Everybody and his dog’s got a cause
I didn’t have much farther to go.
Just a few scant yards across the
puddled concrete of the EMU ter
race and I would be safely within
the fishbowl. I could see it now; I’d
pack up a paper, scan the personals,
drink some coffee, watch the chess
players, snag a passing friend, shoot
the breeze, and maybe sneak a
peek at The Guiding Light in the TV
room to see if Peggy ever found out
that Roger was the father of Holly's
baby. Just a few more feet...
‘ ‘Scuzemecouldjaspareafewmo
mentatalkaboutthespremespargas?”
I should just keep on walking, I
told myself, and pretend that I
hadn’t heard anything. That’s what
I should have done, but I knew that
I couldn’t. Ever since 1 had read
Milton’s “Areopagitica,” which
panted out that one could learn the
truth only by exposing himself to all
possible viewpoints, I had been a
sucker for these campus pitchmen.
So far, stopping and listening to
diem had been about as enlighten
ing as a Sgt. Bilko rerun, but then
again there was always the slight
possibility that I might stroll right
past the bearer of the Ultimate
Truth and always be the poorer for
it I stopped.
“Uh, what was that?”
The man’s stubbled face split into
a gap-toothed smile.
“The Supreme Asparagus,” he
said, leading me out of the flow of
traffic. A few passers-by cast sym
pathetic looks in my direction: it was
the same sort of expression that I
imagined the surviving members of
a school of fish wore when one of
their number was snagged by a
merciless angler.
i wui leu you a story, me man
was saying. “I will tell you why all
the great religious leaders of the
world secretly sacrifice pellets of fer
tilizer at the altar of the Supreme
Asparagus. 1 will tell you how John
Lennon uses the hubcap of a 1937
Hudson Terraplane to carry out the
Supreme Asparagus’ wishes. I will
tell you how the Supreme As
paragus annoints the tips of
neophyte disciples with the Hal
lowed Hollandaise. I will tell you
how the Supreme Asparagus
knows if you are a true believer,
how he knows if you have faith,
how he knows if you are sleeping,
how he knows if you’re awake, how
he knows if you’ve been bad or
good so be good few goodness. . .”
“Hey, hold it a minute,” I said.
“Now 1 recognize you, you talked to
me last week about the Omnipotent
Potato. But you looked, different
then, you were wearing Sears cot
ton sheets and blue Pumas and this
week it’s...”
Penny’s percale and waffle
stampers — the official garment of
the Grand Cultivator of the Sup
reme Asparagus,” he said proudly.
“The Omnipotent Potato proved
himself to be unworthy and was
consumed in the Vegetable Armeg
gedon last Thursday.”
I sighed — Sgt. Bilko was Soc
rates compared to this fruitcake.
“So what’s the going contribution
rate on this super artichoke,” 1
asked resignedly.
“Please — the Supreme As
paragus,” said the man, extending
a coffee can. “And one may invoke
the blessings of the Exalted Stalk for
just one dollar.”
I pulled a bill out of my pocket,
tossed it in the can and headed for
the door. The coast looked clear.
Maybe, just maybe...
“Hey comrade give all power to
the people free political prisoners
get pigs off campus fight repression
stifle censorship abolish the CIA re
call Boyd ban the bomb free Pales
tine boycott scab lettuce back the
CCDC control oil profits liberate
Angola resist the tuition hike sup
Graphic by Jon Comb*
port Newton Chisolm Nader Cas
tro Davis Ervin Leary Kesey Harris
Ginsburg Bond Abzug Mao Teng
down with Nixon Ford Rockefeller
Kissinger Wallace Reagan Buckley
Goldwater Connally Mitchell
Schockley and destroy the
bourgeois fascist militaristic
capitalist anti-expressionist slave
hoi ling imperialist war-mongering
oligarchic bureaucracy.”
“Do 1 have to do it all before
lunch?” I asked.
“The time for action is now, com
rade,” said the man. He was wear
ing a beret, a mustache and goatee,
a black turtlenect, a tattered khaki
jacket, 14 P.O.W. bracelets, a gun
belt, canvas pants and combat
boots. “The enemy is nearly upon
us. And with the new development,
we can scarcely hope to hold out.”
“Uh, what new development?”'!
asked, against my better judgment.
“An FBI plot, my friend,” said
the man, lowering his voice to a
conspiratorial whisper. “Our agents
forced the story out of Jack Ford by
holding back his marijuana fix until
he went into withdrawals.”
“Inhuman!” 1 asserted.
“But necessary,” he responded,
“especially in the light of the seri
ousness of the counter revolutio
nary plan. It seems that Ella Fitz
gerald has been enlisted to sing an
ultrasonic note during the national
anthem at the next Blazers-Lakers
game, which will cause Bill
Walton’s ankles to shatter and send
him to the Mayo Clinic, where
Angie Dickenson, disguised as a
nurse, will lure him into an affair,
using tactics the CIA taught her
back in ’60. A photo of them in bed
together will cause Angie’s hus
band, Burt Bacharach, to get a di
vorce and many Tatum O’Neal,
whom he has been secretly dating.
Jackie Kennedy, Burt’s other secret
love, will be so enraged that$he will
marry Eton John out of revenge,
who will drop out of the record in
dustry and manage Ari’s shipping
fleet, leaving Bemie Taupin to team
up with Frank Sinatra, who will go
broke and move in with Bob Hope,
who will soon grow sick of Sinatra
and marry his long-time mistress
Marie Osmond, which will enrage
the entire Mormon population, at
which time Dick Tuck will spread
the word that Marie’s move was
prompted by left-wing radicals. The
Mormons will use the interest on
their tobacco holdings to buy the
U.S. Army and bingo — no more
people’s resistance.”
