Kind of Fonda Henry: A Punk Epiphany (and the Law of the West) - Page 5

On cue, in the middle of this chorus to Police Truck, five Denver cops rush onto the floor of the Mercury. Dressed for crowd control with their tight leather jackets, visored helmets and tapping nightsticks, these guys out-punked the night. (Henry – look at the law of the West). They're sniffing out criminals in a mutant culture crowd where obviously, nothing is wrong. The cops shove in and out of the kitchen and return to the dance hall floor. Marigold nods – our time as up. The police leave the Mercury Hall and we are trailing right behind. Outside the club, a phalanx of squad cars has staked out the street. Steam rises from the heat of Denver's slippery sidewalks. We pass an alley where two street punks pair off to fight. A quick stiletto kick doubles the smaller man at the waist. Past the Mercury's front street, we catch a last look at the white patrol cars, blinking blue and red in the great narcotic, American night.

Henry Fonda - a punk epiphany - Stories and Songs The evening crosses time's shadow on this edge of Friday the 13th as we drive ourselves slowly home. Out in the cornfields, 20 miles north of town, a patrolman spots my erratic driving and vigilantly pulls us off the highway. Cops win, punks lose Henry. Once more I invoke your spirit, old man, not to spare us from the law but to carry my mind somewhere back in time. Mr. Fonda, I have to thank you for a day long gone (not today) but the 4th of July, circa 1966, when you welcomed Independence Day on that Malibu beach with your circus-style tent, wet bar, and hosts of celebrity guests. You probably don't remember seeing me Mr. Fonda. Our gang of teenage party crashers were peering under the tent flaps from the outside in, staring at the likes of Steve McQueen (now gone), a long-haired band called the Byrds (now gone) and last but not least, your lovely daughter Jane (very far gone) dressed to the max in gold lame slacks. Out there in the listening audience, you can catch this story on the Liner Notes of the Byrd's Easy Rider record, with son Peter writing about getting high on the 4th of July way back when, also long ago and far away.

What I want to say Henry, Mr. Fonda, Abe Lincoln, Tom Joad, Clarence Darrow, Wyatt Earp, Henry Thayer et. al. is that you opened this boy's eyes real wide, even before I saw your movies or the Mercury Café. Jane Fonda in gold lame slacks. Maybe your eyes are closed now, old man but these here and thousands like them will stay open real wide, thanks to you. Amen sir, you have out-punked this night.