The Agony & The Ecstasy

Thursday, April 30

It’s like slow torture for planners, these last few days before an outside musical event.  Crates of money have been spent, talent has been assembled from far and wide, t-shirts have been printed and schedules have been calculated to the last minute, all of which can be blown to smithereens at the drop of a hat by nail guns calling themselves thunderstorms.  There has not been a sniff of rain in our area for more than 40 days, but now there are ugly members of the dreaded Cumulonimbus gang sitting in the anteroom ready to hear that magic word---“Next!”

It’s not as if a jolly sun-shower is in the offing.  Mr. