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those who had already been deemed newsworthy would have to be adopted. Monkey theater would have to speak reporters’ language. As Pierre Bourdieu would argue thirty years later, “You have to produce demonstrations for television so that they interest television types and fit their perceptual categories.”32 Monkey theater, in other words, would have to look like a “revolution”; it would have to conform to television reporters’ conception of an uprising.

      Following the events staged at the Stock Exchange, Rubin, captivated by Hoffman’s media savvy, invited him to aid in the organization of an upcoming demonstration sponsored by the National Mobilization to End the War in Vietnam (Mobe). David Dellinger, the head of the Mobe, had enlisted Rubin’s help that summer, after Rubin’s bid to be elected mayor of Berkeley, California, had failed. Although he lost the mayoral race, Rubin’s knack for publicity and his ability to appeal to young people seemed, to Dellinger, just what the Mobe needed. Dellinger was seeking to bring vast numbers of protestors to Washington, DC, in October for a national antiwar demonstration. He asked Rubin to take charge of the project, hoping that Rubin would be able to deploy the creative political tactics for which he had become known in Berkeley on a national stage. By appealing to those youths who might otherwise have been reticent to take part in one of the Mobe’s more conventional actions, Dellinger hoped to assemble the largest antiwar demonstration to date. With Hoffman and Rubin composing the script, however, what was initially conceived quite literally as the antiwar movement’s March on Washington became instead another work of monkey theater.

      They assembled an appropriate cast of characters. David Dellinger and Bob Greenblatt were there as official representatives of the Mobe. Comedian and civil rights activist Dick Gregory was also invited, as were, Rubin recounted, “a Vietnam veteran, a priest, a housewife from Women Strike for Peace, a professor, an SDS leader,” and “Amerika’s baddest, meanest, most violent nigger—then H. Rap Brown,” who, “whether or not he even showed up at the Pentagon, would create visions of FIRE.”35 As menacing as Brown may have seemed, however, it was Hoffman who stole the show. He wore an old, unbuttoned army shirt and introduced himself as Col. Jerome Z. Wilson of the Strategic Air Command, telling reporters that he had recently deserted because of “bad vibrations.” On the day of the protest, he said, Washington’s famed cherry trees would be defoliated, the Potomac River would be dyed purple, and marijuana, which had already been surreptitiously planted on the lawn of the Pentagon, would be harvested. Moreover, he explained, as a grand finale, demonstrators would stand side by side, holding hands and chanting in a circle around the Pentagon. The importance of the circle, he explained, was that a ring of humans joining hands would cause the Pentagon to rise from the ground, and would force the evil spirits inhabiting the building to fall out. The warmongers were to be vanquished by a demonstration of countercultural “love” and “spirituality.”

      Not surprisingly, his willingness to enact these negative stereotypes for the mainstream press drew the ire of more than one critic. In his 1968 text The Making of a Counter Culture, Theodor Roszak lambasted Hoffman for promoting a debased version of “cultural revolution.” For Roszak, Hoffman’s association with the counterculture was nothing more than the result of a series of misunderstandings. The “true” counterculture, he believed, would never have “performed” for the media. To the contrary, for those who understood and shared the counterculture’s dissatisfaction, the media merely offered proof of the soullessness of contemporary society.

      For Roszak—and, he argues, for members of the true counterculture—the media were ultimately symptomatic of the larger problem facing America in the mid-twentieth century, the problem of “technocratic” thought. The flood of information that confronted people in their daily lives had qualitatively transformed experience. Individuals had been subordinated to technology, categorized as sets of facts subject to specialized knowledge, and thus alienated from themselves: “In the technocracy everything aspires to become purely technical, the subject of expert attention.”40 Individual desires had been commodified and subsumed within the technocratic social order. Life, as a result, had come to seem like a parody of itself. For the first time in history it had become possible for people to believe that “real sex . . . is something that goes with the best scotch, twenty-seven-dollar sunglasses, and platinum-tipped shoelaces.”41 At the same time, though, this technocratic society carried within it the means of its own dissolution. The advanced education necessary to produce specialists in various technical fields had also equipped students with the ability to think critically about the sociohistorical conditions that necessitated such specialized knowledge. Recognizing the relationship between this highly specific knowledge, on one hand, and their own intense psychic and social alienation on the other, many of those who were to become the technocracy’s future leaders began to rebel. According to Roszak, therefore, if one hoped to understand the counterculture

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