Wednesday, June 28, 2017

Road Tales/Rode Tails - Damage Control

Damage Control

The first thing I did upon my return home was call Patty. I was exhausted and in crazy wild need of sleep, but I called Patty first. Her phone was busy. I dialed again. Still busy. Shit. I wasn’t sure how she would react, but I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway with that worry hanging over my head. I thought about what I would say over and over as we drove straight through from San Francisco to Duluth in about 35 hours. We were all beat, partied out, drugged out, and desperately wanting to be home in our own bed.
“Patty?” I said tentatively.
“Armond? Thank you so very, very much for your letter,” Patty said when she heard my voice. “I’m so sorry I put you on the spot like that. I had no right. I didn’t mean to, but things had gotten so crazy around here.”
“No, I’m sorry. I was too caught up with myself,” I began.
“Let’s not talk about it over the phone. You’ve got perfect timing; Mary and I were just heading to Shamrock. Do you want to come with us? Will you come with us? Please? Please?”
I hadn’t slept since… I couldn’t remember the last time I slept. I may have dozed on the trip back but it wasn’t a restful sleep. It was road sleep where you are bounced and jostled the entire way. And all I could think or dream of was what I would say to Patty if she would ever talk to me again. I was having trouble focusing my eyes and brain. I needed sleep so badly that a coma sounded good to me.
“Of course, I’d love to go. I can’t wait to see you, Patty. I’ve thought of nothing but you since I left.” There was no way I could refuse her request after all that had happened. Dad wasn’t home when I arrived. I presumed he was at one of his favourite watering holes. I left a note on the dining table for him and waited for Patty and her sister to pick me up in the cool, crisp air of a summer night in Northern Wisconsin.
Patty ran from the car to my front door when they arrived. I didn’t know she knew how to run. It was the fastest I’d ever seen her move. We embraced tightly and kissed deeply. Overwhelmed by emotion, tears flowed from my weary eyes like Big Manitou Falls and that got Patty started, too. We blubbered apologies to each other until her impatient sister honked the horn. “Plenty of time for that shit when we get to Shamrock.” We broke off, wiped our eyes and hopped into the car.
“Ted Anderson called me as soon he got home,” Mary O’Leary announced. That explained why their phone was busy when I first called. I was confused, though, if she talked to Ted then she must know that Rock took the train and wouldn’t be home for another two days. So, why was she so all-fired hot to get to the Shamrock?
“He was so sweet,” Mary continued, “telling me how much he missed me and…” she rattled on and on. I gave Patty my what-the-fuck look.
“Mary got to know the real Danny,” Patty whispered. “She dumped him and took up with Ted about five weeks ago.” This was all breaking news to me. Ted hadn’t said a thing on the tour, not one word.
“Ted is just so sweet and nice, so much fun to be with, tall and then there’s his big… um, feet.” We all burst out laughing. We knew she wasn’t talking about the size of his feet. Well, Ted, you sneaky bastard, I thought. He was tapping my girlfriend’s older sister and hadn’t said a word to me.
Ted Anderson had a table, two pitchers of Leinenkugel’s, and glasses waiting for us. He was smiling that sheepish, ah shucks, smile of his as I approached shaking my head. We all exchanged small talk for awhile among us. Ted and I shared stories of the gigs we played while on the road – none of the sex-while-tripping tales, of course – just remembrances of the gigs, the songs, the bands, and the crowds. Then, the conversation took an unexpected turn.
“Armond,” Ted started. “I can’t take your cousin anymore, man. This trip was it for me. I don’t want to play with the cat anymore.”
“Your cousin is a dick,” Mary piled on.
“How is that you’re so cool and he’s such an incredible dick?” Patty asked. “He really hurt Mary the way he treated her. He doesn’t give a fuck about anybody else does he?” My cousin had trifled with the affections of an Irish girl gaining him scorn and derision. He was lucky she wasn’t a Cajun girl or he’d have wound up gator bait on the end of a Hebert cane pole in the bayou.
I was startled at this development. Yeah, my cousin was a bit self-centered, ok, a lot self-centered. Apparently, shit had gone down in San Francisco that I didn’t see between Ted and Danny. Ted was one of the easiest going cats I had ever met; to get him upset really took some doing. I’d have asked what it was but I wasn’t about to stir this boiling pot of Polish gumbo.
“I don’t know quite what to say,” I said. “I know he’s a dick, but he’s tribe. I don’t condone what how he treats people, but I really can’t condemn him. He’s tribe.”
“No, that’s not what this is about,” Ted corrected. “Danny told me that he is bored with playing in the band and wants to do something else. He’s quitting the band, man. Didn’t he tell you about this?”
“No, he didn’t,” I admitted. Then I said, “What a dick!” Everybody laughed. “So, what do we do about a lead singer?”
“Nothing,” Ted said. “We split the songs we like among us and drop the rest. I can sing most of the tunes, Jack’s got a good voice, and you sound great on the Doors songs, man. Maybe we can pick a few more of their tunes up.”
“I’m all for that,” I said. “Does Jack know?”
“Yes, he knows,” Patty said. “So, does Teamo.”
What the hell was going on? My girlfriend and her sister were more in the loop about band happenings than I was. I was too tired to care. Frankly, I was pretty sick of my cousin’s attitude, too. If he didn’t want to play in the band anymore, then so be it. But the dick should have at least told me. I was tribe. What a dick!
“Ok, then,” I said. “We can start working on a new song list right away.”
“I need a few days break,” Ted said. “Mary and I are going camping in Canada.”
“Cool, sounds great. Patty and I have a bunch of catching up to do anyway.” I said boldly, followed by a sheepish, “Don’t we?”
“You bet your sweet ass we do,” Patty replied snuggling into me.
We retreated to talking with our mates after the Shamrock House Special pizza arrived. We munched and talked and drank and munched and drank and kissed and talked.
I recounted the day that I spent wondering around Berkeley and The Haight thinking about Patty and composing the letter to her over and over in mind and on paper. I painted a grey canvas of a tortured soul searching for the right words to express regret and remorse. It was the portrait of the artist as a young man paraphrased from James Joyce to describe a 60’s beatnik musician lost in the land of hippies.
Ted added the seasoning to complete my dish, “He wasn’t fun to be around, and then he disappeared for nearly a day. When he returned he seemed to be at peace and went on to play one of the best series of sets anybody saw out there. You were incredible, man.”
I was astounded by Ted’s observation. I unassumingly agreed. Patty hugged me tightly.
I finally broached the subject that we all seemed to be avoiding. I whispered to Patty, “How’s your mother?”
