The 50s were the decade where the conception took place; the embryo incubated in the womb, growing and kicking, for
the entire ten years. Finally, the pregnancy ended and with violent labor pains, the water broke on January 1, 1960. After
inhaling the first breath of life, what exhaled, was a very loud non-stop screaming colic baby; a byproduct perhaps, of the
stifled emotions from its parents trapped in a generation of war. After the violent screaming birth, the umbilical cord cut,
the life-giving 50s placenta became useless discarded afterbirth.
It was out with the 50s doo-wop music … “Good night sweetheart, well it’s time to go” … had to go, none of that would be
the new baby’s style. No more short haircuts, butch wax, greasy Elvis hair, fake rock and roll, Cookie lend me your comb,
teased hair, poodle skirts, black and white television, “Father Knows Best”, “Sky King” or “Leave It To Beaver.”
This colic baby was going to keep everyone up night and day, for more than a decade, screaming all the way into the early
70s against every established order of rule. Spitting out its pacifier in protest against everything governmental, the colic
baby took to the streets in rebellion against war, abusive law enforcement, civil rights, parental restrictions, and even the
need for organized religion, making this a decade electrifying and full of life.
To understand the colic baby’s screams, and why those screams were so full of life, ask anyone living in the 60s; they will
tell you what an awesome and troubled time it was to be alive. The air was supercharged with a new intangible energy, so
rich and full of life you could almost touch it or at the very least, inhale it with every breath you took. It was as if
somewhere in the heavens, the world clock of time and history, had suddenly clicked into a new era, intoxicating
everything with change.
“Gimme a head with hair … Long beautiful hair … Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen. Give me down to there
… Shoulder length or longer … Here baby, there mama… Everywhere daddy, daddy, hair.”
New expressions and views on every issue of life surfaced each day, along with questions about the morals of life. Free
love, sex, drugs, race relations, pop art, poetry, pornography, abortion, and the politics of an illegal war all ‘mushroomed’
into a newfound freedom of speech. For generations, society had previously considered it morally taboo to discuss the
secret side of human sexuality, or sins of the flesh. Such topics were private and were supposed to remain locked away in
the private closet of individual human life. This curious colic baby opened the door to the private closet of life, took every
hidden taboo out, and played with them openly as toys, to the shock of the world. The generation of free love played with
every sexual toy, openly discussed human sexuality, multiple orgasms, and watched ‘I am curious yellow.’ Communal
living, group sex, and ‘The Summer of Love in Haight-Ashbury,’ became a festival of love-ins, psychedelic drugs, and sex
In the midst of turmoil, the colic pacifier-spitting baby, became a dancing machine.
Music reverberated from all over the world in waves. Each new wave introduced never before heard sounds and lyrics.
The new sounds brought different beats or rhythms. Many came with new dances from artists unknown just the day
before. “Come on Baby Let’s Do The Twist, Mashed Potatoes, He Did The Monster Mash, Do The Hully Gully, Wa Wa
Watusi, The Swim, The Dog, The Monkey, Its Pony Time, Let’s Do The Locomotion,” the new songs and dances were
endless. The music called to everyone breathing the air of change, “Hey you, come out here on the floor, let’s rock some
more.” The colic baby was “dancing in the streets” all over the nation as Martha and the Vandellas put it so well. White
kids were finding their rhythm on Dick Clark while soul music had rhythm from red-hot record producing Motown. Free
love, peace signs, tie-dyed clothing, it was game time for the generation of sex, drugs, and real rock and roll, not the Elvis
shake and roll. Elvis was not invited to perform at Woodstock. Say hello to acid rock, hard rock, and just plain old rock
from the Rolling Stones, the Doors, Jimmy Hendrix, Jefferson Airplane, Creedence, and Janis Joplin.
Church leaders joined hands with law enforcement in a show of unprecedented and unconstitutional unity to stop this new
music reportedly made by the devil himself. For hundreds of years preachers, waving a bible in one hand and wiping sweat
from their forehead with the other, continually delivered guilt-ridden messages, warning everyone about the tormenting
fires of hell God has for sinners. “I tell you this devil music is out to steal our kids and lead them to hell,” was the church
message of the day. In several vain attempts to stop the music, churches held their own protests burning records while
claiming, “The devil himself is in the music I tell you!”
“This is RJ your favorite DJ with a special song to all of the pastors burning records today. I say Halleluiah brother, this
one is for you ... here’s ‘Louie Louie’ by the Kingsmen.” Through it all the colic babies rocked on dancing in the streets.
