March 24, 2008
by Volt and Electra Penn
There's not enough bytes and gigs in this computer to compile all of 1976's psychedelic re-re-awakenings, neon happenings and general mind-blowing EST, ESP stuff. Although peace, hope and free love were already idealistic things of the past, what made '76 so memorable was our birthday. 'We the people' who had fought, died and persevered to create and preserve this nation were 200 American years old.
A few months after the bicentennial candles had been blown out, and Jimmy Carter had whooped up on Gerald Ford, Electra and I submitted an acid-laced column to The Marylebone's editor, J. E. Findley, which read:
'...Even a Georgia goober-nut farmer, trying to keep his sidekick Brother Billy propped upright sounds better for America than a worn out Ford in the Uncle Gerry Show. But as far as Electra and I are concerned--we're pulling the plug. Why? Because America has lost its constitutional vision and is coming apart at the seams.
'Believe it, it's the truth. Take a little trip back to 1951, when over 50,000 Americans, died in Korea for the measly 38th parallel. In 1963, Dallas hit-men blew away J.F.K. Nobody knows why, but it doesn't take a genius to figure that Oswald was the fall-guy. Twelve years later over fifty-thousand MORE Americans were killed in Vietnam. For the Domino theory? Bull-shit! It was the Military Industrial's Complex that got us there, kept us there and almost left us there, forever.
'We followed up with a wallow-up in Watergate, that long running national embarrassment where first class ass Tricky Dick Nix-on screws up a third rate burglary by hiring fifth rate amateurs that were Dumb, Dumber and in the case of G. Liddy---loonier than a lock-brained Dumbest.
'You see folks, for over 50 years we've been wagged, ragged and gagged. Electra and I believe that we no longer believe in what we used to believe. So what if it's our 200th birthday. We can't help it. We're out a here.'
After Findley printed the article we threw a dart at the State Farm Insurance map and it stuck in Austin, Texas. Christmas day 1976 found us running from a blizzard and into Xalepeno Charlie's, a commune across the football field from the Texas School for the Deaf. Charlie's dump just off South 1st Street turned out to be fortuitous, for that's where Electra and I ran into Captain Bill 'Bilko' Bilkovich, whose motto was: 'One day every body will be recycled'.
New Years day 1977, Electra and I climbed the gangplank to board the Lilypot, Captain Bilko's 30 year old converted oil tanker. In exchange for shipboard duties such cooking and cleaning the ship's heads, Bilko had granted us free passage to Belize. What a deal!
The Lilypot's load was the fat-back from America's grease traps. In Belize City the tallow would be pumped from the Lilypot into Belizean factories, to be poured into candles, soap and cookies, which in turn would be shipped back for American consumption, to complete the recycling reprocessing process.
On the Lilypot, we found out what it was like floating in a frying pan. To stem the stench of rancid oil Electra kept a healthy glop of Vick's Vapor-Rub packed on her upper lip, which sort of helped. Six days after leaving Houston, we checked through customs in Belize City.
What a tropical surprise. Guarding the middle of Belize City's two crossing main streets, a towering Black scarecrow, handsomely dressed in proper British policeman brass, supervised several floating 'crap' games, horn-honking cars and braying jackasses. In between all this, he never let his white-gloved stiff upper lip slip, while directing us to the lovely Hotel Belize.
(Article Continues Below)
It might've been the hotel's waitress, Sophia, or the piano player, Marlene, who introduced us to Frank Buzzell, but by the next morning we were chugging along the grassy Belizean everglades coast in Frank's 12' banana boat, aimed at his vision of a bed-and-breakfast on Caye Caulker.
Once on the island, Frank's Resort turned out to be stitched together hurricane castaways, saw-boarded into screen-enclosed box porches with strung hammocks all held together with wishful thinking.
The outdoor shower was so public you never knew whose eyes were peeking through a knothole. Every evening the electricity blew out promptly at 8 p.m., Greenwich Time. The only reliable device was Frank's long-lived, short-wave radio, which couldn't transmit, but could receive mush-mouthed garbles from the beyond.