“She’s doing pretty well, considering. They’re going to put her through some new chemo therapy that has some promise. There have been cases of total remission. It’s something to try, anyway. She’s taking the whole thing so well, almost too well. There is a serenity that has come over her that is more than a little spooky. I’m scared.”
“You know the Sioux saying, ‘Hoka hey – it is a good day to die,’ which reminds us to live every single day to its fullest. It sounds like she has taken that lesson to heart. She is appreciating Mary and you and your dad like never before.”
“I don’t know what I would do without her,” Patty said. “I’m hoping I never find out.”
“Me, too,” I comforted, though I sensed that the end was near for Patty’s mother. I was sure that Patty knew it, too. She was radiating that message. She just couldn’t say it out loud.
“Change the subject, what was San Francisco like?”
“I talked to Lawrence Ferlinghetti,” I announced.
“No shit? You actually talked to Ferlinghetti? That is huge. What did you talk about?”
“He asked me if I needed help finding anything. He was in the store filing books onto shelves like a stock boy. It was so weird. I could barely speak. What do you say to a literary giant? I felt so totally inadequate to be breathing the same air as him. I stuttered a lot. He was warm, gentle, almost regal, and at the same time just a simple person like the rest of us.”
“Did he make a pass at you?” Patty asked out of the blue.
“No,” I replied with a downturn in my voice.
“Were you disappointed?”
“Yeah, a little,” I blushed. “But then I told him that I was looking for a book for my girlfriend.”
“Really? That is so sweet.”
I pulled the copy of “Here and Now” that I had purchased for Patty at City Lights and handed it to her saying, “Ferlinghetti recommended this book for you. It’s by Denise Levertov.”
Patty burst into tears. “It’s a first edition copy…”
“Yeah, purchased from the guy that published it,” I added.
“This is the best gift you ever could have given me,” she purred through the tears.
“What’s going on over there,” Mary O’Leary asked.
Patty showed her the book, “’Here and Now’ by Denise Levertov,” she choked out.
“Now, that is a cool gift,” Mary said.
“Who wants to go to Cleveland to see The Doors on August 3rd?” Ted asked.
“I can’t,” I said, “That’s my dad’s birthday. I can’t let him to spend it alone.”
“We can’t either,” said Mary. “Mom will be going through the new chemo therapy and we’ve got to be here for her.”
“They have to be here for that and we have to be here for them,” I replied.
“I can dig it,” Ted said. “It was just a thought. We’ll have plenty of opportunities to see them. The Doors are going to be around for a long time.”
“And, we’ve got a new show to put together. To the new Dynasty,” I toasted. Our glasses clinked and we all drank with a great sense of relief, contentment, and hope for the ever changing future.
The relationship between Patty and I was healed. Our love affair would continue. It felt great to bring joy to Patty’s life while she was in the midst of her toughest trial. We made love that night, real love; two souls touching each other with tenderness and care like never before. I saw a clear delineation between making love with someone that I truly cared about and fucking a stranger. They were both fun, but were two completely different acts with the only common connection being sex.
My concept of “cheating” was evolving into the belief that it had nothing to do with sex. I could have meaningless sex with an anonymous girl and it meant nothing; animal lust acted out. It was merely a physical act that did not violate the emotional commitment to my mate. It was like having lunch, or riding the bus with another girl. As long as I didn’t surrender my innermost emotions to her it wasn’t cheating to my mind.
The sexual acts performed in San Francisco with various hippy girls were just a part of the trip, like peanuts on an airplane, or free towels in a hotel room, or the scent wafting from a carefully tended garden. They were all a part of the total experience. The experience wouldn’t have been complete without them, like going to Disney World to watch the roller coaster when the complete experience is in the act of riding the roller coaster. Sex was merely part of the mescaline trip with the girl being the roller coaster. And I liked riding roller coasters. Group sex was just part of the LSD trip, like square dancing with other couples at a hootenanny, naked and sweaty and lusty.
The sunrise wouldn’t have looked the same if I hadn’t been snuggled under a blanket with a flower child. The candles would have glowed differently if not for Pubic-Bald Tulip. In fact, tulips would never be the same again to me.
We wouldn’t have connected with the crowd at the concert as completely if not for the preceding acid trip copulations. Hell, wearing clothes even became a different trip after Naked Tuesday.
The rabbit fucking I exchanged with those girls meant nothing more than the fry bread I cooked up for them on Independence Day. In fact, the fry bread meant more because I was sharing a part of my heritage, my soul. Sex was just sex; an intensely sweaty path toward ejaculation.
I didn’t delude myself into thinking that a chick would buy this logic, but it was sufficient rationale to sooth my conscience.

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Road Tales/Rode Tails - Independence Day

Independence Day

Sixteen bands were on the bill for the San Jose Independence Day celebration concert. The Jerry Sheehan Express limped into town late Wednesday night. They had been plagued with vehicular breakdowns, cancelled gigs, and failing amplifiers throughout their trip. Ted had relayed the address of the hippie haven to them through our agent. They found the Manor of Mayhem (Hippy Haven) with little trouble.
Despite all of the difficulties they had endured, the spirits of all Express members were high. They got even better in hurry.
Sandy Lindstrom looked even sexier than ever. Her long blond hair looked like she had ironed it on a washboard. Did kinky hair equate to kinky girl? My fantasies of sex with Sandy ran wild once again. There was no doubt that I was in lust with this chick. Braless with pointy nipples dimpling a tight ribbed sweater, she even exceeded sizzling Willow in hotness, which was quite an accomplishment.
“Armond,” Sandy said while hugging me tightly, “how the fuck is it going?”
“The craziest, babe, absolute insanity for the past week,” I replied while trying to sustain her hug for as long as possible.
“Cool, I need some craziness, man. We have played to nothing but shit-kicking cowpokes for the past week. I fucking swear if one more motherfucking guy tells me how ‘purty’ I am I’ll slice off his balls and fry ‘em for dinner.”
“That bad?” I asked.
“That bad and worse. We played this fucking shithole of a bar in Idaho where every guy I talked to said, ‘Idaho, are you da ho, too?’ I wanted to ram a hot fucking poker up their asses.”
Our hostess, Magnolia, broke out more mescaline tabs for the newcomers. Despite the promise I had made to myself that I wasn’t going to drop acid the night before the big show there was no way I was going to pass up tripping with Sandy. Perhaps she’d loosen up enough to ball me, I reasoned. Or, maybe one of the hippie chicks would inform her of my now semi-legendary prowess with my private organ and she’d demand a personal recital.
Hundreds of great fantasies of sex with Sandy blazed through my head, but she didn’t travel two thousand miles to fuck a guy that she could easily bang back home. No, she immediately focused in on a furry hippy guy playing acoustic guitar and singing Beatles tunes. She joined him in harmony on the songs and soon disappeared upstairs with the guy. Damn, there goes the best shot I’ll ever have at Sandy, I thought.
