I don't know what to do about him. I know he's out there, and on the rise.
Dobbs and I went carousing this afternoon with ol' Hunter S. Thompson, who's up to do one of his Gonzo gigs at the behest of the U of O School of Journalism. We stopped at the Vet's Club to help him get his wheels turning in preparation for his upcoming lecture – his "wiseman riff" he called it – and we talked of John Lennon, and Patrick the Punk, and this new legion of dangerous disappointeds. Thompson mused that he didn't understand why it was people like Lennon they seemed to set their sights for, instead of people like him.
"I mean, I've pissed off quite a few citizens in my time," the good doctor let us know.
"But you've never disappointed them," I told him. "You never promised World Peace or Universal Love, did you?"
He admitted he had not. We all admitted it had been quite a while since any of us had heard anybody talk such Pollyanna pie-in-the-sky promises.
"Today's wiseman," Hunter claimed, "has too much brains to talk himself out on that kind of dead-end limb."
"Or not enough balls," Dobbs allowed.
We ordered another round and mulled awhile on such things, not talking, but I suspected we were all thinking – privately, as we sipped our drinks – that maybe it was time to talk a little of that old sky pie once more, for all the danger of dead ends or cross hairs.
Else how are we going to be able to look that little bespectacled Liverpudlian in the eye again, when the Revolutionary Roll is Up Yonder called?
THE DEMON BOX: AN ESSAY
"Your trouble is -" my tall daddy used to warn, whenever the current of my curiosity threatened to carry me too far out, over my head, into such mysterious seas as swirl around THE SECRETS OF SUNKEN MU or REAL SPELLS FROM VOODOO ISLES or similar shroudy realms that could be reached with maps ordered from the back of science fiction and fantasy pulps:
"- is you keep trying to unscrew the unscrutable."
Years later another warning beacon of similar stature expressed the opposite view. Here's Dr. Klaus Woofner:
"Your trouble, my dear Devlin, is you are loath to let go your Sunday school daydreams. Yah? This toy balloon, this bubble of spiritual gas where angels dance on a pin? Why will you not let it go? It's empty. Any angels to be found will not be found dancing on the head of the famous pin, no. It is only in the dreams of the pinhead that they dance, these angels."
The old doctor waited until his audience finished snickering.
"More and more slowly, too," he continued. "Even there. They become tired, these dancing fancies, and if not given nourishment they become famished. As must everything. For the famine must fall eventually on us all, yah? On the angel and the fool, the fantastic and the true. Do any of you understand what I'm talking about? Izzy Newton's Nameless Famine?"
Dr. Woofner was still asking this straight at me, black brows raised, giving me the full treatment (like a cop's flashlight, somebody once described the analyst's infamous gaze). I ventured that I thought I understood what he was talking about, although I didn't know what to call it. After a moment he nodded and proceeded to give it a name:
"It is called, this famine, entropy. Eh? No ringing bells? Ach, you Americans. Very well, some front-brain effort if you please. Entropy is a term from conceptual physics. It is the judgment passed on us by a cruel law, the Second Law of Thermodynamics. To put it technically, it is 'the nonavailability of energy in a closed thermodyamic system.' Eh? Can you encompass this, my little Yankee pinheads? The nonavailability of energy?"
Nobody ventured an answer this time. He smiled around the circle.
"To put it mechanically, it means that your automobile cannot produce its own petroleum. If not fueled from without it runs down and stops. Goes cold. Very like us, yah? Without an external energy supply our bodies, our brains, even our dreams… must eventually run down, stop, and go cold."
"Hard-nail stuff," big Behema observed. "Bleak."
The doctor squinted against the smoke of his habitual cigarette. A non-filter Camel hung from his shaggy Vandyke, always, even as he was on this night – up to his jowls in a tub of hot water with a nude court recorder on his lap. He lifted a puckered hand above the surface as though to wave the smoke away.
"Hard nails? Perhaps. But perhaps this is what is needed to prick the pinhead's dream, to awaken him, bring him to his senses – here!"
Instead of waving, the hand slapped the black water – crack. The circle of bobbing faces jumped like frogs.
"We are only here, in this moment, this leaky tub. The hot water stops coming in? Our tub cools down and drains to the bottom. Bleak stuff, yah… but is there any way to experience what is left in our barrel without we confront that impending bottom? I think not."
About a dozen of my friends and family were gathered in the barrel to receive this existential challenge. We'd been driving down the coast to take a break from the heat the San Mateo Sheriff's Department was putting on our La Honda commune, bound for Frank Dobbs's ex-father-in-law's avocado ranch in Santa Barbara. When we passed Monterey I had been reminded that coming up just down the road was the Big Sur Institute of Higher Light, and that Dr. Klaus Woofner was serving another hitch as resident guru. I was the only one on board who had attended one of his seminars, and as we drove I regaled my fellow travelers with recollections of the scene – especially of the mineral baths simmering with open minds and unclad flesh. By the time we reached the turnoff to the Institute, I had talked everybody into swinging in to test the waters.
Everybody except for the driver; somewhat sulky about the senseless stop anyway, Houlihan had elected to stay behind with the bus.
"Chief, I demur. I needs to rest my eyes more than cleanse my soul – the wicked curves ahead, y'unnerstand, not to mention the cliffs. You all go ahead: take some snapshots, make your, as it were, obeisance. I'll keep a watch on the valuables and in the event little Caleb wakes up. Whup? There he is now."
At the mention of his name the child's head had popped up to peer through his crib bars. Betsy started back.
"Nay, Lady Beth, you needn't miss this holy pilgrimage. Squire Houlihan'll keep the castle safe and serene. See? The young prince dozes back down already. Whatcha think, Chief? Thirty minutes for howdies and a quick dip, forty-five at the most? Then ride on through the fading fires of sunset."
He was wishful thinking on all counts. The little boy was not dozing down; he was standing straight up in his crib, big-eyed to see the crew trooping out the bus door to some mysterious Mecca, and it was fading sunset by the time we had finished our hellos at the lodge and headed for the tubs. It was long past midnight before we finally outlasted the regular bathers and could congregate in the main barrel where the king of modern psychiatry was holding court.
This was the way Woofner liked it best – everybody naked in his big bath. He was notorious for it. Students returned from his seminars as though from an old-fashioned lye-soap laundry, bleached clean inside and out. His method of group ablution came to be known as "Woofner's Brainwash." The doctor preferred to call it Gestalt Realization. By any name, it reigned as the hottest therapy in the Bay Area for more than ten years, provoking dissertations and articles and books by the score. There are no written records of those legendary late-night launderings, but a number of the daytime seminars were taped and transcribed. One of the most well known sessions was recorded during the weekend of my first visit. It's a good sample: