CHAPTER 22 Something Magic Happened Yesterday, I Cannot Remember It's Name

The back end of the old Pontiac had been loaded with a few of my personal posessions, one of which was my toolbox. It had been pawned several times and was a perfect place to carry about a pound of some of the finest pot I had ever been given. You see, an old Dallas friend of ours named David had gotten into dealing.

The day before the wreck, he had breezed through town with the FBI sniffing at his shoes, or so he said. Whatever. I wound up as caretaker for the weed, he hit the road, I hit the truck, the cops hit the toolbox and the shit hit the fan.

I was busted on the air. Like everything at the station, the bust was broadcast live - made public knowledge as it happened. Part of our Civic Duty was to report bad drugs on the street through an organization called Terros. Needless to say, that made us controversial. The establishment was not going to miss a chance to nail one of us and I was caught with my pants down. Somehow or another I came to be described in the newspapers as "Spokesman for the Phoenix Underground Hippie Culture". It was the Phoenix version of Alice's Restaurant.

The Spring that gave birth to the Summer Of Love (which had actually happened the yearn or two before) had other signifigant sidelights for me. One was an album by the Moody Blues; "Every Good Boy Deserves Favor". The music was wonderful of course but the album cover is what enchanted me. There was a picture of a beautiful young boy about five years old, with an old wizard. The boy was learning the magic of crystals and minerals. I found myself staring repeatedly at the picture. Almost every day I would pull the album out and look at it over and over through my morning air shift.

I could not have known it at the time but almost 20 years later and at the time of this writing, I have a son who was identical to that young boy. He could have been the model for that painting. Perhaps that is why some artworks are so enchanting to us. They allow us to see into the future. The album cover was one of a few of my favorite things that carried me through the very brief Phoenix winter.

I became obsessed with The Moody Blues. Amid the growling, howling anti-war songs, theirs was a positive message. One afternoon filling in for Bill, I decided to just break out with a collage of the Moody Blues non-stop. It went for almost two full hours. It was magic. The radio audience and I were in an unseen dance that was purely spiritual. We could FEEL each other. I got a call the next morning from a listener who had just turned on the radio station when she had left work. "I listened to the whole thing" she said, "from start to finish. And I want you to know that I wound up totally lost, about 50 miles out in the desert. It was wonderful. Thank you".

Wow.

There was a girl too, named Bonnie (yes - another Bonnie), with golden hair and brown eyes who later became a major part of my life. Her trademarks were a perfectly round face, perfectly round boobs and an expression "groovy", which was an all-encompassing response to most anything. She wasn't stupid by any means but she didn't mind if you thought so, especially if it made you feel better about her. The communication between us was sexual, complete and monosyllabic. I expressed a desire in conversation with her, to visit a ghost town in northern Arizona someday, called Jerome. I had heard a lot about it. Later, because of her, I would come to learn much more.

Survival in Phoenix had become chancy. I always have had great blessings and/or luck but I was definitely pushing it. I was in a little pain due to a neck injury in the wreck. More importantly, I could sense something afoot that future events would be out of my control. The pot bust for instance had gone to court and I had missed the court date due to a bad battery on the old '55 Chevy station wagon I had picked up. When I finally did get into town to the courthouse, my attorney (or someone)had managed to have the case dismissed. Not even any media hype. In the words of Chuck Berry, it was too much monkey business.

I didn't relish the idea of being regarded as a spokesman (or martyr) for anyone's hippie underground movement, but that's how I had been tagged by the papers. People like that often get spitted and broiled -tarred and feathered- run out of town on rails. Crucified in some cases. I could feel it coming. Spring was winding down and summer was coming on. Led Zepplin IV came out. "Ramble On" grabbed me by the heart and feet. Hard.

With all the girls, with all the fun I was having and with all the dues I felt I was about to pay unecessarily, I decided upon about my seventh playing of "Ramble On", to do just that. Here again was one of those major career choices where I had to decide to stay put, suffer and eventually get rich, or employ myself (Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death) in the quest of Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness. We had created a healthy monster with KCAC. I felt it could live, die, eat, drink and poop on its own - or not.

Betty in her artistic sensitivity and probably out of boredom, suggested we Ramble On together. We were both free, it seemed to fit. It took us only a week or so to locate an old Volkswagen pickup truck with tool boxes on the sides and a fiberboard camper on the back. I rebuilt the brakes, gave away most of my posessions and we were on the road west in short order. Betty had dressed the sides of the truck and camper with posters from the radio station. We looked like a circus wagon touting the Beatles Abbey Road album, The Grateful Dead and much more in our collage of rolling hippie art.

Inside the camper was a TV that had it's own battery, plus some books, groceries, a few tools and incidentals. One whole tool box area on the left opened up to a stove and food pantry. The other side was mostly clothing and camping gear.

We made it as far as San Diego without making each other suffer for our unique and individual personalities. There at 2:00 AM I was awakened to a magnificent comet in the sky. There was a San Diego cop banging on the door as well, practicing to become an asshole. "You're parked in a No Parking Zone". I was all of 8 inches into one. I got up and moved the truck while Betty vibrated annoyance from inside. The comet was an unexplainable surprise and absolutely magnificent. I wonder yet if it was a figment of my imagination. Maybe somebody just painted a picture of it up there. Comet Kohutek highly touted years later, and Haley's comet were mere jokes by comparison. This was spectacular - unless - it was a UFO.

The daytime awakenings were where Betty awakened to my lack of commitment toward her and lack of discretion regarding other females. Details are irellevant, I hurt her thoughtlessly. As we headed up the coast through L.A. the world was smoking. The hills were ablaze with grass fires and it gave our journey a most surreal feeling. By this point we had tacitly decided to part. We were literally living the lyrics to "L.A. Woman" by The Doors. We should have written it down and claimed a copyright. The album came out a year later. We parted at San Fransisco International Airport, where I watched her board a flight to New York.