Pervert that I am, or was becoming, I even snuck upstairs pretending to go to the bathroom where I listened at door after door until I heard Sandy’s beautiful voice singing a new erotic harmony with hippie guy.
Of course, those sounds shivered my timbers so I returned downstairs to find a girl to scratch my itch. There was only one girl not already occupied, a rather plain girl sitting in a corner twirling her long blond hair with intense fascination. I sidled up to her.
“I’m Armond,” I said.
“Yeah, so?” she replied.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Tulip,” she replied.
Of course her name was Tulip. It was about the only flower I hadn’t met yet.
“Tulip, that’s a cool name,” I said.
“I know,” she said flatly.
“How did you get that name?”
She raised her sundress exposing a shaved-bare pubis.
“Ah, I see, two lips,” I observed.
“Are you buzzing in to pollinate me?” Tulip asked.
Instead of words I just made a bee sound, “Buzzzzzz”.
She laughed, “You’re funny. Have you seen the view from the rooftop yet?”
I said, “Yes, it is breathtaking.”
“Let’s go there. It will be more private,” she assured.
We climbed the ladder to the deck where Holly and I had watched the sunrise, but there was already a couple in the throes of passion that had lay claim to the space.
“It looks like it’s occupied,” I said with a hint of disappointment in my voice.
“Not here, silly,” Tulip laughed. “Follow me.”
We walked past the balling couple – where I recognized Holly’s grunts and partially visible ass – around a corner to an obscured ladder on the side of the house that led to yet another deck that sat atop the attic. This was a three story house with an attic. We were more than fifty feet in the air. The view from this perch was even more spectacular than that on Holly’s level. It was also quite a bit windier at that height.
“Too cold up here,” Tulip said and I agreed, whereupon she led me to an access door to the attic. She lit candles around the small attic space providing eerie illumination. “I love to be naked, don’t you?” And away went another sun dress. I love sun dresses.
“Yes. Yes, I do,” I replied. “I don’t remember seeing you on Naked Day. Were you here?”
“No, I work and go to class on Tuesday’s. I’ve been trying to get them to change Naked Day to another day, but Tuesday fits the other girls schedule better. I make it occasionally, but I had too much homework yesterday. What are you waiting for? Strip for me, big boy.”
~~~
I awoke with a song in my head early Thursday morning, “I once had a girl or should I say she once had me. Oh, isn’t it good, moe-horning wood.” Tulip lay naked on her right side next to me. She was so wonderfully warm. I ran my hands up and down her body until she began to stir, wake enough to realize my intent, and invite me in. There is no better way to wake up in the morning. There just isn’t.
I whipped up an enormous batch of fry bread for breakfast (using Momma Lafontaine’s concoction of flour, lard, and sugar mixed together and fried). We needed fortification and sugar energy. It was show time. This was the day that motivated our trip, the Fourth of July, Yankee Doodle Dandy Day, 1968.
The flower girls went wild over my fry bread. They seemed amazed that I could cook, too. I cook because I love to eat. With my mother in and out of sanity and insane asylums cooking became yet another survival technique that my dad taught me.
We arrived at the venue around 11 AM. Man, was it hot on the San Jose side of the hill without the chilly Pacific wind to cool it down. The first band was scheduled to start at noon. As soon as other bands saw my Hammond they were asking if they could use it on their set. Of course, I said yes and we positioned my A-105 and Leslie in the middle of the two band areas on the huge stage so that it was easy to turn the beast toward the band that was playing.
The promoters had constructed one huge, long stage so they could have one band playing on one half of the stage while another band set up on the other half. My Hammond organ & Fender Rhodes piano was easily accessible by either side. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I could have rented my ensemble to the promoters for $300 for the day. I didn’t learn that until afterward, of course.
I got excited when I saw the playbill for the show. First, it was cool to see Dynasty on the list, but also playing was The Loading Zone. Cool. My old band was in town. I couldn’t wait to see Kenny and the guys. I was surprised that I hadn’t heard anything about their trip from Kenny or someone close to the band.
The concert began with a couple of local bands that weren’t very good, frankly. They were the filler bands used to play as folks arrived to see the main acts. The biggest name on the bill was The Box Tops with their hit song “The Letter” hovering at the top of the charts for the past several months. Amazingly, The Loading Zone was scheduled to play right before the headliners.
Backstage, we drank beer and wine and smoked lots of pot. There were nearly naked hippy chicks everywhere hanging on musicians, twirling to the music, or sitting stoned like statues. I figured that the term stoned was invented to describe the latter.
The first eight bands played half-hour sets. None of the groups were very good. They were hired to play while the crowd slowly assembled.
The Jerry Sheehan Express set up their gear around 2:30 for their 3 PM start. Sandy was decked out with shiny satin slacks, a puffy blouse, and frizzy blond hair that flew out from her head in all directions as if she were in outer space and weightless. She said to me, “Thanks for letting me play your organ.”
“My pleasure, I assure you,” was my lurid reply. The Hammond wasn’t the organ that I was lusting for her to play, but even watching her touch my keys sent electric shock waves to my groin.
“Groovy people of the Gay Area,” started the MC. “Oops, that should be the Bay Area,” to applause, laughs, and a smattering of folks yelling, “You’re right, right on, it’s the Gar Area.”
“Give a big Gay Area welcome to our next band from Minneapolis, Minnesota, The Jerry Sheehan Express.”
Minneapolis, Minnesota? Oh well, that’s show biz.
Sandy was phenomenal during their set. Fingers flying over the keys and her voice… her incredible voice. Could this actually be the pure innocent girl that had stunned the jaded 9th grade class with her sublime rendition of Somewhere Over The Rainbow the year before? It certainly wasn’t the same girl that was lighting up the San Jose crowd with scintillating versions of Jefferson Airplane songs like Somebody To Love and White Rabbit.
Then, Sandy stepped out from behind the keyboards to deliver a series of jaw-dropping performances of songs by a relatively unknown singer by the name of Janis Joplin. By October in 1968 the album Cheap Thrills rocketed to the number one spot on the Billboard charts, but this was July. The Bay Area crowd was familiar with Joplin even if the rest of the country wasn’t yet and loudly applauded following Sandy’s version of Piece of My Heart.
Sheehan Express then launched into the old Big Momma Thornton song, Ball and Chain. I felt the pain and heartache of that old standard like never before. This was a white chick – as Swedish as they come with her piercing blue eyes, long blond hair and long, slender legs – yet she sounded as black and tormented as a Neville cousin. Tears rolled down my face as Sandy tore my bottled up emotions loose from their deep shackles. The crowd, numbering near 20,000 by this time, exploded in appreciation at the end of the number.