How the five of us ever connected is still a bit of a mystery. Scott, Jerry, and Steve were all from wealthy families with
doctors, lawyers, and undertakers as parents. Roger and Larry were a pair of poor white trash bad boys, from the wrong
side of town.
Scott Riley was the upper crust snot of the school, quarterback, debater, and a natural leader. His rich parents used their
social influence to place Scott on every important school office. Grooming a son’s career begins early in life by well-healed
parents, who in turn had been groomed by their parents. Scott’s position as quarterback was a clearly the work of his
parent’s social influence. He fumbled frequently and ended the season with a record number of fumbles. The only loss
personally attributable to Scott occurred when he ran for class president. Even though his parents provided Scott with
professionally made posters bearing the slogan, Scott “Can Do” Riley, the longhaired colic babies rejected his parental
influence, scratching out “Can Do” and replacing it with Scott “Can Fumble” Riley. Scott never got over the political loss
or the record number of fumbles he set that year.
His mom was so fucking hot. Every teenager who laid eyes on her, especially those at the peak of raging testosterone
levels, immediately wanted to bone her. The rumor was Scott’s hot mom liked the young boys, especially the virgins.
That prompted everyone to play the virgin when around her by asking questions about sex, as if they had never gotten
any. Everyone in the group boned her on a regular basis, and if you brought along a joint; she took on two or more. Say
hello to sex class and free love.
Scott’s dad was one of the top doctors in the city and head of a hospital. When he was around us, he always tried to
appear cool by offering us a beer, often catching one of us looking at or up, his wife’s short skirt. Once caught, he would
always look you in the eye followed by a wink and a smile. No one was ever sure what the wink or smile actually meant.
Their home was one of the most expensive in the city, mainly because of the basement that connected to a new
underground fallout shelter, which was fully stocked with supplies in case of a nuclear attack or radiation fall out. To the
group, it was shut the nuclear door, bring a case of beer, a bag of Mary Jane, throw in the hot mom or a few girls, and it
was party time.
Much to the encouragement of his father, Scott often attended civil rights marches or worked at voter registration
booths. His white skin often got him face time on the local news, as he was usually seen locking arms with blacks in a
march for freedom. Behind his back, most whites called him a nigger lover and most blacks called him a rich white rich
honky with a guilty conscience.
Jerry Duncan was the son of parents who were both undertakers. Having heard every joke about stiff’s and undertakers,
Jerry defended the profession as a great business model. “It has an endless supply of customers who do not complain, and
a family that shops emotionally. What else could you possibly want?” Jerry was all business all the time. We fully
expected him to become an undertaker or take over the family business. Mannequin in appearance, Jerry was a fanatical
dresser, every hair perfect, and never a wrinkle, he always looked fresh off the ironing board. You could have popped him
in a coffin at any moment. We often joked that his parents had trained him from a little boy by having him dress the dead
bodies.
Steve Whitman was the county prosecutor’s son. His grandfather was a judge, and his uncle the county sheriff. All of
his relatives were on a crusade to catch the pot-smoking protesting hippies, and lock them up. One of them was always in
the news, with a new drug bust or an arrest of hippie protestors. Steve, our main source for acquiring weed, was a big
pothead who often joked about expanding the minds of his relatives. His uncle the sheriff was often seen in news footage
using clubs and dogs on civil rights protesters. Scott was always trying to get Steve to join him in a civil rights march to
witness firsthand how bad his uncle the sheriff was in person. “I know the man hates niggers. I do not need my head
cracked open or to get bitten by a dog for you to prove it to me Scott.”
Roger Majors and Larry Thomas were the polar opposites of Scott, Jerry, and Steve. They came from poor white families
living in shotgun houses near the railroad tracks, and grew up in tough, racial mixed but mostly black neighborhoods.
Close friends since grade school, they liked to fight and were the stereotypical bad boys from the wrong side of the tracks.
Leaving home around the age of 15, they had their own place together.
The house they rented … it was party central seven days a week, completely furnished with every bad boys dream… an
endless stream of girls, pot, and booze. They started their own band at the age of fourteen. After a year of practice, they
began playing at events around the city and grew in popularity. At one point, the band won a citywide battle of the bands
competition and appeared as the opening act on Dick Clark’s Caravan of Stars. When Larry walked on the stage and
performed a song he had written, “The Dirty Dog,” the crowd went wild. As he stood center stage singing “Come on girls,
let me show you how to do the dirty do,” while humping the microphone in slow rhythm, he sent over ten thousand girls
screaming into the isles. After that performance, crowds were huge wherever the band played.
