Babs Spits In Th' Eye Of Authority Dept.

It’s 1958 [writes Babs - Ed.] and I’m outside my family’s house in Brooklyn Heights, New York City, where I’m waiting for my mother to take me to my weekly piano lesson. My brother and his friends are having a spitting contest on the street. My brother called out to me: “Hey Babs, watch how far we can spit!” With that, they all started spitting, as if it was some kind of Olympic event. I asked my brother, “How do you spit that far?” He told me: “It’s easy, swish your mouth around, until you have a big wad of saliva, take a deep breath, and spit it out as hard and fast as you can! Go ahead, Babs see how far you can spit!” So I followed my brother’s instructions, and just as the spit left my mouth, I heard my mother’s voice. “Babs! What are you doing? That’s unladylike behavior!”

Ten years later…

My brother was listed as missing in action during the Tet Offensive in Vietnam, when his cargo plane was shot down, long story short: he survived, but at the time, I never thought I’d see him again. Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy did not survive. My mother told me my father was having recurring nightmares about when he served in The Second World War. Myself, I was pissed off and upset about all of it, and simultaneously having the time of my life at Caltech in Pasadena, California. As Charles Dickens wrote, it was the best of times, it was the worst of times ...

On campus, Students for a Democratic Society (SDS) were handing out flyers for a Peace Now Rally, a march from Caltech to the bandshell in Pasadena Memorial Park. The day of the march, a few friends from my dorm and I gathered on campus, waiting for the march to begin. My friend Jennifer showed up and said: “I’ve got some uppers!” and handed out black capsules like they were candy. The march started, and we started chanting "Bring the troops home now!” "Hell no, we won't go!” "Peace Now!” and the call of “What does democracy look like?” and the response of “This is what democracy looks like”. Things were peaceful, as we marched through Pasadena. Every so often, there was a heckler, who was promptly flipped the bird.

We marched in to Pasadena Memorial Park, and assembled in front of the band shell. Music was playing over the P.A. system. It was early evening, the sun was starting to set as various people gave speeches. The majority of the speeches were well written, and orated in a rational manner, while a few were well-meaning rhetoric, but a little eye roll inducing. The last speaker, however, was an over the top radical who called for violence, which I thought was strange, considering we were at the Peace Now Rally. The crowd was riled up, as we exited the park, and there were a few scuffles between anti and pro war supporters. By then the police presence was heavier, than it was earlier in the day. Things were turning violent, and ugly.

My friends and I stuck together, and I related to them something I read regarding what to do if protests turn violent. What I read was: hold both hands up, make two peace signs with your hands, and quickly walk away from the trouble. Walking away quickly was no problem for us, thanks to Jennifer’s “black beauties”. As we passed some police officers, someone (not us) made an OINK OINK sound, which made me smile. One of the officers, seeing me smile, thought I made the sound. So he grabbed my arm, and told me: “You need to shut up!” I told him: “It wasn’t me” he said: “I thought I told you to shut up! One more word out of you, and you will be arrested, OK?” foolishly I said: “For what?” he said: “That’s it, you are under arrest.” I reiterated: “For what?” he told me: “For being a stupid little hippie bitch, that’s what!” he cuffed me and told me: “I’m putting you in the paddy wagon, if you give me any problems, I swear to God, I’ll stick my nightstick up your c**t.” He walked me to the paddy wagon’s back doors, another officer opened the doors. While I was stepping up into the wagon, the officer who arrested me, held me still with one hand, put his other hand between my legs, roughly rubbed me, and said: “You like that, don’tcha, bitch?” In a nanosecond, I flashed back to 1958, and my brother’s spitting instructions, I turned my head around, and spit as hard as I could. And POW! Got ‘em right in his eye! At the Pasadena police station, I was charged with assaulting a police officer and inciting to riot. After being processed, I was put in a cell with other protesters I recognized from Caltech, two hookers and a drunk woman who was passed out on the floor, snoring loudly. Myself and the five other protesters from Caltech, started calling our selves: “The Caltech Six” which added much needed comic relief to our situation.

The next morning I was brought to municipal court, In the court’s holding cell, word got back to us, they’re dropping inciting to riot charges, but prosecuting drug and assault cases. When It was my turn to go before the judge, I waived legal counsel, after the arresting officer failed to show up. The judge read the police report, and said: “Spitting on a police officer? He looked up at me and said: “Well, that’s unladylike behavior! How do you plead?” I told the judge: “Guilty with an explanation” and explained to him what happened. When I got to part about the nightstick, the courtroom gasped, and gasped even louder when I told the judge about the officer’s hands on me. The Judge, who didn’t seem the least bit surprised, dropped the charges.

When I got back to my dorm I was exhausted from lack of sleep, the stress of being arrested, spending the night in jail and being in court. I rolled a big fat joint, put Thelonious Monk’s album Monk on my record player. While smoking the joint, I thought about the last twenty-four hours, and how Monk records always have a way of making me smile, and passed out during side one.

So here’s Thelonious' album, Monk. It was released in 1964, and tends to get overlooked. While it’s not his best album, it is a fun listen. I first heard the album in 1967, and it has a sentimental element to it, because one of the first songs I learned to play on piano was This Old Man which Monk retitled That Old Man which he plays as a 16-bar (AA-form) composition in E♭. Monk makes it sound so easy, until you try to play along with it. Later releases call it Children’s Song and Children’s Song (That Old Man) as it is on the expanded edition I’m linking. Other highlights include: Liza (All the Clouds'll Roll Away), April in Paris, Pannonica, Teo, plus a medley of Just You, Just Me/Liza (All The Clouds'll Roll Away), not on the original release.

It’s a really nice album. [Like, digsville! - Ed.]