“That sounds serious,” I said.
That sounds ridiculous, I thought
“But we’re preparing,” the man
assured me. “We’re putting to
gether our own private army of pub
lic relations men who will cut off
Tuck’s message and spread the
word that the military-industrial
complex is the guilty party in
Marie’s abduction. We’re receiving
contributions for the army right
now.”
“Which average...?’ I sighed.
“Just one dollar,” he said, ex
tending a coffee can.
I tossed in the bill, squatted down
into a three-pointed stance and
made a mad dash for the door, but
something flew into my path. Going
too fast to stop, I slammed into
some kind of floating metal object
and fell back on the concrete,
dazed.
‘ ‘Hey, didn’t anyone ever tell you
that running bums up precious ox
ygen?’
I looked up toward the voice and
saw a young woman sitting in a
bright orange Navy hovercraft
which was floating about four feet
off the ground. The vehicle was
saucer-shaped, about six feet in
diameter and incredibly noisy.
“Excuse me...l think,” I said, still
a bit groggy.
“And look at you!” shouted the
woman over the hovercraft’s
scream. “There you are, standing
on the ground like it’s the most in
nocent thing in the world.”
1 looked down at my Roots self
consciously.
“Uh, isn’t it?’
“Of course not!” bellowed the
woman. “Why do you think I’m sit
ting in this thing?’
‘To be perfectly frank, 1 really
don’t...”
“I’ll tell you why!” she yelled.
“It’s because every time you put
one of your big feet on the ground
you squash thousands of en
dangered microorganisms. Did you
know that the Dicomoneriphera is
nearly extinct?”
“Uh, no. Should I?”
“If you value your life you
should. Humanity is just one link in
the global food chain and Di
comoeriphera is the basis of it all.
Besides, could anything be more
beautiful than a family of Di
comoneriphera taking an evening
stroll across a 1000X microscope
slide? And there you stand, killing
them!
I was going to make some sort of
reply in my defense, but by then the
exhaust fumes from the hovercraft
had filled my lungs, and I sank to
my knees, coughing.
“It’s no use praying for forgive
ness,” she told me, “when you
kneel you just kill more of them.
You can help, though. I’m the local
emissary of the Commission on Re
viving and Uplifting our Micros
copic Brothers, and we’re going to
construct a giant system of elevated
walkways all over the world so that
the earth can be left to the mic
robes. After all, they were here
first”
“This system of walkways,” I
began, “how much is the aver
age...”
“One dollar,” she said, presang
a button on the hovercraft’s con
sole. A hatch opened in the side of
the vehicle and a metal arm
reached toward me, holding a cof
fee can. I plunked in four quarters,
the arm retracted, and the woman
and her craft zoomed over the
hedge and out of sight.
I was steamed. To hell with the
“Areopagitica,” I thought, I’m
going to quit being an easy touch
for any two-bit activist who stakes
out a square on the terrace. I paid
my fees, I told myself angrily, and
nobody, but nobody is going to
keep me from opening that door
and going insi-”
“Excuse me.”
That did it.
“Listen, you crummy little half
baked Bolshevik!” I roared. “Let
me tell you what I believe! I believe
that there is some sort of Supreme
Being who has or had some sort of
existence, but I do not know what
form He, She, or it takes or took, or
where He, She, or it lives or lived, or
anything about He, She or It other
than whoever or whatever the Sup
reme Being is or was, I’m sure that
He, She, or It doesn’t or didn’t want
a platoon of peyote chewers and
vegatable gardeners trying to peiss
off everything from Astrology to
zucchini as the Ultimate Answer.
Politically, I am a liberal Democrat,
and 1 believe that capitalism is an
unjust system and that the wealth in
America should be distributed more
evenly — as long as I can be
guaranteed that my wealth isn’t di
vided up first. And as for ecology, I
signed petitions for preserving
French Pete and stopping seal kil
lers and whale harpooners, but as
for amoebas and paramedum I just
don’t give the contents of a waste
vacuole. So as far as I’m concerned
you can take your pamphlets and
your buttons and your coffee can
and...”
“Hey, wait a minute, said the fig
ure at whom my tirade had been
unleased. She was a tall, fair
skinned woman, and I suddenly
realized, she was not wearing a
beret, buttons, or even an oppres
sed expression. “That’s an interest
ing set erf priorities you’ve got there,
pal,” she said, “but all I really
wanted to know is where I can find
the TV room. I’m new in town, and I
haven’t seen The Guiding Light
since I set out from New York last
week. I’ve really been worried be
cause God, if Peggy finds out about
Roger and Holly...”
“...she’ll probably tell Ed and
he’ll start boozing again,” 1 said.
“Hey, I’m sorry about that out
burst, it’s been a long morning.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” she said as we
strolled into the TV room. “But
you’re wrong about Ed, he’ll prob
ably just drop Holly and move back
in with Janet.”
“Maybe,” I conceded. “As the
man outside would say, it all de
pends on the Will of the Supreme
Asparagus.”
The woman’s face brightened.
“Oh, wow, are you an As
paragusdple too?” she squealed,
pulling a bundle of stalks, several
jars erf hollandaise and a ’54 Buick
hubcap out of her backpack.
“That’s incredible, 1 didn’t even
know they had a parish out here. If
you’ve got some fertilizer with you
we could do a sacrifice right now—
I’m afraid I used all of mine up at the
Final Rite of Omnipotent Potato
and I haven’t had a chance to get
(Continued on Page 11)