Jerry Sheehan walked to where I was standing in the wings and asked if I would sit in on keys for their next number, the Gershwin classic Summertime. Jerry wanted to keep Sandy at center stage as long as he could. I eagerly agreed. I was finally able to play with Sandy Lindstrom, but not in the way my young hormones requested. I connected with her on a far higher level during that song. She hopped her butt up onto my organ, Hammond organ, that is, to begin the song only to slide fluidly off my beast during the first chorus. She fell to her knees at the edge of the stage during the second verse causing a thousand guys to extend their hands to catch her if she hopefully fell, fell into their arms having already captured their hearts. It was like being onstage with Billie Holiday. Tears streamed down my face in admiration of her performance. What we shared during that song was better than sex. It was the gutsiest performance of Summertime that I’d heard up to that point and I had heard some great renditions back home in New Orleans. (Sandy held that record for ten years before the great Wanda Boudreaux topped it with her show-stopping, room-silencing, owning of the song.)
One, two, three, four and off we went into the Rolling Stones song Jumpin’ Jack Flash. Fortunately, I knew the song well because I couldn’t see the keys through my watery eyes.
“Jumpin’ Jack Flash is a gas, gas, gas.
I was stoned. I was washed up and left for dead
I was crowned with a spike right through my head
But it’s all right,
Yeah, in fact it’s gas.
Oh, it’s all right
Jumpin’ Jack Flash is a gas, gas, gas.”
Sandy stomped the stage while 50,000 plus fans sang in unison with her. All that could be seen was a sea of arms and bouncing waves of bodies all the way to the horizon.
We all graciously left the stage to her alone. “You fucking killed them, girl. Holy shit, that was incredible to watch,” I hugged her as she came off the stage. Her band mates boosted her onto their shoulders and carried back to center stage. It was her moment, all hers. She earned all the adulation that the jaded California crowd could heap upon her.
I felt sorry for the band that had to follow her and was glad it wasn’t us. The next band was good, but paled by comparison.
Sandy’s performance lifted our band, too.
We went on just as dusk fell with the burning red globe of the Sun sinking behind the hills to the west into San Francisco. The MC for the day, a locally famous gay guy shouted to the crowd over the PA, “Are you ready to rock? (Cheers and yeas) Are you ready to roll? (More cheers and yeas) Are you ready to Rock and Roll all at the same time? (Cheers, yeas, and Fuck Yes’s.) Then, give a big bay welcome to our first band ever from Duluth, Minnesota, the birthplace of Bob Dylan, for The Dynasty.”
We kicked into our version of Dylan’s Hang On To A Dream, which was greeted with delirious cheers.
I hadn’t given the whole thing too much thought up until that first song. I was pretty stoned and more than a little drunk on wine and probably had some acid still pinging through my brain. I looked out on the sea of flesh and realized that there were over 50,000 people out there watching us play. It had been many gigs since the last time I had any semblance of stage fright, but it creeped in during that first tune. I put my head down and tried to ignore the crowd and force myself to concentrate on what I was playing, which is easier to say than it is to do.
When the first song ended the crowd erupted in appreciation. My hands started to shake. Our next song was Light My Fire. What the hell are the notes? What fucking key is this song in? I’m going to fuck up. I’m going to fuck up. There are 100,000 eyes on me and I’m going to fuck up. Strange, how we become our own worst enemies at times like this. Crack, went Timmy’s drumstick against the rim of his snare. I began the flurry of notes for the introductory section of The Door’s biggest hit. My fingers shook and vibrated on the keys. I thought I was going to pass out. Several of the passages were a little off-tempo. I rushed, then slowed too much, then rushed again. What is timing, again? I finished the intro and broke into the verse where all I had to play were the two chords A-minor-seventh and F-sharp-minor-seventh. My hands felt like glue stuck in molasses.
My lungs interrupted the flow. “Lungs to brain, lungs to brain, do you copy, over?”
“Brain here, what do you need, over?”
“We haven’t taken a breath in several minutes, over.”
“How do the lungs recommend that we remedy the low oxygen alert, over?”
“Lungs recommend that we take a breath, over.”
“Wilco, lungs, brain concurs, reading you five-by-five, transmitting order to breathe initiating in five-four-three-two-one breathe. Breath taken light is on, over.”
“Breath confirmed, breath confirmed, we’re showing oxygen levels rising sharply. Thank you, brain, over.”
“Breath confirmation acknowledged. This is brain, over and out.”
I swear that it took that long. The more I breathed the calmer I got, and the smoother my fingers flowed. When we reached the organ ride section I was ready, my fingers danced on the keys, the crowd roared approval and my confidence soared. I kicked that ride’s ass. Jack Ghostly took over with a brilliant guitar solo that I supported with accents on the keys. We achieved a synergy between us beyond any we had experienced as musicians before that moment. Jack would play notes. I echoed them back from the Hammond. Jack played a flurry of notes. I played a flurry of complimentary notes. Jack edged toward me from his side of the stage. Well, I couldn’t move. I play a Hammond.
Jack and I lit the fire of the Bay Area crowd with Ted Anderson funkafizing the bass line like a mad New Orleans jazz cat, Teamo pounding out a crazy Caribbean beat on his skins, and Rock spinning and dancing with moves he’d picked up from Jim Morrison in Chi-town and Motor City. The backstage hippy girls came onstage, swirling, twirling, throwing beaver shots to those near the stage, and majorly pumping up the crowd. The energy I was feeling was so strong that it brought tears to my eyes as Jack and I finished our solos together and banged through the intro section back into the song.
“The time to hesitate is through,
The time to wallow in the mire,
Come on, baby, we can only lose
And our love becomes a funeral pyre.
Come on, baby, light my fire…”
Chicks in front of the stage started flashing their tits at Rock, some crying, all singing, all willing to bear the fruit of his loins. I felt the warm hands of Willow reach around my waist and ride up to my nipples, which she pinched while dry-humping me from behind.  I played through the distraction, ignoring the action at my back door. I knew it was Willow by her scent and touch. It felt like she was trying to grow a rod from her mound in order to penetrate my back door, man. I clutched the organ during the last chord of Light My Fire producing a loud, large chord while Willow rode me to the ground like I was a bucking bronco that she was determined to break.
I kissed her, copped a generous feel of boob and ass and rose to play Dylan’s My Back Pages. The crowd grooved in collective insanity. Guys screaming at us, “I love Dylan,” and gals shrieking, “Tell Bob I love him.” It was a good thing that we’d put these Dylan tunes together because everyone there assumed that since we were from Duluth that we must all know Bob Dylan. But, that didn’t seem to be the moment to tell them that none of us knew the former Robert Zimmerman. Hell, I was a kid playing sandlot baseball in New Orleans when Dylan left Duluth for good. But, that’s showbiz.
