Pennies for Peace

The Peace Fair happened last Saturday on the Common, dealing yet another staggering blow to the Administration and leaving it tottering if not actually toppled. Thousands of alleged students (most of them in disguise) came to spend their pennies for peace on cookies and brownies provided by Cambridge's well-meaning housewives.

One of Boston's Finest, caught munching a brownie, admitted, with a beguiling Irish wink, that he was tasting the goodies to make sure they had not been contaminated with a "dangerous drug."

The Fair, conceived to raise money for organizations which could not come by it in a more legitimate fashion, had its problems from the outset.

Originally planned to take place a week ago Sunday, it succumbed to the climate of animosity that has confronted peace demonstrations all year--it was rained out. Moustachoied advocates of the conspiracy theory report they spotted planes sporting the emblem of the Commonwealth seeeding the clouds minutes before the downpour.

Further difficulties arose when sponsors of the Fair tried to reserve the Common for yesterday only to hear from the Cambridge City Father's that the grounds had already been allocated to the Polish American Citizens who plan to re-erect a plaque displaced during construction of the underpass. Fortunately the potential conflict never materialized and a compromise was worked out: the peaceniks would disrupt the Shabbos and the Poles the Sabbath.

Despite early setbacks, the Fair finally started in earnest around afternoon time when the rank and file poured out of Krackerjacks--price tags still clinging to their swinging attire--and headed for Where the Action is At in Boss Town.

Entering the Common to the bopping sounds which have become the anthem of the anti-war mongers, one is pleasantly reminded, in bronze, that this is the exact spot, the very knoll on which George Washington took control of the American Army in July of 1775.

The crowd was large, and dressed, as Norman Mailer predicted years ago, in the costumes of time past, time present, and time future. Babies and dogs cluttered the dust bowl; both, by city ordinance, must be leashed and curbed.

The Devil's Disciples, Boston's wouldbe Hellians, showed up in force, their colors flying, and spent the afternoon wiping grease on each others' dungarees and beards. A smattering of Harvard's young radical professors took Lindsaylike delight in bantering with members of the week-end ghetto.

But the main attractions centered around the baseball diamond. At first base, Roger's buy-a-baloon-for-peace concession was outstripping the competition. Sam Bowles and his flock held down second base while Martin Peretz passed out cigars at shortstop.

Centerfield was devoted to face-painting where one customer, after having his jowls suitably bedecked in white pancake makeup, red stripes, and blue mascara, asked timidly if he could "work on his wife." No one seemed to mind.

Along the third base line traffic was light to moderate around the McCarthy headquarters. Further up the line draft information was being dispensed and Resistance buttons sold indescriminately. Peace Pets were also on display: a kitty-litter of (predictably) kittens, a dozen dogs, one waterlogged turtle, two gross of goldfish, and a dove were up for grabs.

The treat, however, as always, was at the plate. After a series of mediocre sounds it was announced that the Ill Wind was going to play. Those in the know approached the bandstand before the tourists could botch up the best listening space between the loud speakers. Connie, Carey, Richard, Kenney, and David the drummer made up quite a crew.

The fact that Connie, the vocalist, who is also a girl, had the shortest hair of all, became the subject of nary a wry comment. Perceptive listeners also noted that she sang bass during the harmony while the males took over the higher octaves in falsetto. Rhythm guitar was played by a giant of a man with an Apostle's beard, hollow eyes, and a swollen voice. His guitar, slung low and hanging horizontal at fly level gave soul to his songs.

Connie was beautiful. She smiled when she sang in her clear, almost old fashioned style. The lead was playing cool, yellow shades, and long locks adrift in the wind, he would simply shrug his shoulders when he got bored with a rip and with a graceful change of gears slip into something new.

A two foot blond was wailing at my feet. Having lost her mother amongst the myriad legs which stood like a forest around her, she given up in dispair, plumped down in the dust, her screams blending into the songs, her tears streaking through red mascara, raining like drops of blood on her legs.

Another midget, a boy this time, lollypop stuck to his palm, arms upheld by baloons tied to his wrists, ready for flight, came over to tend to his sister. For a moment there was a joyful reunion.

Then the Ill Wind died down and disappeared. In the lull the crowd which had been held together by the music, shattered, like mercury, into a hundred little globulets.

Cops drifted through the crowd sniffing like bloodhounds on the scent, but most of those who were so inclined had come stoned--it would have been almost crass to light up in public. By and large, however, the police seemed to be breaking in a new summer approach. They were being friendly. News must have reached them that the word was out in hippy havens across the country that when Berkeley dies Boston will come alive.

By mid-afternoon one of the policemen was squatting down next to some bearded youth having a butt and rapping amiably while two others were getting a free lunch at the hot dog stand. Even when Mr. Moynihan (former editor of the Nickle Muse and not to be confused with Daniel Patrick) and a ladyfriend tried to levitate three uniformed officers by dancing barefoot around them in a little known American Indian ritual--they were tolerantly bemused.

Only Stragglers

By early evening only the stragglers were left and the Common returned to its gutted, wasteland appearance. By then everyone, who was anyone, had made his appearance: General Waste-More-Land alias General Hershey-bar had convinced everyone that he should be interned at the earliest opportunity; and Evy (better known as Super-Fan) had graced the Fair with her presence to certify it as an event worthy of notice