ABSTRACT
NEW YORK—It was Saturday afternoon and the Algonquin Hotel smelled of old marble and mahogany. In his suite, Country Joe MacDonald sat on a sofa and watched cartoons on color TV. They were strange, frenzied fantasies filled with ultraviolet dragons and heroic white whales. Aggression was the dominant theme and the plots amounted to a series of battles, with flashes of color the only sign of impact. Joe watched for 20 minutes, holding a windup policeman doll in his hand. You turn the key and the head bobs and the club moves up and down.
