Thursday, January 27, 2011
One of my favourite memories
I have to admit I've been thinking about posting for a long time – just never got around to it. I can appreciate that the blog creators are feeling frustrated.
I was never part of Dumont Press Graphix, but was very much involved in On the Line. For a time, we used to send the copy by air cargo to Montreal (I think) where it was typeset. We'd pick up the set copy about a day later at the airport. One time I was sent off in the Datsun with Eddie and Adrian to pick up the copy from the last flight of the evening.
Remember Adrian? He was a tall, gangly grad student from England who literally turned up on the doorstep of 404 King St. North. He had a very long face and reddish hair and was even stranger than most of the rest of us.
The copy didn't come in when expected, but we were told it would be on the first plane in the morning. Instead of driving home we decided to wait for it (Don't ask me why). Very bored, we hung out in the cargo area for a while – played cribbage with a partial deck of cards we made out of shipping tags or something. I guess they kicked us out of there, because we went driving around exploring the airport and vicinity.
Someone noticed that every time we entered or left the parking garage, the guard at the entrance made a note. So of course we drove around and around several times just to annoy him. Then someone realized we had some props in the vehicle – a motorcycle helmet, a pair of goggles, and a gas mask. A funky old-fashioned gas mask with the round pluggy things sticking out of it (How the heck am I supposed to know why there was a gas mask? But it was Fast Eddie's Datsun...).
So Adrian, who was driving, put on the helmet and we drove into the garage. We could tell we'd got the guard's attention. Adrian donned the goggles and around we went again. Imagine our delight that the guard was obviously upset. Then Adrian added the gas mask to the costume. His head looked very much like a grasshopper's. Again we drove into the parking garage. This time the guard grabbed a phone. We figured we'd better get out of there, so exited as quickly as we could. As we drove past the guard's station he was on the phone – wildly waving his arms. We beat it, and behaved ourselves for the rest of the night.
I still laugh about this every time I drive into an airport parking garage.
I was never part of Dumont Press Graphix, but was very much involved in On the Line. For a time, we used to send the copy by air cargo to Montreal (I think) where it was typeset. We'd pick up the set copy about a day later at the airport. One time I was sent off in the Datsun with Eddie and Adrian to pick up the copy from the last flight of the evening.
Remember Adrian? He was a tall, gangly grad student from England who literally turned up on the doorstep of 404 King St. North. He had a very long face and reddish hair and was even stranger than most of the rest of us.
The copy didn't come in when expected, but we were told it would be on the first plane in the morning. Instead of driving home we decided to wait for it (Don't ask me why). Very bored, we hung out in the cargo area for a while – played cribbage with a partial deck of cards we made out of shipping tags or something. I guess they kicked us out of there, because we went driving around exploring the airport and vicinity.
Someone noticed that every time we entered or left the parking garage, the guard at the entrance made a note. So of course we drove around and around several times just to annoy him. Then someone realized we had some props in the vehicle – a motorcycle helmet, a pair of goggles, and a gas mask. A funky old-fashioned gas mask with the round pluggy things sticking out of it (How the heck am I supposed to know why there was a gas mask? But it was Fast Eddie's Datsun...).
So Adrian, who was driving, put on the helmet and we drove into the garage. We could tell we'd got the guard's attention. Adrian donned the goggles and around we went again. Imagine our delight that the guard was obviously upset. Then Adrian added the gas mask to the costume. His head looked very much like a grasshopper's. Again we drove into the parking garage. This time the guard grabbed a phone. We figured we'd better get out of there, so exited as quickly as we could. As we drove past the guard's station he was on the phone – wildly waving his arms. We beat it, and behaved ourselves for the rest of the night.
I still laugh about this every time I drive into an airport parking garage.
Charlotte
Charlotte was living at Zonk one time when I visited there (maybe the only time).
A long time ago I heard that she'd died. Last fall I came across this photo at this address, and news of what had happened to her.
It's part of a wonderful collection of pics from Rochdale on this Facebook page
I found it very interesting. Some of us might even find a few old friends there.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Views of the House of Zonk
I thought these needed to be added to Rosco's story. Nowadays I refer to this building as the Brubacher farmhouse to avoid discussing the lifestyle of the former denizens.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Four little Ducks in a row
So I'm wondering, as we reflect back on those early years at Dumont (which many of us out here in the West have been doing a lot of recently...), do we have a compiled record, either written or visual, of all of those folks who have worked at the shop or who have at least been part of the Dumont extended family?
Do we have a Dumont Registrar?... a competent archivist?... a reliable storyteller?... a diligent editor? How about a volunteer or two?
I know there'll be a lot of photographs hauled out of albums and boxes and binders in the coming months as we prepare for our assembled gathering in August. I'm wondering how much of that stuff we'll manage to pull together in the interim, and how we might share the good stuff over the long haul. We welcome your thoughts...
