In order to distinguish VIVA from other sex magazines, I designed it as a slick, glossy, oversized publication with a square book-like binding. I also created its logo and typeface. Guccione never paid me or gave me credit. I was too star-struck at that time in my life to do anything about it. This later became a habit with him, not just with VIVA, but also the erotic sheets and pillow cases, the Happy Hooker, Hells Angels, Penthouse Viva Village, and several other projects I presented and worked on. I was excited about VIVA, but I didn’t want to move past our sultry sheets. I unveiled the finished presentation to Guccione. He loved them, and to this day everyone I show them to loves them, proclaiming that when they are made they will buy them all. Yet after forty-two years they still aren’t made. Some balls take years in between bounces. Guccione then dropped the bomb, suggesting that before he would get seriously involved, we should find a manufacturer.
This sent Neville and me to Vermont to meet with the president of Burlington Mills. We drove the seven or eight hours from New York City to Burlington in the snow. We checked in at the Burlington Mills reception desk and were quickly ushered to a holding area. Finally, the call came summoning us to the president’s office.
The room was filled with people. We laid out our fancy box presentations and everyone seemed excited as I gave my speech. Penthouse would help promote, market, and advertise—on and on I went, till I turned blue. The response was enthusiastic, and mostly positive. “Oh, this is not what we expected!” “Oh, they are beautiful!” Oh this, oh that. Everyone seemed to have an opinion. The president’s wife, secretaries, and just about everybody raved. I thought we were in.
I continued my onslaught. More responses: “No one’s ever done this.” “This could be huge.”
The president, however, looked through our proposal as he spoke. “Did you say Penthouse would help market and advertise? We need some time to go over this. Let’s meet again in the morning.”
When he said that, just like my question of whether I could trace in drawing class I blurted out: “Let’s talk turkey, not beef jerky.”
The next day at our early morning meeting, though, the president talked beef jerky.
“Frank, Neville. We all like your concept and believe it could be a prosperous product. However, we here at Burlington Mills know about little flowers on our sheets. That’s what we do. We love your idea and beautiful designs. However, let me put it like this. If you kill the Indians, we will sell them the Bibles, so to speak.”
I’ll never forget how he said it. What he meant was if we would do all the work to establish a market and find buyers, promote, and advertise—kill all the Indians, so to speak—then they would step in and sell them the Bibles. I immediately shot back with my closing line.
“If I’m going to kill the Indians, I will sell them the Bibles.”
I know one thing: I’m not killing the Indians for anyone but me (metaphorically, of course). In my career as a personal manager and producer of entertainers, live events, and various businesses and projects worldwide, I’ve been proposed with “Could you just blah blah blah?” more times than I can remember. The problem is in most cases new startup clients don’t have a product or a career yet, and they want me to do all this work to get them started, develop their business, and then they hope that by that point I’ll be out. No way, Jose. I want to be paid for what I do for as long as they get paid for what I do, even if my contract is over. Perpetuity is my favorite word. In retrospect I would like to say to the president at Burlington Mills: “For your attitude, I extend my gratitude.”
I must admit, however, that sometimes this self-centered attitude doesn’t work and I lose the deal. Much to the chagrin of our investors, we never got the sheets and pillowcases made. Our most famous investor, Abbie Hoffman, went as far as saying in his book that we ripped him off. But his story is worth its own chapter.
CHAPTER 10
Abbie Hoffman and Jerry Rubin
Over the twenty-plus years Abbie Hoffman came in and out of my life, no two times were ever the same. We first met at Woodstock. A few years later Neville and I brought him in as a partner for our erotic sheets and pillowcases. Then we met again at a party after the 1972 elections where I told him I was working at Penthouse. A few days later he called to ask if I could help with an idea he had regarding an article he wanted to write and, since I was working with Guccione, we agreed to meet. We met for lunch in the village; he showed up looking like some preppy hippy, wearing dark sunglasses, a tweed jacket, T-shirt, and corduroy pants. He sat down across from me, sliding into the high-backed booth. I could see a smirk on his face even through the gloom of the dimly lit restaurant. Abbie, always the funny guy, opened with:
“Are you following me?”