Evil Woman had the guys in the crowd shouting out the lyrics with us. “Evil woman don’t play your games with me-ee.”
At the end of our set the stage manager gave us the stretch sign that meant the next act wasn’t ready. We trekked on with an extended version of Mustang Sally. In the middle of the song a hippy cat came over and shouted something in my ear.
“What? You want me to slay keys bred in a sandlot?” His words made no sense. I looked puzzled so he shouted again and again I didn’t understand.. “Keys vacation with marmalade?” “Lots of cheese starting in a muffuletta.” The cat gave up and waited for the end of the song.
“Would you play keys for the Vacant Lot? Their keyboard player is too tripped out to play, man. Would you play keys for them? They are up next.”
“Sure, I’ll play for them,” I agreed. I had no idea who this band was or what they played, but I was having a great time on stage at that point and didn’t want to stop.
At the end of our set we received an ovation that may have altered the orbit of several asteroids. Then, the bustle of changing the stage for the new act burst into motion. A new hippy girl, entourage from Vacant Lot, stuffed a cigar-joint between my lips. There I stood near the back of the stage smoking a doobie in front of 50,000 witnesses. The gal rubbing against me had breasts cut from a perfect mold for breasts. I wouldn’t have cared if there were 50,000 FBI agents out there. This chick was drop-dead gorgeous from top to bottom and stem to stern and she wanted to smoke dope with me in front of half the universe.
“What’s going on? Why did they ask me to play,” I choked out looking like I was sending her smoke signals as well as words.
“Ally Simpson took about 30 hits of acid or some shit, man. He’s freaking out, man. Marcie, is taking him to the hospital. She’s his chick, man. He can’t do the show, man. So, you’re going to fill in for him?”
“I guess so. I’ll always help out fellow musicians,” I replied.
“That’s cool, man,” she said. “Where’s your hair? How come you’re all shave-headed? You kind of look like a narc, man.”
I couldn’t believe it had taken so long for anybody to ask me this question. “I’m a beatnik, narc’s don’t smoke weed, girl.”
“Cool, man. That’s so cool. A beatnik, man, that’s so groovy.”
“What’s your name?” I tried looking at her face but she had boobs that worked as a pivot point for her sundress pushing it out about foot with clearly visible nipples accentuating the drop-off that just demanded close attention.
“Melanie,” she replied.
“Happy to meet you, Melanie. I’m Armond, Armond Blackwater. Are you with anybody?”
“I’m with nobody and everybody, man.”
What the fuck did that mean? It would take another year before man walked on the moon, but I sensed that this chick was already there. “Cool,” I choked as I handed the jernt back to her.
The cat who had asked me to play interrupted my discourse with Melanie. “Hey, man, I’m Vince. Thanks for doing this man. You’re really saving our asses. Here’s the set list. Do you know any of these?”
Scanning the list of songs I nodded yes to all of them. I knew their entire list. I was amazed to see Light My Fire on their list. Rock scratched the rest of our Doors songs except Light My Fire for this concert in favor of more James Brown, Aretha Franklin, and even Fontella Bass (Rescue Me). Now, Vacant Lot was going to play the song, too? “Don’t worry, man. We do it way different than you cats,” the guitarist assured me.
Vacant Lot’s first song was the Van Morrison classic Gloria. My mind flashed back to New Orleans and Gloria begging the guys to, “Fill my pockets.” Nearly naked hippy chicks did pirouettes across the stage. The jam on the song lasted forever, 15 minutes or more, causing it to get a little monotonous. But the stoned crowd grooved along with us. Between songs I could see Ted, Tim, and Rock making out with hippy chicks backstage with their hands covering all the bases. They weren’t the only sexually active beings backstage. There was a major orgy going on back there.
Why the fuck was I out here playing with what proved to be a pretty average band instead of backstage fucking? I flashed back to times when I’d be inside eating lunch or dinner as fast as I could while watching other kids playing baseball. Only now, I couldn’t speed the process up. It was going to be at least 90 minutes before I’d be able to join in the fun. I tried to focus on the music but there were nearly naked hippy chicks everywhere, especially out in the audience.
Light My Fire went on for over a half an hour. It was a fun jam. I played the Manzarek solo note for note. The guitarist started with the Robby Krieger solo but soon took it in many different directions. He was improvising, which was a technique that I wasn’t very good at, yet. He wandered over my way urging me to join him in the jam. He played a passage of notes that were way beyond me. I mean this cat was out there. I stayed within the A minor to B minor framework. What this cat was playing was jazzy and brilliant, like Colltrane or Bird or Miles. I was way overmatched. The cat was right. They did the song way different than Dynasty.
The band following Vacant Lot was named The Vurve. They weren’t ready when Vacant Lot finished their 90 minutes so we had to stretch while The Vurve got ready. They weren’t stoned enough to play yet and I was sure that one or two of their members were participants in the orgy backstage, the orgy I was missing. We jumped into a blues jam in E minor. After nearly twenty minutes of jamming, Vurve members began joining our jam one by one on their side of the stage until their full complement had assembled so that both bands were playing at the same time. Then, Vacant Lot players started dropping out – first the bassist, then the drummer, and finally the guitarist. The jam ended and Vurve’s lead singer called to the crowd to give us a big hand. I took a quick bow and fled the stage as their keyboardist stumbled up to my Hammond.
Finally, I was free to participate in the offstage activities. I looked around for Melanie, but she was already involved with another guy. Sandy Lindstrom was similarly involved as were her entire band. I didn’t find any willing carnal participants so I asked around for members of The Loading Zone. They were up next but I didn’t see Kenny or TJ or George Z anywhere. A guy pointed toward a guy and said, “Check with Paul, he’s the lead singer and keyboard player.” That’s when it dawned on me that there was another band named Loading Zone in the universe. I’m a little slow at times.
I talked to Paul Fauerso while The Vurve played trippy psychedelic in the background. Paul was a great guy, intellectual and very knowledgeable about the Hammond organ. We exchanged our favourite drawbar settings and had an extended discussion of the emotional use of the Leslie speaker’s fast/slow switch. I told Paul that I had played in a band called Loading Zone back in Duluth. He laughed and explained that his band was originally called The Marbles, but then they lost a few, “We lost our marbles,” he chortled. I laughed at his pun. Eventually, Paul introduced me to the other members of The Loading Zone, relating to them the band by the same name in an alternative universe called Duluth.
It turned out that The Loading Zone were very popular locally and had opened for Jefferson Airplane, The Grateful Dead, Cream, The Byrds, Howlin’ Wolf, Chuck Berry, Sam & Dave, and The Who. It struck me how small the world of rock musicians actually was.
