Google Abbie Hoffman

3:00 p.m. Friday afternoon sitting at the foot of the Picasso at the Plaza. There are seven guys, seven oddballs, seven marginal characters, seven lonesters (were we all raised by wolves?). Rich Cotovsky, now Abbie Hoffman, leads the band, megaphone in hand. Two of us carry a banner reading, 'Abbie Hoffman Died for Your Sins,' one of us carries a sign that says, 'What the Hell,' the rest of us hand out flyers announcing three days of 'theatrical entertainment.'

We march down Dearborn, take a left at Wacker, troop down Michigan Av. (gaping shoppers, mall girls, tourists from Iowa, -- 'Mommy, who's Abbie Hoffman?') cut over to the lakefront, past the volleyballers, the girls in bikinis, the bikers, the roller-bladers, the street people. Rich (Abbie) on his megaphone, keeps up a running monologue. He sees a man loading a mattress into a truck, he quips, 'Abbie Hoffman loaded more mattresses, into more trucks, than any other man alive.'

Overhead, fighter jets are doing loop de loops, roaring across the sky, rattling windows, the finest military hardware money can buy, getting ready for the Air and Water show this weekend. I hear Groucho Marx whisper in my ear, 'I would never want to join a club that would have me as a member.' I am here and not here at the same time. I do my part, hand out flyers and put one foot in front of another. Nice day, nice walk.

A lady shouts out to this motley band, "Guys, the sixties are dead.!' Oh well. We get to the theater about 5:30 p.m. I go to Starbucks, get an 'iced venti skim latte,' and a bottle of water. I sit down in a comfy chair and wait for Carla and Manny to join me for the opening ceremonies. The show gets off to a good start, three of the first four pieces are excellent. Up early this morning, rehearsal at Peter Jones, then we unveil 'Henry Goodbar,' tonight. I am one of those 'lone wolves' who can't wait to get up in front of a house full of eyes. What would Abbie say?