I answered, “How could anybody follow you?”
He shot back, “Just look around. There’s a guy in that bush.”
“I’d like to interview you for Penthouse,” I told him.
Abbie scratched his chin.
“Cool, man. I’ll tell you all about my upcoming vasectomy.”
He continued in great detail, painting a picture of himself high on nitrous, his legs up in stirrups. It was a great tale (no pun intended), but I suggested, “I don’t think it’ll fly with Guccione.”
Abbie, however, was insistent.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be surprised,” he said. “We can shoot it with Penthouse Pets dressed as nurses. Yeah man. I also can talk about my new book and I also have a screenplay.” He talked and talked, on and on. He had a million ideas.
So off I went to present Abbie’s vasectomy to Guccione. I laid out various angles to do the article in the magazine but Guccione wasn’t going for it. He wanted me to do something provocative. What could I do, though? Abbie wanted to do a story about his vasectomy.
I dismissed Guccione’s concerns. “It’ll work out; don’t worry.”
He wouldn’t sign off on the plan, so I called Abbie and we agreed to meet again. I had to try to change his mind. We met on August 28, 1973, early in the afternoon. He confirmed he would go back to his place then come over to our apartment around seven o’clock to have dinner with me and Charli and discuss what to do. That evening, while we waited for him to arrive, I thought up some ideas I could pitch to him, hoping to get him off the vasectomy topic. Before I knew it, it was eleven and he still hadn’t shown.
As Charli and I were watching the news on TV, she asked, “What ever happened to Abbie?”
Then, just like that, right there on TV, we saw Abbie being dragged across the screen, arrested and in handcuffs. How could that be? Wasn’t he was on his way to see us? Weren’t his evening plans to sit and eat with us? I guess not. I could relate to that. After all, sometimes I myself go with the flow then turn left.
Abbie and three others were caught red-handed in a seedy Times Square hotel, the Hotel Diplomat, by several undercover agents. They were charged with possession and sale of three pounds of coke, with an estimated street value of $500,000—a class-A felony carrying a mandatory sentence of fifteen years to life. According to the news he would be eligible for parole when he was sixty-one years old.
Charli and I knew it couldn’t be true.
I believe it was a setup. Abbie and I knew each other very well and we talked about everything; I would have known about a drug deal. The prosecutor, assistant DA Lawrence Herman, said Abbie’s crime “was insidious and treacherous, equal to homicide,” and requested bail to be set at half a million dollars. His decision caused great concern among Abbie’s supporters, lawyers, and friends. We petitioned the special prosecutor, arguing that because of Abbie’s fame he was being treated unfairly. Under pressure, Judge Hyman Soluiker reduced bail to $202,500. One of the defense attorneys, Gerald Lefcourt, proceeded with a new angle for Abbie’s defense, claiming that the three pounds of substance wasn’t all cocaine, pointing out that two-thirds of the so-called coke had been cut with sugar and, furthermore, that the bust was a setup to arrest Abbie in an effort to stop his an
ti-government antics.
Everyone thought that was a brilliant argument, but Lefcourt’s defense was overturned and in order to avoid similar defense arguments in the future, the law was changed from charging someone with possession of a narcotic to charging for possession of a controlled substance. Now it didn’t matter how much a drug might be cut—like pot with twigs, seeds, or parsley in it—it was all now considered an illegal substance.
Abbie could not raise bail on his own. To help raise the money, John Wilcox, Tom Forçade, and several other friends launched the underground marijuana magazine High Times. I designed the poster and helped create the silver-colored first issue with Neville.
