Chamblee54

When PG last saw Thomas Eugene Robbins, he was living in Richmond VA. This was around the time Mary Lou, aka the human wrecking ball, went into a crowded bar and yelled “Anyone here want to fuck?” This was the Eisenhower era version. Thirty years before this, Babe Ruth stood up on a chair. “Any girl that doesn’t want to fuck can leave now.”
Fifteen pages later, TER marries another young lady. The proposal came after knowing each other five minutes. Four and a half minutes of that time was TER denouncing her for having the bad manners to walk out of a TER poetry reading. At the time, TER was dating an art student with protective parents. When the young lady was in the hospital, TER decides to impersonate a doctor, so he could give the lady a private exam. To perform this maneuver, TER stole a white jacket that was too big for him. The jacket was so ill fitting as to resemble “a horse blanket draped over a poodle.”
TER worked for a newspaper. One job was editing Earl Wilson’s column, and choosing photographs. This was an entertainment column, about who was doing what where and how. Why was left to the reader’s imagination. Mr. Wilson wrote a three b report, for booze, bosoms, and behinds.
Sometimes, Mr. Wilson wrote about entertainers of color. In many southern establishments, this part was edited out. TER went against the tide, and chose black and white pictures of a sepia trinity: Louis Armstrong, Pearl Bailey, and Sammy Davis. The collective drawers of Richmond twisted into an painful puppy pile. TER hastily moved to Seattle.
Arriving in the Northwest, TER stumbled into a job as a concert reviewer for the Seattle Times. This was despite not knowing what he was talking about. The prose was “colorful,” though not in the Earl Wilson way. TER got into mushroom hunting, and heard tales about magic mushrooms. A bit of checking around ensued, and some learned man told TER to take LSD instead. This substance was still legal, and had yet to develop notoriety. Diane Linkletter kept the window shut.
Here is a bit of confusion. In High Times and Rolling Stone, the date of the first TER trip was July 16, 1963. Tibetan Peach Pie, the book that inspires this orgy of quote abuse, says it was July 1964. Who to believe? Does it make a difference? Actually, it does. In those 366 leap year inclusive days, Martin Luther King had a dream, John Kennedy met his maker, The Beatles were on the Ed Sullivan show, and Cassius Clay whipped Sonny Liston. The world was a differnt, less innocent. but more musical place. Ed Sullivan wore a Beatle wig, taking really big shoe tonight into unknown territory.
The psychedelic experience is aggressively non verbal. (p.197) “…even a professional novelist can scarcely write about it it without swathing his observations in the purple cloak of woo woo.” At one point, TER went inside a flower. “The crown of the daisy is a perfect logarithmic helix. My eyes followed that spiral, around and around, until — pop! — I actually went into the flower. What was it like in there? It was a subterranean cathedral made out of mathematics and honey, and occupied — this is the amazing part — by an almost palpable intelligence… Now, a man-made bean can is hardly a living plant, but what I’ve come to appreciate about inanimate objects, aside from their utilitarian beauty, is the whisper of the Infinite in each and every one of them. I’d better shut up now before the woo-woo alarms go off.”
A can of beans was one of the players in Skinny Legs And All. PG read SLAA while working in an architect’s office. A can of baked beans was placed on a shelf for motivation. After he finished reading SLAA, PG ate the contents of the can of beans. A young lady heard about the use of baked beans as a grounding device, and did not understand. After finishing SLAA, PG told the young lady that he had eaten the can of beans. She was not amused.
After that fateful LSD afternoon, TER had little interest in reading or writing. This can be inconvenient for a music critic expecting to get paid. This printed word hiatus was broken when TER read Steppenwolf. This was probably before the band shipped out “born to be wild.” Steppenwolf is a book to read at twnty one, and think you are changed forever, then read again at fifty one, and realize you need to change your underwear.
This business of expanding consciousness is not conducive to the real world. Eventually, TER left Seattle, and took his wife back to Richmond. TER went to live in New York. At a LEMAR protest … something to do with legalize marijuana … TER met Allen Ginsberg. “I glanced around with increasing nervousness as the cameras of a half-dozen law-enforcement agencies flashed amidst the snowflakes like orbs of mad polar bears. … Ginsberg, that magnificent pothead of the godhead, laid a gentle hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t worry about it.” … “In the long run, these fuzzy shots in some cop’s folder will do you more honor than the cover of Newsweek.” The poet then kissed TER, who was back in Seattle before you could say Tetra Hydra Cannabinol.
Maybe it was a sermon about mammon. The other day on facebook, someone was ranting about something, and calling his output a sermon. PG wrote a comment… “is there a gender neutral replacement for sermon and mammon.” (PG forgot to hit post, which is why there was no snarky reply.) When Mr. Ginsberg was Howling his way to fame, mammon was regarded as “wealth regarded as an evil influence or false object of worship and devotion.” Money is not only the root of all evil, but the stalk, leaves, and, last but not least, the fruit.
Alas, there is no connection between mammon and ma’am. There is no commingled origin for sir and sermon, or, for that matter, amen and men. They are already non binary, and fit for use by both cis and trans. Some people just have to make everything about sex.
Maybe this is a good time to adjourn this meeting. This is part three, of the chamblee54 certification of Tibetan Peach Pie. Parts one and two have already been distributed. Pictures today are from “The Special Collections and Archives, Georgia State University Library”.