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Title: Museum of the Streets
Author: Abbie Hoffman
Date: 1980
Language: en
Topics: guerrilla theater, yippies
Source: Hoffman, Abbie. (1980). Soon to be a Major Motion Picture. Perigee.
Notes: A chapter from Abbie Hoffman’s autobiography.

Abbie Hoffman

Museum of the Streets

The first time you may have seen me was in the gallery of the New York

Stock Exchange, hurling money on the brokers below. Of course, you

didn’t actually see me because no photographs of the incident exist:

newsmen are not allowed to enter the sacred temple of commerce.

It all began with a simple telephone call to the Stock Exchange. I

arranged for a tour, giving one of my favorite pseudonyms, George

Metesky, the notorious mad bomber of Manhattan. Then I scraped together

three hundred dollars which I changed into crispy one-dollar bills,

rounded up fifteen free spirits, which in those days just took a few

phone calls, and off we went to Wall Street.

We didn’t call the press; at that time we really had no notion of

anything called a media event. (And to make one very important point, I

never performed for the media. I tried to reach people. It was not

acting. It was not some media muppet show. That is a cynical

interpretation of history.) We just took our places in line with the

tourists, although our manner of dress did make us a little conspicuous.

The line moved its way past glassed-in exhibits depicting the rise of

the industrial revolution and the glorification of the world of

commerce. Then the line turned the comer. Suddenly, we saw hordes of

reporters and cameras. Somebody must have realized a story was in the

making and rung up one of the wire services. In New York the press can

mobilize in a matter of minutes. Faster than police, often.

We started clowning, kissing and hugging, and eating money. ext, some

stock exchange bureaucrats appeared and we argued until they allowed us

in the gallery, but the guards kept the press ut. I passed out money to

freaks and tourists alike, then all at once we ran to the railing and

began tossing out the bills. Pandemonium. The sacred electronic ticker

tape, the heartbeat of the estern world, stopped cold. Stock brokers

scrambled over the floor like worried mice, scurrying after the money.

Greed had burst through the business-as-usual

It lasted five minutes at the most. The guards quickly ushered us out

with a stem warning and the ticker tape started up

The reporters and cameramen were waiting for us outside:

“Who are you?”

“I’m Cardinal Spellman.”

“Where did you get the money?”

“What are you saying? You don’t ask Cardinal Spellman where he gets his

money!”

“How much did you throw?”

“Thousands.”

“How many are you?”

“Hundreds—three—two—we don’t exist! We don’t even exist!” As the cameras

whirred away we danced, burned greenbacks and declared the end of

Bystander: “This is a disgusting display.”

Me: “You’re right. These people are nothing but a bunch of filthy

commies.”

The story was on the air waves that night and our message went around

the world, but because the press didn’t actually witness the event they

had to create their own fantasies of what had happened inside the money

temple. One version was we threw Monopoly money, another network called

it hundred-dollar bills, a third shredded money. A tourist from Missouri

was interviewed who said he had joined in the money-throwing because

he’d been throwing away his money all over New York for several days

anyway and our way was quicker and more fun. From start to finish the

event was a perfect myth. Even the newspeople had to elaborate on what

had

A spark had been ignited. The system cracked a little. Not a drop of

blood had been spilled, not a bone broken, but on that day, with that

gesture, an image war had begun. In the minds of millions of teenagers

the stock market had just

Guerrilla theater is probably the oldest form of political commentary.

The ideas just keep getting recycled. Showering money on the Wall Street

brokers was the TV -age version of driving the money changers from the

temple. The symbols, the spirit, and the lesson were identical. Was it a

real threat to the Empire? Two weeks after our band of mind-terrorists

raided the stock exchange, twenty thousand dollars was spent to enclose

the gallery with bullet-proof glass. Someone out there had read the

ticker.

In The Theatre and Its Double, Antonin Artaud called for a new “poetry

of festivals and crowds, with people pouring into the streets.” No need

to build a stage, it was all around us. Props would be simple and

obvious. We would hurl ourselves across the canvas of society like

streaks of splattered paint. Highly visual images would become news, and

rumor-mongers would rush to spread the excited word. Newscasters

unconsciously began all reports of our actions with the compelling

phrase “Did ya hear about—.”

For us, protest as theater came natural. We were already in costume. If

we went above Fourteenth Street we were suddenly semi-Indians in a

semi-alien culture. Our whole experience was theater-playing the flute

on the street comer, panhandling, walking, living protest signs. Our

theatricality was not adopted from the outside world. We didn’t buy or

read about it. It was not a style like disco dressing that you could see

in ads and imitate. Once we acknowledged the universe as theater and

accepted the war of symbols, the rest was easy. All it took was a little

elbow grease, a little hustle.

