Sinister: Spot the Acid Casualty

[Pete Ramsdale]

OK, so I guess you'll all know what the link is between addled
acid-heads and One Flew Over The Cuckoo's nest, but with so much talk
of literary gubbins on the list at the minute, and with the eminent
surfacing of L.L.L.L. (Laura Llew's Literary List), I thought I'd
stick my heavily unwanted oar in. The author of One Flew etc., etc.,
Ken Kesey, was a pivotal point in the rise of acid in the sixties
(Hopkins, shut yer eyes, man. This is about hippies). Along with his
group of Merry Pranksters, they formed the part of the acid movement
that took Leary's educational drugs study ethic and turned it
completely on it's head. These people existed to get completely corked
off their respective gourds and be as up-front and loud about it as
they could. They eventually formed what would go on as a profit-making
venture way after the prankster movement started to dissolve; Acid
Tests. Large gatherings of people who turned up at certain locations
and got utterly f***ed on L.S.D. whilst listening to the Grateful Dead
and watching trippy light shows. In short, it was a bit like my house
on a Saturday night.* Which brings me to my literary point, and yes,
if you were starting to wonder, I have got one. If you are at all
interested in the above, (Ken Kesey and the pranksters, that is, not
my house on a saturday night), then I would recommend that you buy and
read "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test" by Tom Wolfe. It's a quite
riveting, often enlightening read about Kesey and the Pranksters and
the feelings and experiences they went through. It's also written like
Wolfe himself was on acid when he authored it - styles therein have
been nicked more than once, most notably by Irvine Welsh.

Anyway, onto matters bee and essy. Hurrah.

I left the house this morning whistling Expectations in a manner that,
well, frankly only I can, and noticed that there was a huge bird sat
on the chimney of a house across the road that seemed to be cawing
roughly in time with my disastrous whistles. Anyway, in a bid to test
the theory that our feathered friends are partial to a bit of Belle
and Sebastian now and again, I stopped whistling. I am nigh on
delerious to report that it stopped as well. When I started again, so
did the bird. After shitting myself rigid for a couple of minutes
thinking that this was the Poetry Parrot, and I would have to recite
the entirety of "Macavity the Mystery Cat" to the list, I realised
that parrots are brightly coloured and this 'ere bird was black. All
over. I reckon it was a crow. Well, either that or the Pottery
Pterodactyl. Anyway, I think I have proved conclusively that either:

a) Birds love B&S, or
b) my whistling sounds like the mating call of your common-or-garden
crow.

Unfortunately, I know which my money is on.

To finish up, Claire said:

> To the man whose name means c***, do not worry this term was highly 
> acceptable in the 14th century as a term for the fanny. In 1811 however it 
> was a nasty name for a nasty thing. Sorry.

On this side of the pond, it still is a highly acceptable term for the
fanny. Or it is round my neck of the woods, anyhow.

Hasta la fister,

lol p xx.

*This is a lie. My house on a saturday night is totally empty. I'm
always down the pub.
-- 

 -----------------------------*||*--------------------------------

 "Edgar Malroy said, 'A supermarket trolley that believes in God,'
  and then burst out laughing.
  He laughed like this:

                      Ahhhh-ooo Ahhhh-ooo.

  I told him I wasn't the only one."
                                     Bo Fowler - "Scepticism Inc."

 Pete Ramsdale - Unix Systems Administration, Warburg Dillon Read
 Phone: 0171 568 3836

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