Tap, tap, tap. Come on in, man.
Becky sees right away what we’ve got here, inside the bus. A little traveling commune. Half-a-dozen scrawny kids smoking pot and drinking beer. One of them, a girl, is tripping heavily—her eyes a bit off center and her arms raised and undulating like seaweed. It’s hot inside and the kids have stripped off their clothes.
In the center of this downbeat little scene is their tripmaster, an evil-looking magic-man, older than the others, a little more voltage in his eyes, more hair, a California tan. A minor league Captain Jim. “Whoa!— What’s this, Universal Pictures, man?”
Becky says, “It’s French TV.”
“French TV! Ooo-la-la! Here, man, sit down. Everybody sit down and smoke with us.”
Becky sees history stuck in a familiar cycle. Here’s one extremely unimportant egomaniac with nothing but a broken-down bus and a handful of haze—and his “family” thinks they’ve found God. There are probably eight or ten of these small-time gurus right here in this meadow. The Festival has drawn them like roaches. Human beings are either leaders or followers. Declare yourself a leader and no matter how big a loser you are, somebody out there is ready to lose bigger than you. Dose them, play taffy with their minds, and they’re yours. Your family.
"Mm, you are. . . Ken Kee-zee?" The French reporter asks.
"Eez what?" says the tripmaster, with a sly earnestness.
"Kee-zee?"
"Kee-zee? Oh, Kesey. Me Kee-zee? Oh, wow, I love your question man!"
"Eez true? You are?"
"Sure I'm Kee-zee, man! We're all Kee-zee. You're Kee-zee, too."
Here we go, kosmic put-on time.
The director thrusts forward his mike. "M'sieur Kee-zee, what will be the role of LSD in future societies?"
"Oh, mind control. Absolutely."
"Mind control?"
"That's it, man. That's what we're all about. What you see here is your basic mind control. We're the Kee-zee family, right? We're all doing, like, mind control exercises. Want me to control your mind for a while? Here man, take the pipe--"
"No, merci."
(from "Day One--THOUSANDS KILLED" pg. 229)
Wednesday, January 22, 2003
Monday, January 20, 2003
Ray stirs at first light, swims to the surface of his dream, and breaks through it to behold his. . . wife.
Oh, god, the wedding!
Oh, god, what has he done?
He stares hard at his milk-skinned little spouse, snoozing rhythmically beside him. “My bride,” he croaks. A runaway surge of graveyard hopelessness bursts forth in the form of a giggle.
Married to this. . . chipmunk of a girl.
Today the Festival press conference will be attended by CBS, NBC, ABC, Time, Newsweek, Business Week, newspaper reporters from New York, London, Paris, Tokyo, LA, blah-diddy-blah-blah-blah. They're all out there now, tailgating in the lower meadow, wandering among the tents and magic buses, getting their background and color before the main event.
He remembers now: they absolutely adored the wedding.
Ray slips out of bed and pads barefoot to his open window. Outdoors, the scene is like one of those battle pauses in World War I, when opposing soldiers had stopped fighting and played soccer instead. Hard-bitten reporters toss Frisbees with hippies. TV trucks and trailers sit chocabloc with the campfires and teepees. Someone is beating a conga drum (someone is always beating a conga drum!). Sounds of drilling, hammering, and heavy clanging echo over the hill from the bottom of the dell, where Bob-Bob’s stage crew is finishing off the festival stage and erecting lighting towers. Huge interactions are in motion now. . . .
Sometime in the night, Ray dreamed he was chased by a big black cockroach that turned into a Buick. Funny, ha ha, but it jarred him into a state of gut wrenching panic. Why a Buick? Is it the old wisecrack about the loser who hears the honk-honk of destiny but thinks it's a Buick and jumps out of the way? Ray has no problem with Destiny. He takes on Destiny every day and has damned well mastered the sucker by now . . . hasn’t he?
Dreams, like politicians, come on with gigantic authority, even when they don't make sense.
What if Destiny really is a Buick. . . ?
(from "Even Jesus Had His Doubts," pg. 218)
Oh, god, the wedding!
Oh, god, what has he done?
He stares hard at his milk-skinned little spouse, snoozing rhythmically beside him. “My bride,” he croaks. A runaway surge of graveyard hopelessness bursts forth in the form of a giggle.
Married to this. . . chipmunk of a girl.
Today the Festival press conference will be attended by CBS, NBC, ABC, Time, Newsweek, Business Week, newspaper reporters from New York, London, Paris, Tokyo, LA, blah-diddy-blah-blah-blah. They're all out there now, tailgating in the lower meadow, wandering among the tents and magic buses, getting their background and color before the main event.
He remembers now: they absolutely adored the wedding.
Ray slips out of bed and pads barefoot to his open window. Outdoors, the scene is like one of those battle pauses in World War I, when opposing soldiers had stopped fighting and played soccer instead. Hard-bitten reporters toss Frisbees with hippies. TV trucks and trailers sit chocabloc with the campfires and teepees. Someone is beating a conga drum (someone is always beating a conga drum!). Sounds of drilling, hammering, and heavy clanging echo over the hill from the bottom of the dell, where Bob-Bob’s stage crew is finishing off the festival stage and erecting lighting towers. Huge interactions are in motion now. . . .
Sometime in the night, Ray dreamed he was chased by a big black cockroach that turned into a Buick. Funny, ha ha, but it jarred him into a state of gut wrenching panic. Why a Buick? Is it the old wisecrack about the loser who hears the honk-honk of destiny but thinks it's a Buick and jumps out of the way? Ray has no problem with Destiny. He takes on Destiny every day and has damned well mastered the sucker by now . . . hasn’t he?
Dreams, like politicians, come on with gigantic authority, even when they don't make sense.
What if Destiny really is a Buick. . . ?
(from "Even Jesus Had His Doubts," pg. 218)
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