At meetings people would divide up in groups to work on one theatrical

action or another. Some took only a few participants and others were

more elaborate. Some had to be planned like bank robberies and others

like free-for-all be-ins.

One night we decided to do something that would express the

neighborhood’s dismay over increased traffic and thought for the first

time about using mobile tactics-people running around and creating a

little chaos rather than just standing still. To get everyone assembled

and disbursed we put out an anonymous leaflet telling people to gather

at St. Mark’s Place at 9p.m., wait for a signal from God, then scatter

through the streets. Two thousand people responded.

One of us (guess which one) had gone to a chemist’s shop and bought two

pounds of magnesium which we packed in coffee tins and put on the roofs

around St. Mark’s Place. Then we rigged the cans with delay fuses by

shoving lighted cigarettes in match packs. Once done, we raced down to

the streets where people were milling around, waiting for God. All of a

sudden the whole sky lit up with a huge blast of exploding magnesium.

People started running all over. Fire trucks poured into the area.

Sometimes chaos makes a good point.

In incense-filled rooms we gathered cross-legged on the rugs, conspiring

dastardly deeds. The Jokers would show Gotham City no mercy:

“We’ve just got to end this tourist gawking,” complained provo agitator

Dana Beal.

“Hey, how’s this for the tourist problem?” said Radio Bob Fass. “Wavy

Gravy gets dressed up real straight and buys a ticket to go on one of

the tours. We all get dressed up as cowboys and hold up the bus when it

turns the corner into Second Avenue. We board it, pull Wavy off and hang

him from the lamp post.”

“Hang him?”

“Well, not really. We rig up one of those harnesses under his jacket

just like they do in the movies.”

The major event that spring was the be-in in Central Park. That’s when I

really got hooked in to the whole idea. I was at Liberty House when Lynn

House and Jim Fouratt came by and said, “We’re going to put on this

be-in.”

I went on the air to promote the event and Bob Fass at radio station

WBAI interviewed me. I started to fantasize about what the be-in was

going to be about — no speakers, platform, leaders, no clearly defined

format so people could define it for themselves. folks would just come

to the park on Easter Sunday dressed for the occasion and exchange

things, balloons, acid, jelly beans, Easter eggs; do Druid dances, or

whatever their hearts desired.

Thirty-five thousand people showed up. The traditional Fifth Avenue

Easter Parade, our competition, drew less than half that. After the

be-in, Anita and I walked out of the park and joined the Fifth Avenue

Parade, singing “In Your Easter Bonnet” Our faces were painted silver

and I was carrying a huge Easter bunny. In front of St. Patrick’s

Cathedral the loudspeakers blared, “Come in, come in and worship.” Why

not? But as soon as we mounted the steps we were stopped by a line of

cops.

“You can’t go in there looking like that.”

“What do you mean, we can’t come in? Don’t you see who we’re with? We’re

with the Easter bunny.”

“The Cardinal says no hippies on Easter Sunday.”

A crowd began to gather. We continued to “play the dozens” with the

cops. The confrontation heated up so we staged a strategical withdrawal,

already plotting a sequel: “We’ll come back next Christmas. We’ll rent a

mule and get some dude with long hair, dress him up in a white robe and

sandals, and have him ride right up to the door of St. Patrick’s with

people waving palm branches, and Cardinal Spellman will come out and

say, ‘You can’t come in here ...”

It’s so easy. All you need is a little nerve and a willingness to be

considered an embarrassment. Then you just keep pushing it, repeating

what they say: “You mean the Cardinal says ...”

If observers of the drama are allowed to interpret the act, they will

become participants themselves. Too much analysis kills direct

theatrical experience. The put-on allows you to circumvent the trap.

Smashing conventional mores becomes essential. The concept of mass

spectacle, every-day language, and easily recognized symbols was

important to get public

Artists, the vanguard of communication, had grown weary of decades of

abstract shapes. Modern art was already institutionalized; ersatz

Kandinskys hung in dentists’ offices. Andy Warhol broke through the

abstraction and let us see the raw stuff of art in supermarkets, on TV,

in magazines, and at the garbage dump. Allan Kaprow and other artists

were experimenting with a new form called “happenings”—half-scripted,

half-chance public exhibitions—3-D art, with people as paint.

