the Weatherpeople.
One of the weirdest things about acid were flashbacks. My
flashbacks came when I was dreaming, and I would actually
dream that I was high on acid without having taken acid. On the
other hand, every time I had these dreams I saved five dollars, the
cost of a hit of acid.
Do not take designer drugs. They are like sticking your head
in a vegematic. The first designer drugs produced in New York
City were created by John McClendon aka Tom Watson, a career
criminal who came from a distinguished, intelligence community
connected family in Chicago. Unfortunately, McClendon's mother
was a sadist and beat the shit out of him while making him scrub
the floor. He had the scars on his knees to prove his claim. This
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helped turn McClendon into a child rapist and classic criminal type
who was in and out of prison, or the joint, as he called it.
McClendon was tall, skinny and wore really thick glasses. A
classic creep out of the late 1940's and early 1950's the fucker
must be dead by this time. McClendon produced MDA, 3,4-Methyl
enedioxy amphetamine, which we called MESCALINE ANALOG
back in 1966. Whether he invented it or got if from some chemistry
journal, I cannot say. MDA was a molecule that resembled
mescaline and meth amphetamine. He sold it to the Warhol crowd
back in 1966. It was rediscovered by the ravers in the 1980's.
McClendon also had drugs like PREMARIN, which he alleged
could turn a man into a woman overnight. He also had memory
enhancing or "smart" drugs. Watson visited Papa Doc's Haiti,
where he took part in voodoo rituals. Dana thought he could use
Watson to produce acid, and gave Watson a key to my pad to use
as a lab while I was away in Europe. This was in the summer of
1967. Watson made a wax copy of the key, came back and ripped
off my crib. When I got back Dana and I tracked down Watson to a
loft in the East 20's. When the shit hit the fan Watson hit Beal over
the head with a bottle of hydrochloric acid. I thought he murdered
Dana. Dana, however, ran to the shower and washed the shit off.
A few days later Dana and I returned to Watson's loft and emptied
it of all my stuff plus all Watson's stuff too. Ecstasy or E is a
variation of MDA - MDMA. I never took any designer drugs and I
never will. The guy that first produced these drugs was stoned evil
and so were his creations. The best psychedelics are the ones
that are closest to nature, peyote and mushrooms.

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I THREW A TOMATO AT RICHARD NIXON
It was September of 1978 and I was
just coming out of the most down and
out period of my life. My book, Coup
D'Etat in America never made it into
paperback, thanks to efforts of the CIA
(however thanks to Ed Rosenthal it
eventually did so). When editors at
New American Library were interested
in it, the publisher told them "We can’t
publish this book and I can't tell you
the reason why." Later on it was
revealed that one of the principals I named in the book E. Howard
Hunt, had served as the liaison between NAL and the CIA. Every
time I got booked on a TV or Radio show to talk about garbology
or Dylanology, or Yippie stuff, my appearances would be canceled
shortly after I was booked. The Feds had my telephone tapped
and were adept at suppressing me. Shit, my old lady left me and
this fucking Nazi ex-FBI informant named William Depperman
(Diaperman) was threatening me. Everything was fucked up and
in a state of flux. I had just finished researching Nixon’s part in the
Kennedy assassination when I learned the fucker was coming to
New York. I stuck a few tomatoes I had gotten out of a dumpster
on 2nd Avenue into a plastic bag and then put the plastic bag in
my pocket. We had a split in the Yippie movement regarding
dumpster diving. Pieman Aron Kay and me were for it but High
Times originator Tom Forcade was against it and said he would
not eat garbified or semi-garbified food. Anyway he made bombs
and shit so what the fuck....Nixon was visiting the Elmer Bobst
Library at NYU in Greenwich Village. I had a crew of people there
that day and all of them were armed to the teeth with rotten
tomatoes. So up pulls Nixscum's limo and I threw a tomato at him
just like Jonathan Winter's character, Maude Frickert, threw a
tomato at a Martian she encountered.
All of a sudden a guy who looked like Nixscum’s son-in-law
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grabs me from behind and says "None of that!" Then I see that a
police officer got in the way and he got hit with the tomato, not
Nixon. The cops surrounded me and next thing you know I am in a
cell at a local precinct house. I am being charged with felonious
assault on police officer, officer Gallagher, who went to the
hospital because he claimed to have gotten tomato pits in his eye.
I says, come on fellas, a tomato is not a lethal weapon, and I took
a leftover rotting tomato out of my pocket. They seized it as
evidence and added possession of a deadly weapon to felonious
assault on a police officer. I was going to be locked up until Nixon
left town...this town wasn’t big enough for the both of us. So I was
trying to get some sleep while the cops questioned and tortured a
transvestite: sex: male or female? you are sure you are male? you
don’t dress like a male Blah Blah Blah Catholic School Boys...It
wasn't that bad in the jail cell, the floors were concrete and it was
warm. Back on Bleecker Street, where I lived, the floors were
cheap wood and cold air came up from the floor below. The next
morning I was handcuffed to the transvestite dude, whom Officer
Beagle said was going to be my cellmate on Rikers Island. Ah,
that sweet smell of ammonia as I entered Central Booking at 100
Center Street, a fine example of Depression architecture - very
depressing. A older black homeless dude in the holding cell tried
to rip out the sink. Some younger black dudes told him: Don't do
that man and he cooled it. Blacks were upset about how many
Jews there were in the legal system and hoped to get Judge
Bruce Wright for a judge. Cut em loose Bruce. I met this dude that
got caught with a knife and a little coke. He pointed out these
three other dudes: Murder One, Murder Two and Murder Three.
Word started to get around the bullpen: He took a shot at Nixon. I
met a dude who was dumb and deaf who got caught exposing
himself in a men's room. It was part of his sign language, that's all.
Finally after a nice nap, someone called my name and I went
before Judge Eric Williams, a man whose ancestors were brought
to this continent as slaves. I was comic relief after a parade of
junkies and purse-snatchers for the judge. My lawyer, David
Michaels, now dead, a fallen comrade, told the Judge that I threw
a tomato at Richard Nixon but hit a police officer by mistake.
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Judge Williams laughed at gave me a $25 dollar fine for using
loud and abusive language in public. When I paid the fine the guy
behind the window asked: "What did you do? You don’t look like
one of our usual customers around here." I told him I threw a
tomato at Nixon. When I got back to Bleecker Street and heard
the phone ring I appreciated freedom more. When Nixscum visited
London and few weeks later some kids who heard about me, I
was now known as tomato man, threw some tomatoes at the
fucker. I ran into Officer Beagle in front of the UN when I was
walking my two Dobermans, Morty and Helga. I told him the police
had revoked my pistol permit after the tomato incident and he said
he would try and help me get it back. He said that Officer
Gallagher was changing into uniform in the locker room when a
plate glass window broke and landed on his head! He was on
disability leave. Gallagher had a penchant for being at the wrong
place at the wrong time.