The Loading Zone was followed by the headliners, The Box Tops who had a big hit with their song The Letter. Their keyboard guy, John Evans, complimented me on the sound of my Hammond and Leslie. “It’s really great of you to let us use it, man.”
His beautiful Southern accent came as quite a surprise to me. John and several other members of The Box Tops were from Memphis, Tennessee. He dug that I was originally from New Orleans. We knew a bunch of the same people in NOLA. It was like Old Home Week.
The Box Tops put on a great show. They were all pretty phenomenal musicians. Their live version of The Letter was an amazing rendition. It was like they made their own song their own, which is even harder than that was to read. The studio version was short and contained a nauseating string and horn section. The live version was way funkier, stuck to basic guitar, bass, keys and vocals, and lasted a good ten minutes.
Fireworks lit the night sky as the concert concluded on a beautiful night, the perfect wrap to a great trip.
My first major outdoor concert started out a little shaky, but I managed to pull it together and represented myself quite well.
Rock decided that he’d take the train back to Superior. His father worked for the Great Northern Railway so he had free transit in a sleeper car. The rest of us were stuck breaking down equipment, packing up, and loading the van. We said goodbye to the gals of the Hippy Haven and set off on our two day trek back to the Land Beyond Reality, sorry to be leaving, but eager to get back home.

Saturday, June 24, 2017

Road Tales/Rode Tails - City Lights

City Lights

Monday afternoon Ted and I drove to City Lights Bookstore. Beatnik Mecca, the source for everything beat. I walked into the store and there he was, the man himself, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, the man who published Ginsberg’s “Howl”,  Kerouac’s “On The Road”, and dozens more beat doctrines. It was that easy. Now, I had to find a way to approach him without seeming like a silly young kid with a bad case of hero worship. There seemed to be a glow around the man, a peaceful aura of serenity and calm. And wisdom, much wisdom derived from living through many great experiences.
There were close to a dozen other people in the store browsing the shelves or inspecting books. What was wrong with these people? Were they aware that Lawrence Ferlinghetti was standing right there? Actually, it was kind of weird to see him putting away books on the shelves like a stock boy at Schwegman’s stacking cans of soup. I’m not really sure what I expected him to be doing. It was his bookstore and books don’t put themselves on the shelf. Still, I think I expected him to be holding court with budding new poets or lecturing on iambic pentameter.
I walked over to a shelf and scanned the titles and author names. There were so many books that I wanted to buy on the spot that I’d have needed another trailer to carry them all back home. I zeroed in on titles in the Pocket Poet Series, number one being “Pictures of the Gone World” by Ferlinghetti, which I grabbed. Then, number four for from Pocket Poets being “Howl” by Allan Ginsberg. Those were books that I definitely had to buy. As I was gazing at the stacks not knowing what to even try next when a voice behind me said, “Do you need any help finding what you are looking for?” I turned toward the voice and it was him, Lawrence Ferlinghetti.
I stuttered something like, “There are so many. I want them all.”
He chuckled, “Yes, we are building quite a selection. What interests you most?”
I didn’t answer directly, instead stating the obvious, “You’re Lawrence Ferlinghetti.” I was star struck and it showed.
He chuckled again, “Yes, I know.”
“I was captivated by ‘Howl’ and I love your ‘Coney Island of the Mind’. I’m looking for more stuff like that.” Stuff, did I just say stuff? How mortifying is that?
“Have you read ‘On The Road’?” he asked.
‘Oh, of course, I loved it. I’m from New Orleans and could really identify with the settings as Kerouac described them.” There, that had a little more substance.
“Very good,” he said, “Have you read ‘Big Sur’? You’ll find it a good introduction to a few poet friends of mine.”
“Cool, where’s that?” Dumb question, it was in the K’s for Kerouac. He led me to the book and handed it to me.
“Anything else?”
“My girlfriend is into female writers. She wants to be a writer,” I said. How dumb was that. Why did I mention my girlfriend to a gay guy? Did it come from deep seated homophobia? No, that wasn’t it. If he had asked me to join him naked in the backroom I would have, a thought that came from another stereotype that all gays wanted to have sex with any other guy anytime and anywhere.
“Then, she will certainly enjoy Denise Levertov. She is a very strong woman, a good role model for your girlfriend,” Ferlinghetti said. “Also, I strongly recommend the work of one of my mentors, Kenneth Rexroth.” Wow, Lawrence Ferlinghetti had a mentor. It was an amazing thought to me, that this great writer actually drew inspiration from his elders as well.
“Thank you, sir,” I learned politeness from my military father and to this day call all guys sir. “I will do that. Thank you.”
“Just call out if you need more assistance,” he said, then went back to shelf stocking.
I felt higher than being stoned, tripping without acid. I had talked to Lawrence Ferlinghetti, in person.
Ted had gone directly to Phillip Whalen. Ted was deep into Zen Buddhism. Whalen wrote extensively on the subject. Ted and I discussed the precepts of Buddhism as we drove back to our hippie haven. We determined that Buddhism was not really a religion since there were no deities and no wars had ever been fought in the name of Buddha. Our reasoning was flawless.
We introduced our concept to the flower children at hippie haven. It blew their minds. It was like we were prophets who had just introduced them to the truth of the universe. What startled me was how easily swayed these people were. They were ready to convert to Buddhism that very afternoon.
“But you see, Buddhism can’t replace your religion because it isn’t a religion, it seeks the explanation for all that the creator has made not who the creator is. Can you dig that?” Ted asked.
What I saw that day was that too much acid could really fuck up your mind so that you don’t know what the fuck is going on.
~~~
Tuesday was deemed Naked Day at the hippie haven; no clothes allowed. Anyone who came to the house had to shed all of their clothing at the door. The concept sounds a lot better than it works. I concluded that mystery played a large role in arousal. A body under a thin veil is far sexier than exposed skin, which explains why most sex occurs in subdued lighting or complete darkness. I didn’t really want to see most of these people naked, particularly the guys. Women’s bodies are beautiful sculptures, but guys have all that junk hanging off them. Plus, I was too slender to be naked. I had to run circles in a shower to get wet.
There is also something extremely unappetizing about naked people cooking the food you’re about to eat. I suggested an amendment to the naked day rule that required cooks to don a robe, at the very least. The amendment passed unanimously.
Late afternoon brought a girl named Willow to the house. She was tall, nearly six foot in height, and slender like me. Much to my surprise, she had come to the haven seeking me. The hippie drums had transmitted the myth of the Indian’s lovemaking powers around the neighborhood and Willow wanted to experience me firsthand.