“Happenings” were an extension of abstract art and as such were designed

for the ruling class. I thought we could improve on that. Perhaps the

audience that appreciated All in the Family did not approve of our

“message” but they did understand it. It was public and popular. If we

were not accepted by the Archie Bunkers of America, then perhaps by the

children of Archie themselves. That the Museum of Modern (sic) Art

honored “happenings” and “pop art” while ignoring our brand of political

theater just proves the connection between successful artists and the

rich.

Lenin once wrote that art was counter-revolutionary because it showed

beauty in the present, while revolution promised beauty in the future.

It’s true that art-for-art’s sake leads to performing modern dance for

Shahs and Sheiks or discussing sculpture at afternoon tea with the

Rockefellers. Yet creativity is needed to reach people snowed under by

ruling-class images, and only artists can manage the breakthrough.

Artists are the collective eyes of the future. One of the worst mistakes

any revolution can make is to become boring. It leads to rituals as

opposed to games, cults as opposed to community and denial of human

rights as opposed to

In organizing a movement around art we not only allowed people to

participate without a sense of guilt but also with a sense of enjoyment.

The use offun in struggle was a new notion. Even in Mississippi where we

were truly frightened most of the time with people shooting at us,

living with the constant thought that we might lose our lives, it seemed

like people enjoyed their “work.” All I did was admit it felt good.

There’s no incongruity in conducting serious business and having fun.

This pissed offthe straight left no

One of the principles of good theater is not to overburden the audience

with footnoted explanations of what they are seeing. In 1967 a picket

sign saying end the — was far more involving than one that said END THE

WAR. People love filing in the blanks and you could always count on

straight people to stick to the core message. A populist movement must

allow people to define their own space, their own motives, to be their

own critics. A good explanation is no explanation, keeping your mouth

shut a correct response. There was, however, an even higher form of

communication, since “no response” sounds the same as the bureaucracy’s

“no comment.” Street players have nothing to hide. The solution lies in

the zen axiom: say everything by saying nothing, remain silent by

telling all. Any good Jewish comedian from Hillel to Don Rickles knows

what I’m talking about. Partly truth, partly fiction, the “put-on” gets

the job

Guard: Sorry, hippies are not allowed in the Stock Exchange.

Actor: But we’re not hippies, we’re Jewish. Should we tell the press you

kept Jews out of Wall Street?

Theater of protest, for me, was a marriage of circumstances and

personality. After a while I couldn’t keep it a secret who I was. At

first, my identity was a bit of a mystery. I often wrote under weird

aliases: George Metesky the bomber, Jim Metesky, which was a cross

between him and Jim Piersall, a Red Sox ball player I liked, Frankie

Abbott, a figure in the Amboy Dukes (dutifully reported in the New York

Times as Mr. Frank Abbott), Free, The Digger, or just A. Hippie. (The

period after A made it me.) After I became well known I couldn’t

continue the pretense, even if the attitude was right. It was all part

of a reluctance (maybe an inability) to define. Definition always seemed

to contain an element of

On April 15, 1967, the largest demonstration in the country’s history,

700,000 people, marched to the United Nations to prot.est the escalation

of the war in Vietnam. Our Lower East Side contingent assembled at

Tompkins Square Park and marched north, gathering more people along the

way. The artists all turned out, so naturally our form of presentation

was pretty colorful: Ginsberg’s bells and chants, The Bread and Puppet

Theater group, gaily dressed and stoned, a Yellow Submarine, and a lot

of people who looked like they had posed for the Sergeant Pepper album

cover. (One of the first examples of a masterpiece entering the

Supermarket.)

A month later the right-wingers responded with a Support Our Boys rally,

and we organized a “flower brigade” to march in their parade. There were

about twenty of us with flowers and banners that read “Support Our

Boys—Bring Them Home,” and we all carried little American flags. I wore

a multi-colored cape with the word “Freedom” on it. Anita was all decked

out in red, white, and blue. Joe Flaherty of the Village Voice came by

and told us we were asking for trouble. Even the cops tried to talk us

out of marching and wouldn’t give us an escort for protection. But we

saw the “Support Our Boys” stickers on their windshields and we knew we

were better off without them.

For a while everything went fine. We marched behind some Boy Scouts from

Queens (“Oh, look, they’re kissing!” they’d squeal and break formation)

and then walked straight into trouble. They came at us with fists, feet,

beer, spit, red paint. They even ripped up our American flags. Then a

flying wedge of cops appeared out of nowhere and escorted us, bleeding

and limping, all the way back to St. Mark’s Place.

Undaunted, we marched again, this time to Lincoln Center for a cultural

exchange program. “March to Lincoln Center. Bring Your Own Garbage.