Roger and Larry had a natural “cool.” A commodity Scott, Jerry and Steve loved to be seen hanging with. Scott, Jerry,
and Steve had status, nice cars, and expensive homes. A commodity Roger and Larry liked to be seen hanging with.
Besides, at Scott’s home the pretty little rich girls were looking for the bad boy deflowering experience, making it a living
dream for Larry and Roger.
Baiting the group with a road trip to Florida, Scott convinced everyone to join him in a civil rights march in St.
Augustine. What we heard was beaches, bikinis, and booze. As we entered the VW van ready to party hard in Florida no
one realized this trip would change our lives individually and as a group.
Scott’s dad had unwittingly booked a room at the Monson Motel in St. Augustine, Florida. Little did we know this motel
would be battleground central for Martin Luther King. By the time we were on our way home, the police had beaten each
of us severely and Roger had numerous dog bites. Jerry and Steve received burns from muriatic acid. The motel owner
had dumped large amounts of acid in the pool to keep the blacks and whites from jumping in together. During a nighttime
protest march, the cops beat us a second time cracking several ribs and a few bones in the face and hands. Once arrested,
the jails were so full the cops were locking people in a fenced area with exposure to full sun for several days. Harassed as
nigger lovers they often spat or threw urine on us. Bail was excessive at three thousand dollars. Leave it to Scott’s dad to
get us released on one condition … we leave immediately.
The ride home was silent. Roger and Larry seethed with anger swearing they would get even. After we returned home,
Roger and Larry freaked everyone out. They took protesting to a completely new level with Molotov Cocktails thrown
from the roofs of buildings during race riots, burning police cars, and beating up cops patrolling alone. Several times as a
group, the cops almost caught us.
In our first official group meeting as activists, we swore allegiance to one another and Steve made a motion that we stop
joining the riots and protest movements. “I think I have a smarter way to do this. Why don’t we watch the news, pick out
the unfair bastards and pay them a personal visit.” We voted to go after every unfair government employee, or individual
we saw on the news. It did not matter who you were; if you beat up on protestors, harassed people, discriminated against
anyone, arrested a pot smoker, or preached your moral religion against another group … you were our target. Because of
Steve’s politically connected law enforcement family, he was a great asset for finding out the name of the cop that beat
someone or turned dogs on protesters. We became private vigilantes of justice, for the people unfairly fucked over by the
government.
Officer Don Sprinkle was the biggest racist in the sheriff’s office. He was constantly on the news beating people with a
club and turning dogs on people for any reason. He never called the dog off quickly and seemed to enjoy watching them
chew the victim. As he left a bar one night with one too many under his belt, Roger walked up with brass knuckles and
said “Hey, Officer Sprinkle,” as he was about to enter his car. Turning to look, Roger’s right hook dropped him like a bag
of rocks. Tied up, hood on his head, standing on a stool with a rope around his neck, we so traumatized the man that he
shit and pissed his pants. At one point Roger said “fuck this,” and kicked the stool out as the man dangled in the air for
thirty seconds. Putting the stool back under his feet Steve shouted, “Let’s cut his dick off.” As Roger’s knife began
cutting his pants, big shot bigot filled his pants again. “If you ever hit anyone with a club or turn a dog on anyone we will
come back and finish you. If we see you on the news talking about tonight, we will make you sorry you ever talked baby
Don. Do we have your word that you will stop?” Crying like a baby as the knife continued cutting his pants he answered
“Yes.” Sprinkle never beat or turned dogs on people after that night.
For the next few years, we introduced cops, preachers, judges, and lawyers to a new level of justice. Catching off duty
drunk cops leaving a bar became Roger’s favorite stalking ground. With the brass knuckles, he was a one hit wonder
dropping most of them on the first hit. In four years, Roger and Larry had hooded and beaten up over 50 cops throughout
the Tri state area. Larry loved to get even with the outspoken hypocritical preachers. Many congregations found a
Sunday morning surprise, the pulpit buried under a pile of manure. The Devils pentagram and 666 were his signature
trademarks, spray-painted inside and out of the church as well as the homes of the preachers. Every preacher bold enough
to complain got a follow-up private ass whipping. Roger, Larry and Steve eventually returned to St. Augustine for some
long overdue vengeance. A certain motel owner along with several rednecks, and cops, all shit and pissed their pants while
dangling at the end of a rope.