Oh, and by the way, the photo is from Chicopee, sometime in 1973, probably in the fall.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Tales from the House of Zonk
Are we all here now? Good. Is everybody sitting comfortably? Brenda, you move over now and let Lori sit beside you. That's it. Okay. We can get started n . . . Brian, you stop picking on your sister . . . that's better. Now where were we? Oh, yes . . .
This is the story of the time Larry Caesar got everybody at the House of Zonk arrested.
Larry had gone to see a movie and, as was his wont at the time, he took a bottle of wine with him. Now, in those days, movie houses hired people called “ushers” whose job it was to show people to their seats and generally ensure that people got in and out of the theatre in an orderly fashion. On this occasion, an usher happened to notice Larry drinking from his bottle of wine. Well, one thing led to another and before long the local constabulary were summoned and Larry was apprehended, removed from the theatre and subsequently searched.
This little assertion of our civil liberties was not without it's consequences, however. The narcs eventually finished their search of the house and told us we would all be charged with possession of marijuana. Fortunately, they were not about to haul us all down to the police station for such a trifling offense; fortunate for all but myself, that is.
My brother had advised us that we we under no obligation to answer any questions but that it was probably a good idea to tell them our names. This seemed to satisfy them, except when it came to me. They suggested I had not properly identified myself and invited me to accompany them downtown in one of their vehicles. As we drove into town, the driver and apparent ring-leader of the forces of good and righteousness, a certain Detective Hunt, saw fit to regale me with a series of "humourous" slurs on women, homosexuals, hippies and social deviants in general. Despite this obvious attempt at intimidation, I remained respectfully taciturn. Given the time that has elapsed since this episode and the difference in our ages at the time, I can only assume that Det. Hunt is now dead.
At the station, I was fingerprinted and photographed, had my belt and pocket contents confiscated and then I was taken into an interrogation room and was asked: What was my name? What was my address? and What did I know about the dope? Over and over. Just answer the questions and I could go home. As instructed by my legal counsel, I told them my name and refused to answer any other questions.
But there was still the small matter of the various charges that had been laid against us. In due time we were summoned to appear in court at 9:00 am on a date several months hence. We all went back to living our lives as usual, or as usual as living at the House of Zonk would allow. Summer turned to fall and fall to winter. And soon our day in court was upon us.
So it happened that the evening before, I was visiting with Gary at the farm at Chicopee. The hour grew late and we had had one toke too many . . .
Yes, Michael, I know that's not possible. It's just an expression.
. . . so Gary agreed to give me a ride into town in the morning.
There are two things that you don't want to have happen when you are due in court at 9:00 in the morning. First, you don't want to oversleep. You should get up at 7:00 not at 8:30. This will give you plenty of time to clean up and eat breakfast. It will also give you plenty of time if the second thing you don't want to have happen occurs, especially when you are on a farm several miles from the courthouse. That being an overnight snow storm.
So when we woke at the crack of 8:30 and saw a foot of fresh snow covering the half-mile of laneway out to the road, we knew had to hurry. Have you ever tried to hurry through a foot of snow? We piled into Gary's car and set out to plow our way through, visions of arrest warrants dancing in my head. Inch by inch and foot by foot, Gary gamely manoeuvred the vehicle, slowly but surely, out to the road. It probably took about 45 minutes to get out of the laneway and another half hour to get downtown. So when we finally pulled up beside the courthouse I was convinced I was in more trouble than ever. I imagined the judge asking if I was in court and issuing an arrest warrant when I failed to respond.
And then I saw my housemates coming out of the building. And they were smiling. So, too, was fortune, once again. The police, it seems, had found virtually nothing in the house. As soon as the matter came up in court, the prosecutor immediately withdrew all charges, except those against Larry. Everyone else was free to go; they hadn't even noticed that I wasn't there.
The door is open – come on in!
. . .
This is the story of the time Larry Caesar got everybody at the House of Zonk arrested.
Larry had gone to see a movie and, as was his wont at the time, he took a bottle of wine with him. Now, in those days, movie houses hired people called “ushers” whose job it was to show people to their seats and generally ensure that people got in and out of the theatre in an orderly fashion. On this occasion, an usher happened to notice Larry drinking from his bottle of wine. Well, one thing led to another and before long the local constabulary were summoned and Larry was apprehended, removed from the theatre and subsequently searched.
. . .
What's that, Cyril? . . . No, we don't know if it was a legal search, all we know is that they found a marijuana cigarette in his pocket which lead to them getting a search warrant to search Larry's home, the aforementioned House of Zonk.. . .
