I have not seen things in the same way since returning from Amsterdam, November of 1996. Nor have I gotten a satisfying explanation as to the experience suffered by or befallen me in room 55 of the Hotel van Onna. Let me admit or confess, firstly, that drugs were involved.
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.