Life happens this fast, one day you are a freshman and the next day a graduating senior. Four years later, we found
ourselves in Scott’s nuclear fallout basement sharing a beer after graduation. No one realized this would be the last time
we would all be together as a group for many years. Scott’s dad came down and joined us for a beer. After a bit he said,
“You boys have been politically active for several years. I’d like to hear from each of you just what you would like to do in
life and how you would work to change this country.” This had to be a father/son planned event because Scott spoke up
right away.
“I am going to change this country and all of the unfairness I see in government. I want to be a part of making and
passing laws in every area of civil and human rights, so for me its politics as soon as I get out of college.” No one said a
thing. We expected him to give it a shot. To us, he was nothing but a poor little rich boy out to save the world, while
living in the shadow of daddy. Somehow, he had miraculously escaped a lot of injuries in St. Augustine.
“What about you Jerry,” Scott’s dad asked?
“I really don’t know for sure at this point, but think I am getting out of the family business and will try to work with the
living, rather than the dead,” he said laughing. “I have always wanted to build, so maybe I could help change the nation
with some quality low income housing that would actually elevate the poor and lower middle class.”
“Never saw those ambitions coming from you Jerry,” Scott’s dad said peeling his label on the bottle. “I really hope you
try it, and feel free to call on me if you need any help.”
Steve spoke up as we continued around the room “It’s a no brainer for me. Superman, the lawyer defender of the
downcast,” he shouted. “It’s Law school and then either join the family empire or do my own thing. I would like to
expose people, like my racist uncle, but then my own family might elect to lynch me.” Laughing he stuck out his tongue,
gesturing with his hand like he was hanging by a rope around his neck, like the cops we strung up. Everyone burst out
laughing while Scott’s dad remained clueless. “All joking aside I am pretty sure I am going in the opposite direction of my
family. I will defend the guys they try to put away on petty bullshit. I think family reunions will become very
interesting.”
Smiling Scott’s dad replied, “Sounds fascinating Steve, I’m looking forward to some great television interviews and
newspaper articles to read about your successful cases.”
“Mr. Riley, I have no clue at this point,” said Larry. “I really have not given it much thought. I think I’ll just continue
with my music, hang out and party for a while longer. The band is doing pretty well and I like the lifestyle. I will probably
stay active in some movements hoping to effect some change. Roger and I do not have families like this one. I come
from a home of correction with no direction, so your questions are not part of my upbringing. My family, if you can call it
a family, does not talk about matters like this; no one in my family even gives a shit that I graduated from high school
today. So how in the hell would I know where I want to go or what I want to do?”
Smiling at Scott’s clueless father Roger spoke up, “Family, what is that? They raised me like a puppy, when you are old
enough to stop sucking tit you better make it on your own boy … get out. There was never enough food and my parents
decided when I turned fifteen to charge me a hundred dollars a month rent, to live in a dirty basement. Future … here’s
my future,” as he held up a draft notice. Everyone sat in silence at his revelation.
Somewhere there has to be a horizon where the sun rises on young lives as we begin pursuing our dreams and life’s
ambitions. As five young boys, we sat sharing a last beer together with our feet dangling over the edge of the early
morning horizon, unaware of the profound destiny of our lives. As we rose from the sunrise horizon and went our
separate ways, destiny put a mark on our backs. “Each of these shall drink deeply from the bittersweet cup of life’s
experiences.” Many years later, our pathetic excuses for a life would meet again. By divine appointment as old friends, we
would reunite on the same horizon, only this time; it would be as the sun was setting on our exhausted lives. As we sat
with our legs dangling over the edge of the sunset horizon and shared a drink together, we would soon discover our divine
appointment with world history. A destiny so profound, our actions would change America and the world in a way no one
ever thought possible. The power to change the world as well as pre-empt a world tragedy would require the solving of a
biblical mystery … The 4Horsemen Of The Apocalypse.
One of us will suffer a violent death, and when that death occurs, the water will break for the birth of the next colic
baby. This putrid “loss of life” embryo has been brewing in the womb of time for over 50 years. Filled with the puss of
shattered dreams and wasted lives, the womb will spew the baby forth in such a violent birthing rage the baby will rip the
womb sadistically. The birth will be so violent and painfully purifying, the entire nation will drop to its knees in stunned
silence. Landing on both feet with 50 years of incubated rage, this baby will arrive in the world with such a vengeance it
will make the first colic baby of the 60s sound like a whisper in the night. Ushering a new era into the world, this baby will
finish what the first colic baby failed to complete.
The little boys are all grown up now.