THE YIPPIES’ LAST STAND

Free was an original Yippie, back in ’68, with Jerry Rubin and Abbie Hoffman. A young Yippie then, he claims to be ageless now, a Kris Kristofferson-meets-Captain America with greasy-capellini hair draped out of a stovepipe Uncle Sam hat, and a permanently shirtless torso adorned by a stars ‘n’ stripes cape. It was hard not to notice him: on the front page of the Chicago Tribune; at the reprised Yippie Festival of Life in Grant Park; trying to get arrested at the United Center (he couldn’t); and at a Rev. Al Sharpton rally in a West Side slum, where he inadvertently thwacked Jheri Curls off the skulls of unsuspecting congregants with his “Don’t Tread on Me” flagpole.

We finally spoke as he was getting rousted by a burly Sharpton toady. “I feel a lot of solidarity with the Black Power movement,” he whispered as Sharpton clamored for reparations, “but these guys are jealous of me, because I’m the most famous Yippie alive!” One would be suspicious of such a boisterous claim from such an anonymous person, except, as he correctly explained, he is quite literally part of a dying breed — “men of action, men of the street.”

We fast took a liking to each other. I was his “personal media man” and he was my salvation from the National Association of Democratic Attorneys Forum. It took no time to hammer out consensus on the basic Yippie planks. The country is being controlled by transnational corporations, the NRA, and Fortune 500 board members; Mother Teresa is a fascist tool of the Right; and “McDonald’s is McDeath,” exploiting workers and slaughtering animals “to make terrible food with no nutritional value.” That settled, he invited me along to take back the streets.

We piled into an ’86 Cutlass Cruiser, and to my delight, already present were the niece of Chicago 7 member David Dellinger and 35- year-old Andrew Hoffman, son of Abbie, who looked like the old man, talked like the old man — even smelled like the old man, as he regaled me with tales of his dad’s best political burlesque, what a sellout Tom Hayden is (he recently planted a unity tree with Mayor Daley that Andrew threatened to pee on), and what a tasty chalupa Amy Carter used to be.

And that wasn’t all. We were on our way to hooking up with the teenage grandsons of psychologist Abraham Maslow (Abbie’s self-actualization mentor). They don’t get to participate in civil disobedience much in their placid hometown of Boulder, Colo., so they’ve cut their activist teeth by “talking back to teachers and stuff.”

It was shaping up to be the Sons of the Dead Activists Society, except David Dellinger is very much alive. We met him downtown to lead the charge into a federal court building to demand the release of Geronimo Pratt, Leonard Peltier, and all “political prisoners” (read: cop killers).

Dellinger took mere moments to map out our strategy before the original Yippies stormed the revolving door. The youngsters stayed on the periphery, chanting “Free All Political Prisoners.” Old lions lay on the floor — like Wild Bill Yippie, resting a cup of coffee on his tie-dyed girth. He was obstructing a metal detector for miffed civil servants trying to step over him and get back to their systems analysis jobs for the . . . Department of Agriculture?

Yes, it seemed the Yippies had occupied the wrong building. (I figured this out by looking at the directory in the lobby.) Free was outside, guarding his flag and cadging cigarettes off friendly Chicago policemen, trying to avoid arrest so as not to be separated from his chronicler. I gently broke the news to him that we had missed the real federal court building by a few addresses. “Damn it,” he said. “Well, Dellinger is 81 years old and he doesn’t see too well. But this is still the Federal Plaza, so I guess we’re in the ballpark.”

After a 25-minute standoff, Dellinger, Hoffman, and nine others were brought out in cuffs. But the old monkey theater is no longer as tough a racket as it used to be. Sure, the cops still smirk with those born-to-be-Irish mugs and have bad mustaches, white socks, rubber heels, and round vowels. But as one pig deposited Wild Bill in his back seat like Waterford crystal, he straightened the graying Yippie’s hat and brushed the Ag Department’s lint off his shirt. “Your friends are going to be a while,” said the arresting officer. “Why don’t you guys go grab a drink and I’ll call you when they’re out?”

Free and I were already making plans to hit the Creative Coalition’s Planet Hollywood party that night (and within two hours, the Chicago 11 would be at Berghoff’s restaurant downing 10- year-old bourbon and Sauerbraten). But Free broke off our party planning, collected his thoughts, and on behalf of Jerry and Rennie and Abbie and the rest of the brotherhood, he blazoned, “You guys have been perfect gentlemen. And we are so grateful to Mayor Daley and the boys in blue.”

Let the revolution continue.