And so it was that, later that evening, the other residents of the house, on returning home from some event or other in the city, found the lane leading up to the house blocked by several cars and a large number of large men who proceeded to search the residents before allowing us to make our way to the house where we were instructed to remain in the dining room while the police conducted a thorough search of the premises.. . .
No, Brian, they did not put the cuffs on anyone. They just made us sit around the dining-room table.. . .
Now, you'll recall that the House of Zonk was a very big house with many rooms. The dining-room, a spacious room in its own right, was adjacent to the living room which was probably thirty feet long. Fortune was smiling on us that night as yours truly happened to notice at one point that the nearest police officer was at the far end of that room and, remembering that the telephone sat on a table just inside the near door of the living room, managed to get to the phone and quickly dialed the number of my brother, a lawyer living in Toronto at the time. I described our situation to him and then had him explain our legal rights to each of us in turn. The police could do little but watch as we passed the phone to each other until we had all had a chance to speak to legal counsel.This little assertion of our civil liberties was not without it's consequences, however. The narcs eventually finished their search of the house and told us we would all be charged with possession of marijuana. Fortunately, they were not about to haul us all down to the police station for such a trifling offense; fortunate for all but myself, that is.
My brother had advised us that we we under no obligation to answer any questions but that it was probably a good idea to tell them our names. This seemed to satisfy them, except when it came to me. They suggested I had not properly identified myself and invited me to accompany them downtown in one of their vehicles. As we drove into town, the driver and apparent ring-leader of the forces of good and righteousness, a certain Detective Hunt, saw fit to regale me with a series of "humourous" slurs on women, homosexuals, hippies and social deviants in general. Despite this obvious attempt at intimidation, I remained respectfully taciturn. Given the time that has elapsed since this episode and the difference in our ages at the time, I can only assume that Det. Hunt is now dead.
At the station, I was fingerprinted and photographed, had my belt and pocket contents confiscated and then I was taken into an interrogation room and was asked: What was my name? What was my address? and What did I know about the dope? Over and over. Just answer the questions and I could go home. As instructed by my legal counsel, I told them my name and refused to answer any other questions.
. . .
No, Eddie, they didn't try to rough me up in order to make me spill the beans. There were no beans to spill.. . .
I was clean. I knew it and they knew it. After an hour or so, they started to take me down to the cells but before we got there, they asked me one more time: What was my name? and Where did I live? Nothing about the dope. Fortune had smiled once again! Without hesitation I told them what they already knew and within a few minutes, they had given me back my possessions and I was out on the street. Except I was downtown, miles from home. So, at four in the morning, I wandered over to Ahrens Street and spent the rest of the night on Liz and Lesley's couch, tired but relieved I was not in jail.But there was still the small matter of the various charges that had been laid against us. In due time we were summoned to appear in court at 9:00 am on a date several months hence. We all went back to living our lives as usual, or as usual as living at the House of Zonk would allow. Summer turned to fall and fall to winter. And soon our day in court was upon us.
So it happened that the evening before, I was visiting with Gary at the farm at Chicopee. The hour grew late and we had had one toke too many . . .
. . .
Yes, Michael, I know that's not possible. It's just an expression.
. . .
. . . so Gary agreed to give me a ride into town in the morning.
There are two things that you don't want to have happen when you are due in court at 9:00 in the morning. First, you don't want to oversleep. You should get up at 7:00 not at 8:30. This will give you plenty of time to clean up and eat breakfast. It will also give you plenty of time if the second thing you don't want to have happen occurs, especially when you are on a farm several miles from the courthouse. That being an overnight snow storm.
So when we woke at the crack of 8:30 and saw a foot of fresh snow covering the half-mile of laneway out to the road, we knew had to hurry. Have you ever tried to hurry through a foot of snow? We piled into Gary's car and set out to plow our way through, visions of arrest warrants dancing in my head. Inch by inch and foot by foot, Gary gamely manoeuvred the vehicle, slowly but surely, out to the road. It probably took about 45 minutes to get out of the laneway and another half hour to get downtown. So when we finally pulled up beside the courthouse I was convinced I was in more trouble than ever. I imagined the judge asking if I was in court and issuing an arrest warrant when I failed to respond.
And then I saw my housemates coming out of the building. And they were smiling. So, too, was fortune, once again. The police, it seems, had found virtually nothing in the house. As soon as the matter came up in court, the prosecutor immediately withdrew all charges, except those against Larry. Everyone else was free to go; they hadn't even noticed that I wasn't there.
. . .
I know, I know, it's all very anti-climactic. No sex, no rock 'n roll and hardly any drugs. But it actually happened and that's the point. Does anybody else remember this episode? What about some of the other notorious busts of the day? There must be some good stories out there just waiting to be told. Good times, bad times, weird times – let's share the memories.The door is open – come on in!
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