We slipped away to an empty upstairs bedroom where we rapidly discovered that fatigue and overuse had turned my rod into a limp disappointment. Willow was the sexiest girl that I had encountered in a house of very sexy girls yet my ship remained in the harbor. The seamen were on liberty. Wanting to maintain my legacy I reverted to the techniques that Gloria taught me the preceding summer in New Orleans. Fortunately, the tongue is not dependant on blood flow to achieve and sustain rigidity.
Willow turned out to be a very loud girl. Her wails of pleasure were heard throughout the house, even over the music playing in the living room, thus enhancing my reputation with the flower girls. Her noise also revitalized my favourite toy to the point that I was able to give my tongue a much needed break.
Just when I thought that I could go no further, Willow whipped out tabs of LSD-25, the real deal made by a Berkeley chemistry student who claimed to have gotten the formula from Timothy Leary.
The LSD-25 took me on a totally different trip from the mescaline. Every molecule in my body hummed. All other functions and sensation flew beyond normal, skyrocketing to new galaxies of thought, tactile sensitivity, and nearly unendurable pleasure. We both got very loud I guess. Our volume was impossible to measure. Was it just that loud in our heads or did the sound escape the room, the house, the country, maybe even the planet arousing lovers in other worlds.
It was loud enough to attract Magnolia’s attention. She joined us at some point in the evening diverting my attention even further while I attempted to keep both girls involved and satisfied. A hippie dude eventually joined us. I was glad to have a relief pitcher at that point. Watching him in action with one girl – while at the same time the other attended to her own needs – excited my favourite toy once more so that I never sat in the dugout too long. At one point, hippie dude and I watched the Willow and Magnolia treat each other, which provided valuable training in positions and techniques that I had never imagined. I used the training to great effect in the intervening hours of intertwined involvement.
What had started out as a disastrous experience ultimately turned out to be the most turned on, tuned in moment of my heretofore relatively limited sex life.
Completely contrary to my experience, the girls were describing my cousin, Rock, as being great to look at, but an underachiever in the sack. He was said to be a little too prompt with his delivery, slow to recover, and even worse in the repeat performance area. Why? Because he didn’t take any drugs, man. His mind stayed too focused on the action causing overexcitement and premature Jack Nation, as the girls of the house euphemized.
~~~
On Wednesday, I hid out on a bench in a park a few blocks from the hippie haven. I was suffering deep depression, regret, and remorse for the life I had led since coming to San Francisco. I didn’t understand it at the time, but this was a natural hangover effect as the LSD-25 left my body. I drank an entire gallon of straight orange juice while reading on the park bench. I wanted nothing to do with women or sex that day. There was a major concert to be played the next day and I needed to regain my wits.
I missed Patty O’Leary. As much fun and sex as I was having, I missed my Wild Irish Patty. I regretted breaking up with her. What the fuck had I been thinking? It was the ultimatum that had caused my pride to rear up and react so harshly to the situation. I had much to apologize for when I returned to the Land Beyond Reality.
I went over conversations in my mind that I would have with Patty when next I saw her. I worked through each reaction that she may have to my heartfelt apologies, modified my responses, and honed my speech until I was certain that she would take me back. I needed to be sincerely contrite and beg her forgiveness.
Then, it occurred to me that I should write her a letter. I had sent her a few touron post cards from San Francisco, one each of Golden Gate, Coit Tower, and China Town. My notes were always brief and unapologetic. The letter I needed to write was the speech I had concocted in my head. I wrote and rewrote the letter for several hours, each time refining its message. I made it sound like I wasn’t enjoying myself, complained about the cold and fog, too many people, overwhelming stench of patchouli everywhere, and general complaints describing the most miserable time. Yeah, I know that it was all a huge lie, but there was no way the truth was going to help win her back.
I purchased postage at a corner drug store and mailed the letter that afternoon. The letter would surely reach her days before Dynasty returned home. For the return address I listed my home in Superior. Whatever her answer might be, I didn’t need to hear it before my return.

Friday, June 23, 2017

Road Tales/Rode Tails - Down In Monterey

Down in Monterey

                Our agent set us up with a gig for the weekend in Monterey, California, which is down the coast a few miles from San Francisco. I loved the waterfront area of Monterey. The scene was exactly as John Steinbeck had described it in his novels Cannery RowTortilla Flat, and East of Eden.  The club was in a crappy little building on the waterfront that must have been his inspiration for The Palace Flophouse and Grill in Cannery Row.
Steinbeck was one of my favorite authors at the time. I read “Cannery Row” something like five times. I do that with books that I like. I always pick up things I missed in previous readings. The Grapes of Wrath ranked among the best novels I’d ever read. He may well have been the best American author of the 20th Century. There I was wandering the wharf where Steinbeck created his masterpieces of literature. I was totally in awe.
The gigs went well that weekend. The chicks were way different from the hippie girls in the Haight. I met a girl named Julie who was quite literate and had actual thoughts. We hit it off from the start. She was also a voracious reader and we had read many of the same books. She told me that I had to go to City Lights Bookstore when I returned to Frisco. I assured her that a visit to Ferlinghetti’s store was high on my list.
Julie was also full of information about the Monterey Pop Festival that took place a year previous in June of 1967. She spoke of the cavalcade of rock stars that played the festival. Her favourite was Jimi Hendrix. She was within 50 feet of Hendrix when he doused his guitar with lighter fluid and lit it afire. She went on and on about how great Jimi’s set was. She also raved about the Paul Butterfield Blues Band. I told that we heard people rave about Butterfield when we saw The Doors in Chicago.
“You saw The Doors? Live?” she said with gaped mouth.
“Yes, the best concert I’ve seen or played at,” I replied.
“Who has your band played with in concert?” she asked, acting significantly more interested in me.
I ran down the list and she stopped me when I got to Who.
“You played with the Who?”
“Yeah, it was a cool concert. The Blues Magoos played that show, too.”
“What was the Who like?”
“They were great onstage, but they didn’t mingle at all backstage, not a word.” I confided. “They acted like they were too big to talk to a lowly opening band like Dynasty.”
“That’s too bad. They’re not going to get very far with that kind of attitude.”
“I agree. They’ll be a flash in the pan and gone before you know it.”
(Boy, were we wrong. I love irony.)
Julie stayed until the end of our show. “I’d like to talk more,” she said. My hopes rose that I might get intimate with this fascinating gal. “See you tomorrow night.” My hopes dropped like an unopened parachute.
Saturday night Julie returned. We talked before the gig and on each break. At the end of the night she asked for my address saying that she would write me. That was it. Not even a kiss on the cheek, which made me want her all the more.
Back to the Haight late that night Rock and I returned to the hippie chick’s pad. When we walked into the dense fog of marijuana and swirling lights Magnolia said to a girl I hadn’t met in our previous stay, “That’s him. He’s the one.” Apparently, I had become a minor legend among the girls of the neighborhood.