Let’s Trade It for Their Garbage—Even Steven,” read the leaflets. About

thirty of us walked from our neighborhood through the streets of

Manhattan to newly-opened Lincoln Center with our bags of garbage and

dumped them in the courtyard fountain, scattering in every direction

when the cops chased us. The media got hold of it, turning the event

into the potent image we had intended. “Oh, those hippies-they went up

and threw garbage at Lincoln Center.” That’s enough, that was the

message. The press didn’t yet realize that these images were disruptive

to society and they were quickly caught up in the excitement and

fashion. Later, editors became sophisticated.

Once you get the right image the details aren’t that important.

Over-analyzing reduced the myth. A big insight we learned during this

period was that you didn’t have to explain why. That’s what advertising

was all about. “Why” was for the critics.

Radical theater burst onto the streets with a passion. Our guerrilla

band attacked Con Edison, New York’s utility company. On cue, soot bombs

exploded in offices, smudge pots billowed thick smoke into lobbies,

black crepe paper encircled the building, and a huge banner hung across

the front door: BREATHING IS BAD FOR YOUR HEALTH. Cops and firemen

appeared on the scene. We ran in all directions, losing ourselves in the

crowds. The six o’clock news opened with clouds of smoke, a pan shot of

the banner, and strange-looking guttersnipes running amok. An official

from the power company wearing a suit and tie explained Con Ed’s

position. As he spoke he nervously touched his face. Self-inflicted

black spot marks appeared on his cheeks: the vaudeville show was

completed by unwitting self-ridicule. The fatter they are, the harder

they fall.

The Army recruiting center in Times Square was plastered with stickers:

SEE CANADA NOW. Stop signs on street corners now read STOP WAR. Witches

in black robes, bearing roses, exorcised the FBI building of its evil

spirits. Hundreds crowded the lobby of the Daily News smoking grass and

passing out leaflets to employees that began, “Dear Fellow Members of

the Communist Conspiracy.” A tree was planted in the center of St. Marx

Place (we took the liberty of changing the spelling) while 5,000

celebrators danced to rock music. Midnight artists snuck into subway

stations and painted huge murals on the walls. Naked people ran through

churches. Panhandlers worked the streets for hours, took the change they

collected to the nearest bank and scattered it on the floor. A giant

Yellow Submarine mysteriously kept appearing in tow-away zones. Tourist

buses, now detouring to watch the hippies cavort, were greeted by freaks

holding up huge mirrors, screaming, “Dig thyself!” All this and more

Anita and I got high doing.

Some events grew out of unexpected donations. A person called up, “I’ve

got 10,000 flowers you can have.” I had an idea: wouldn’t it be great to

have these flowers come showering down over the be-in in Central Park?

We had to get hold of a head who knew how to fly a plane and was ready

to risk arrest. I found one in New Jersey and told him to act fast. He

raced to the airport on his motorcycle, smashed-up, left his bike on the

street, called a cab and arrived just in time. All the connections were

made perfectly except the last one — he dropped all 10,000 flowers

blocks away on an empty side street.

If street theater is to avoid growing tedious, it benefits from an edge

of menace — a touch of potential violence. When Secretary of State Dean

Rusk came to town to speak to some war hawk assemblage at the

Waldorf-Astoria, we rallied at 57^(th) Street and Seventh Avenue, ready

to “bring the war home.” Plastic bags filled with cow’s blood flew

through the night air. Tape recordings of battle sounds screamed above

the crowds. Urban monkeys (not yet guerrillas) with painted faces and

water pistols attacked tuxedoed enemy collaborators. Fire alarms were

pulled and swarms of angry demonstrators shouting, “Hey, hey, LBJ, how

many kids did you kill today?” surged through midtown.

A couple observing the melee said, “What’s going on?” “There’s a war on,

can’t you see?” I answered as the police on horseback began to attack.

We scattered the sidewalk with marbles and the horses slipped and

stumbled. Innocent bystanders (no bystander is innocent) were caught

between the clashing armies. The cops waded right into the crowds of

people, clubbing away. Crunch! I got carted off to jail.

The head of a pig was delivered to Hubert Humphrey on a silver platter

before a shocked throng of liberals. Shelley Winters, that pompous

phony, denounced us. Mice were released at a Dow Chemical stockholders’

meeting. Cardinal (pass-the-Lord-and-Praise-the-Ammunition) Spellman,

who went to Vietnam and posed behind a machine gun, was confronted by

angry Catholics during a church service.

When all else failed, we simply declared the war over. Five thousand of

us romped through the streets, hugging people in stores and buses. “The

war is over! Hip-hip-hurray!! It’s over!!” Balloons, confetti, singing,

dancing. If you don’t like the news, we reasoned, make up your own.