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CHAPTER TWO
DYLANOLOGY: WHERE IT ALL BEGAN
It was 1966. I had been expelled from Michigan State
University for dealing pot and was living on Pitt Street in the East
Village. My friend from Erasmus Hall High School in Brooklyn, Neil
Gallo, was close with Nicky Sand, a chemist whose specialty was
the manufacture of LSD-25. As a result I was able to obtain an
unlimited supply of LSD impregnated sugar cubes. I hooked up
with a fugitive from Michigan named Dana Beal, who showed a
strong interest in the newly emerging counterculture. Dana and I
would drop acid together and listen to Dylan’s Bringing It All Back
Home and Highway 61 Revisited. As we sat there totally wasted
both of us realized that there was something happening on at
least one other level of meaning in songs like Desolation Row and
that Bob Dylan, folk rocker, was a world-class poet. By 1967 I
became convinced that it was my role in life to translate Dylan’s
message for the unwashed hippy masses, as I believed there was
some higher communistic truth that had to be revealed. Looking
back, I was trying to “reshape [Dylan] in a mold, in the image of
someone I used to know” (Take Me As I Am 1970) since Dylan
had changed radically since his Blowin’ In The Wind days.
I began to spend more and more time studying Bob Dylan.
I went up to Columbia Records and copied every article that they
had on him. When the people in the P.R. department observed my
diligence, they offered me a job there. Of course I refused to work
for any filthy capitalistic entity. I created a chronology of the events
in Dylan’s life and compared it with his poetry; still no answers
emerged. After Izzy Young of the Folklore Center gave me Dylan’s
address I decided to take a shortcut by searching Dylan’s garbage
cans for a Rosetta Stone, a piece of paper that contained a
translation of his hieroglyphical poems. Still nothing, except I
founded the journalist technique today known as garbology.
I figured a computer might help. My old lady and I went to
New York University and we typed the body of Dylan’s work onto
punch cards. With the help of an ex-junkie computer programmer
and Dylan freak, I created a Bob Dylan Word Concordance, every
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word in Dylan’s poetry in chronological order along with a line of
context. Even with this pioneering venture into using computers to
translate poetry I still could not make Dylanology work. Then fate
took a weird twist:
In June 2000 the I.R.S. Criminal Division and the F.B.I.
(who should have been watching Islamist terrorists instead of pot
dealers) slapped bracelets on my wrists. “Where are the guns?”
they demanded. I told them this is Greenwich Village, not
Hollywood. A few months later I pleaded guilty to money
laundering and the Bureau of Prisons sent me to the Metropolitan
Detention Center in Brooklyn, a warehouse converted into a highrise administrative prison, for an all-expense paid vacation. It took
me two weeks to adapt to my new home. Several prisoners
pointed out that I must be totally crazy to have adjusted so quickly.
Be that as it may a friend had amazon.com send me a copy of
Bob Dylan Lyrics 1962-1985 i and I began, behind bars, the study
of Bob Dylan, an undertaking that ultimately proved successful.
Okay, a lot of literary advances have been made in prison
from Boethius to Solzhenitsyn. But this is what freaks me out: In
1984 the FBI believed that I was using money from pot dealing to
put out contracts on Nazi war criminals living in the United States.
As a result in 1985 the FBI questioned a friend of Bob Dylan, who
was also one of my pot customers, about a check he had written
to me. When this man told the Feds that he had purchased some
books (rather than reefer) they made him come down to the New
York FBI Field Office where he took the Fifth Amendment. This
dude was a wannabe pot dealer and knew my entire crew. Dylan
was made aware of my situation and believed that I was courting
disaster. You didn’t need the gift of prophecy to realize that sooner
or later I would get locked up. He wrote a poem about this which
contained the lines, “You will seek me and you’ll find / Me in the
wasteland of your mind / When the night comes falling from the
sky.” That motherfucker predicted that my getting locked up would
result in my finally being able to deconstruct his poetry!

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10 CHAPTER NAME
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91

A. J. WEBERMAN

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92

MY LIFE IN GRIME

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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i

. Alfred A. Knof, Inc. 1985

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