Abbie Hoffman's account of the time he and Grace Slick attempted to infiltrate a White House tea party to slip President Nixon LSD. The failed attempt at turning Nixon on occurred on 24 April 1970, just six days prior to Nixon's televised announcement that he was expanding the Vietnam War into Cambodia (even though the US had been extensively bombing the Cambodian countryside before then). The account appeared in Hoffman's 1980 autobiography Soon to Be a Major Motion Picture, which was posthumously republished as The Autobiography of Abbie Hoffman in 2000.
Just about the same time, I got a message to call Gracie Slick from a safe phone. I did as instructed and Gracie, all excited, ran down one of the wildest dating proposals I had ever received.
"How would you like to take me to the White House?" she asked.
"To the White House, Gracie? What the hell you smokin'?"
"No, I'm serious," she continued. "See, I went to this fancy school, Finch College, and guess who was a classmate? None other than Tricia Nixon herself. Seems she's invited all of us over for tea, and I thought we could think of something if you came as my escort."
I readily accepted and we agreed to rendezvous in Washington the night before the caper. I got my funeral suit out of the closet, and with a combination of water and hairspray I was able to mat down my mop and fashion it into a style acceptable to Nixon's White House. A little trimming and I was what my parents would have called "halfway presentable." When it was time, Anita and I grabbed the shuttle down to Washington and checked into a hotel. Once we were all together, I laid out a plan. "When we get inside, let's start rearranging the furniture. I'll unwrap this Woodstock Nation flag I've secreted around my body and we'll hang it on the wall. We'll just announce the new government's taken over and we're movin' in."
"Is that all?" responded Gracie, somewhat unimpressed.
"What you got in mind?" I queried.
"Look, an opportunity like this comes down the pike once in a lifetime. I see myself as a member of the ruling class. It's assumed I can be trusted. You know the history of the Russian Revolution—when it came time to storm the Winter Palace there had to be someone on the inside to unlock the gate. I'm that someone," she offered. I could see she had given this escapade more thought than I. "So what I say we do," she continued, "is douse the bloody fuckers. Douse 'em, I say!"
"With LSD?" asked Anita.
"Exactly!" she said, pulling out a vial and emptying the orange powder on the table. "Owsley's finest, damn it, but it's worth it," she exclaimed. "We'll push it under our fingernails, anyway. Just let's get it in the punch bowl."
A silent hush came over us. Paul Kantner interrupted the silence, "See, I've got my chauffeur outfit. We'll rent a limousine and drive over in grand style. It will be the dousing of the century." Anita and I answered in chorus, "Far fucking out!"
The next morning we drove to the proper gate. Gracie and I, invitation held high, stood in line for the processing. Uh-oh! Snafus. Seems so many classmates have responded that only the women are being allowed in. Gracie starts to argue with the guards. Next Pat Nixon's press secretary is there and rules that Gracie's see-through blouse is unacceptable attire. More shouting. "Isn't that . . . !" shouts a reporter, and the jig is up. I quickly pull the flag out from under my shirt and start climbing the White House fence until I can fasten it to the top. Guards pull me down. Sometimes the best laid plans of mice and rock queens go awry. Ah Finch!
Taken from The Autobiography of Abbie Hoffman.
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