Abbie already had a long history of arrests and troubles with the law. On August 24, 1967, he, Jerry Rubin, and other Diggers—a San Francisco guerrilla theater group—barged into the New York Stock Exchange to make a political statement against the Vietnam War. In order to make sure their efforts received worldwide attention, they invited everyone from the media. As they entered the exchange, the stockbrokers greeted them with cheers and applause. The would-be Yippies proceeded to throw fists full of money in the air and onto the exchange floor. The brokers and traders ran and dove for the falling cash. Abbie and his entourage were finally thrown out, but not before making local and international news.
Abbie and Jerry were masters of getting free press for their cause, no matter the repercussions. The next year, in 1968, they formed the Youth International Party, espousing the nickname of Yippies. They focused their attacks on politicians and were totally anti-establishment. Their main goal was to mobilize a freak-out at the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago, hoping to gain additional worldwide exposure for their fight against the Vietnam War, big business, and government spending and control.
The Chicago convention turned into a beacon for social unrest, bringing together dozens of diverse groups, some against the war, and others for a better, more equal way of life. Abbie’s Yippies were joined by the Black Panthers, the National Mobilization Committee to End War in Vietnam, and others. Everyone came together for change, to be heard, and to take advantage of the media coverage. As a promotional stunt, Abbie and Jerry announced their plan to present their own presidential candidate, bringing out a big, fat live pig they anointed Pigasus the Immortal.
That Wednesday, August 28, 1968, about ten thousand people showed up to the rally in Grant Park. Things got progressively more heated as they advanced toward the amphitheater near where the convention was being held. Police, some on horseback, all in riot gear, shot tear gas and swung batons at the demonstrators. All hell broke loose and as Abbie was protesting and rousing up the demonstrators he got himself arrested with the word “FUCK” written on his forehead. The police charged him with indecency.
That march and demonstration is now known as the Chicago riots. The U.S. National Commission on the Causes and Prevention of Violence called what happened after that demonstration a “police riot,” leading a federal grand jury to indict eight police officers and eight demonstrators. The latter was first known as the Chicago 8 (later the Chicago 7), and comprised of Yippies Abbie and Jerry, Black Panther Bobby Seale, and activists Rennie Davis, David Dellinger, Tom Hayden, Lee Weiner, and John Froines.
After a few days of mayhem in court, Bobby Seale was bound and gagged for his continued verbal attacks at Judge Julius Hoffman, calling him a “racist,” “fascist dog,” “honky,” and “pig.” The proceedings got worse and the courtroom was turned into a circus, caused by the judge’s decisions and threats and the defendants retaliating with insults to the court. Judge Hoffman then had Bobby removed from the courtroom, sentencing him to four years for contempt of court. The trial then became internationally known as “The Chicago 7 Trial.”
Everything Judge Hoffman did backfired and played into the defendants’ protests. The removal of Bobby Seale ignited public outrage. The trial and courthouse turned into a media calamity. Judge Hoffman did not lend any credence to the testimonies; he simply refused to listen, and cited over two hundred contempt charges to everyone involved—the defendants, witnesses, and lawyers.
Near the end of the five-month trial, the defendants were appalled by the judge’s decisions to silence their testimonies. Jerry Rubin paraded in front of the judge, giving Hitler salutes and yelling at the top of his lungs, “Fascist,” and “Tyrant.” Everyone in the courtroom joined in on the assault, including the audience.
Abbie and Jerry continued to mock the trial and especially the judge, appearing in court dressed in judicial robes. When ordered to remove the robes, the Yippie leaders willingly took them off to reveal Chicago police uniforms underneath, making the judge look even worse and the trial even more out of control. Abbie gave the finger to the court, frequently insulted the judge, and blew kisses to the jury. Judge Hoffman became the courtroom goat.
At one point Abbie shouted to the judge, “You are a ‘shande fur de Goyim.’ You would have served Hitler better. Your idea of justice is the only obscenity in the room.” Jerry announced to the judge, “This court is bullshit.” In later interviews he proclaimed, “Our strategy was to give Judge Hoffman a heart attack. We gave the court system a heart attack, which is even better.”
