Todd Brendan Fahey
It was just another Saturday on Ken Kesey’s farm, but it felt like Shangri-La. The Cuckoo strode around his own eight acres, miles away, in a striped referee’s shirt, signing autographs and posing reticently for the cameras–an icon who, in the words of Hunter Thompson, “has found out a way to live out there where the real winds blow.
Leary was tanned to the point of sunburn and wore, as always, a thousand-watt smile and a pair of white, high-top tennis shoes. Between quick, nervous puffs on his Benson & Hedges, he discussed the new face of electronic stimulation and the novel as an archaic art form.
They are spoken of in terms reserved for classical composers, of religious music. They have not released a new recording since 1983, and failed utterly, commercially, even in their heyday, circa 1977; yet a stroll through their Guest Book, year 2002, reads like a wet dream.
Author of Present Shock, Douglas Rushkoff teaches us that “the future is now”; that we are in control, if we choose to be, and that a career can be made as a sort of kosher Dennis the Menace.