It was during our second week at the resort, while Electra tried to whip up a mayonnaise cake in the shack's kitchen, that Frank and I excused ourselves and moved to the radio corner, also referred to as the library, study and sitting room. From somewhere deep in an ankle-high stack of magazines, books and general correspondence, Frank pulled out a yellow envelope. "Here's an interesting note," he said, handing me the correspondence like it was from my Uncle Coulty. "A thank-you note, it is, from one of my previous guests."
When the short-wave mumbled, Frank turned his attention to the knobs, twisting back and forth trying to pickup anything other than intermittent static.
I looked down at the A. Huxley, Los Angeles, California, neatly printed as the envelope's return address. Carefully unfolding the thin onionskin paper layered inside, I read:
'My Dear F. I could go on and on and on about the wonderment, exhausting all superlatives that might describe my moments spent with you on Caye Caulker. But I hesitate here, because in doing so would only remind me of how far apart we are. I'm back in California now. Cold, rainy, wet California. In contrast, your lovely Caye Caulker reminds me of Pala. And you--my Will Famaby. I fear my sickness is worsening. I refuse to let it..'
"A lovely man of real vision," Frank said, flipping the radio's switch off. Gently, he took Huxley's letter from my hands and folded it back in its envelope. "My good friend was a pacifist to the extreme. During WWI he mixed Chinese ginseng and eye-wart with ground pink Himalayan salt and molasses. He rubbed the compound in his eyes to go temporarily blind. It was all planned to avoid killing the Hun. My friend also confided that portions of Brave New World were cribbed from conversations with Mr. H. G. Wells."
The discussion was cut short when Electra screeched, "Get out of here!" Frank immediately jumped toward an intrusive bat with a broom, swatting it, along with the Huxley's letter, directly into the mayonnaise cake.
After the bat, letter, cake episode we'd had enough of the romantic paradise at Frank's Last Resort. The sand fleas and lack of hot water had won. Even though dining on lobster tails as long as an arm was a drawing factor, the homeland was looking more and more homey, and deserving of another chance.
Thirty years have passed, but the crow of 'leaving America' still rests on our political plates. We never said we were 20/20 perfect, but every four years another chance to correct our cloudy vision comes up. At this moment in our country's history, we are offered an opportunity to determine who amongst us is fit to lead.
Henry Adams once wrote, 'The president of the United States must have a helm to grasp, a course to steer and a port to seek'. We'd like to add one more trait the next president must have--vision.
America is in desperate need of a leader, a miracle maker with clear vision, one to give us all hope for a better future. We need someone as farsighted as an English mystic and as nearsighted as an I.R.S. auditor; someone we the people can trust to talk the truth, take responsibility for the job and do the right thing for we the people. We are tired of being fearful and hurting other people in the process. Who cares what color underwear our next president wears, or if he likes green beans, or if she uses inspirational drugs religiously.
This election year may be our last chance to find that person, that 'high-minded' visionary who is a passionate compassionate human, full of reconciliation, positive motivation and peaceful coexistence. Hate to say it, but for too long we've had lousy leaders who've been miserable failures at the 'vision thing'. Now more than ever we have to throw off the shackles of fear, bury the hatchet of hate and live up to the promise of America. Our very survival is at stake.
You see, Electra and I would like to be around to celebrate another American birthday, and we don't want to blow out the candles in Belize with Joe Bageant. And on that note with accolades to The Doors: 'The time for hesitation's through, No time to cower in the mire, Stand up to tyranny now, or the homeland becomes fuel for fire. Com'on baby light the fire'.
If you enjoyed this post, please make a donation to help keep this website active:
Click Here for the Free Populist Party Newsletter
Have Penn they'll listen. Volt Penn writes speeches for Progressive Populists and reasoned arguments for those on the left of center. He has also written speeches for anybody who has read his work. You can reach Volt Penn through his artist friend, b.b.kemp, at bbkemp@bbkemp.com
Volt/Electra Penn copyright 2008
More Articles from Volt and Electra Penn