The chick approached me and said, “Hi, I’m Holly.”
“Hello, my name is Armond Blackwater,” I returned.
“Wow,” she said in that airy, bobble-headed way that was becoming all too familiar. “Are you a Native American?”
“Yes, I’m a Nakota Sioux,” I replied.
“That’s so cool,” she said slowly.
This was new. I hadn’t met many people that thought being an Indian was cool, other than other Indians that is.
“Native American’s are so beautiful,” she said. “You’ve got a great aura, man.” Really? Say more!
“Thank you.”
“Hey do you want to do some mescaline with me. I hear that you’re a real trip, man.”
“Sure, I’d love to do mesc with you,” I replied.
Holly was another small girl with long golden hair, thin with small pert boobs, and had pink hearts painted on her face. She wore the standard issue sun dress and obviously nothing else. She led me outside and up a ladder to a flat roof with a great view of the city and stars. She carried a jug of red wine with her.
Once on the roof, we dropped the acid and washed it down with the tastiest red wine. I complimented to her on the wine choice.
“Yeah, man,” she started, “my parents have a vineyard in Napa Valley. This is from our very own grapes. So, do you like it, man?”
“Very much,” I said.
I told her about my Ojibwa friends and the wine they made. She asked tons of questions about Indian life and my experiences as a musician. She proved to be less airheaded than I original appraised. She was very interesting to talk to and I was talking a lot. The mescaline kicked in and my tongue was wagging. It was a surprisingly warm night for San Francisco with wind blowing from the east instead of off the frigid bay.
We talked for a long time before she rose, twirled, and shed her sun dress. “I feel so free,” she said. “Join me.”
She didn’t have to ask me twice. I was out of my sweat pants and t-shirt in record time. We danced close together while Procol Harem sang “A Whiter Shade of Pale” faintly from inside the house. Once again, the acid made me horny as the devil and gave me superhuman staying power.
“We slipped the wide fandango,
Turned cartwheels across the floor
I was feeling kind of seasick
But the crowd called out for more
And the room was humming harder
And as the ceiling flew away
We called out for another drink, oh yeah
The waiter brought the tray
And so it was that later, yeah
As the miller told his tale
That her face at first just ghostly
Turned a whiter shade of pale”
I got it. I finally got the crazy lyrics to this song. The guy was tripping when he wrote it. He was describing an acid trip, had to be. It was the only explanation that made any sense.
We finally tired of meshing our parts together, which is all it was at that point, numb sex having lost all meaning or purpose. Even meaning didn’t mean anything anymore, nor did it have a purpose. We sat swaddled naked together gazing west toward at the Golden Gate Bridge. We were waiting for the Sun to rise over the water. I described sunrise in Biloxi, Mississippi to Holly. How the burning red globe would seem to rise up directly out of the water as palms fluttered languidly in the ocean breeze.
It was getting lighter yet there was no Sun. There were no clouds yet the Sun did not appear on the horizon. We puzzled over these phenomena deeply. What was wrong? Where was the Sun?
Simultaneously, we looked at each other and burst into laughter when we finally realized that we were waiting for the Sun to rise in the West.
“That’s some really great acid y’all have,” I said.
“Yeah, it rocks hard,” Holly agreed. “But, it’s not as good as the shit we had in ’65. Man, you should have seen the Haight in ’65 during the Summer of Love, man. It was beautiful, man. That was such a groovy time with groovy people everywhere, man. Kesey was here, man, right here in the Haight.”
“Kesey?” my antennae went up. “Do you mean like Ken Kesey?”
“Yeah, man, that’s him. He was here, man, right here in this house, man. He was such a groovy guy and a great lover.”
“You’re telling me that you balled Ken Kesey? I mean, the Ken Kesey, author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Once A Great Notion? That Ken Kesey? One of my literary heroes? He was here and you fucked him.”
“Yeah, man, so did Magnolia and Juniper and Orchid and Willow. Everybody was balling back then, man. Free love, that’s what it’s all about.”
I detected a trend, “Are all the girls you know named after flowers?” I also wondered why I hadn’t met and banged the other flora and fauna in the house.
“Flower power, man, that’s what it’s all about. We shed the names we were given, man. We found our true inner beauty and assumed names that fit our true nature, man. It’s like, man, you know, we cast off all of the shit society and found the real truth, man. do you dig it?”
“I dig it,” I said. “All I want to do is go back to nature, back to how my Sioux ancestors lived for centuries. Can you dig that?”
“Far out, man,” Holly said. “I totally dig where you’re coming from, man. Like, you Native American’s have gotten the shaft, man, all the way. The man has fucked you over ever since we landed here. And I apologize, man. I really do.” She sounded near to tears.
“Well, Holly,” I said. “Sweet beautiful Holly, you had nothing to do with all that. You have nothing to apologize for.”
“Yeah, but man, you know, man, sometimes it’s like I feel like I should apologize for the whole fucking white race, man, because we came to your beautiful country and have done nothing but fuck it up and I’m sorry, man.”
“Hoka hey,” I said to her. “Hoka hey. Do you know what that means? It is a Sioux expression.”
“Oka hey,” she tried to repeat.
“No, the term is hoka hey. In Sioux it means ‘This is a good day to die’. It reminds us that we must enjoy every day of our life because any could be our last. Hoka hey.”
“Wow, man, hoka hey,” she mimicked, “It’s a good day to die. Man, that is deep, man, heavy. Ya know, that is really deep. Groovy, man. Thanks for sharing that with me. Wow, hoka hey.”
“So, you really balled Ken Kesey?”
“Yeah, man, it was groovy.”
“Did you meet Cassidy or Kerouac?” I asked.
“Naw, man, they weren’t around. I hear they hooked up on the bus trip they took across the country.”
“Bus trip, what bus trip?” I was envisioning a Greyhound bus.
“Oh man, you don’t know about the bus trip? It was wild, man. Wild. Kesey got this old school bus, ya know, and gathered a bunch of people together that Kesey called The Merry Pranksters and they tripped across America. I mean, really tripped. They had like gallons of acid and they just tripped to the east coast and back, man. Isn’t that wild, man?”
“That is wild,” I agreed. “Merry Pranksters is a cool name.”
Fog rolled in off the bay as if it were boiled by the Sun. With the fog came a chilling wind that reminded me of the Land Beyond Reality whenever the wind would switch to coming off Lake Superior. The temperature dipped forcing us to abandon the roof and slipped back into the house where I collapsed onto a mattress. Soon, blessed sleep came. I tripped through my dreams or my dreams tripped through me. Either way, it was groovy, man.