Here is an excerpt from the Chicago 7 conspiracy trial, from December 23, 1969:
Direct examination of Abbie Hoffman by defense attorney Lenard Weinglass, the assistant US attorney Richard Schultz, and US Judge Julius Hoffman
Q. Where do you reside?
A. I live in Woodstock Nation.
Q. Will you tell the court and jury where that is?
A. Yes. It is a nation of alienated young people. We carry it around with us as a state of mind in the same way the Sioux Indians carried the Sioux nation around with them. It is a nation dedicated to cooperation versus competition, to the idea that people should have better means of exchange than property or money, that there should be some other basis for human interaction. It is a nation dedicated to—
The Court: Excuse me, sir. Read the question to the witness please.
(Question read)
The Court: Just where it is, that is all.
The Witness: It is in my mind and in the minds of my brothers and sisters. We carry it around with us in the same way that the Sioux Indian carried around the Sioux nation. It does not consist of property or material, but rather of ideas and certain values, being cooperation versus competition and that we believe in a society—
Mr. Weinglass: Your Honor, the witness has identified it as being a state of mind, and he has, I think, a right to define that state of mind.
The Court: No, we want the place of residence, if he has one, place of doing business, if you have a business, or both if you desire to tell them both. One address will be sufficient. Nothing about philosophy or … India, sir. Just where you live, if you have a place to live. Now, you said Woodstock. In what state is Woodstock?
The Witness: It is in the state of mind, in the mind of myself and my brothers and sisters. It is a conspiracy—
Q. Can you tell the court and jury your present age?
A. My age is thirty-three. I am a child of the ’60s.
Q. When were you born?
A. Psychologically, 1960.
Q. Can you tell the court and jury what is your present occupation?
A. I am a cultural revolutionary. Well. I am really a defendant—
Q. What do you mean?
A. Full-time.
On February 18, 1970, all the Chicago 7 defendants were found not guilty of conspiracy. Froines and Weiner were acquitted completely. The remaining five were convicted of crossing state lines with the intent to incite a riot. They were each fined $5,000 and sentenced to five years in prison. At his sentencing, Abbie wouldn’t let up, recommending that the judge try LSD, and that he would make arrangements for him with a drug dealer he knew in Florida.
William Kunstler, the defense lawyer, appealed the case to the Supreme Court. After its investigation, the Court ruled that J
udge Julius Hoffman used unscrupulous tactics in his handling of the case. The Court then reversed the decision of the lower court, annulling all contempt charges.
Abbie continued to have run-ins with the law. One of the most famous was when he was arrested for wearing an American flag shirt in the late sixties. At that time it was considered a crime.
Watching Abbie on the television that night, three years after the Chicago 7 trial concluded, realizing he was not going to make dinner, it dawned on me. I had my story.
A few days later, I met with Guccione, saying I now had something provocative for him to consider—an interview with Abbie in jail. I received a press pass from Guccione, made arrangements, and visited Abbie in “The Tombs.”
It was chilly that day. I could see the Manhattan House of Detention for Men in bold type on the entrance door. I entered a very small, cluttered combination waiting room-hallway-office, feeling extremely nervous with my smuggled tape recorder and camera. It looked and smelled like a jail, something straight out of a movie starring Mickey Rooney or Mugsy Malone from the East Side Kids.
I’ll never forget the sight as I walked into the holding area, where I presented my credentials and signed in. I was never searched. Two guards took me through two sets of barred doors to Abbie’s cell. I was surprised to see him looking skinny in oversized green prison pants and a blue work shirt, his face unshaven and his arms covered in what looked like white chalk. I didn’t know what to say. I felt terrible. This was not the Abbie Hoffman I had come to know.
“Hey Abbie.” He never really looked up. He kept staring at the floor, but he tried to smile and be funny. I took out my concealed tape recorder and began recording.
Abbie Hoffman: This is not what I had in mind.
Frank Yandolino: What’s that white stuff all over you?
AH: It’s some sort of chemical to prevent skin disease, bed bugs, and rats. They are all over. Everywhere, more rats than inmates.
Frank & Charli Page 11
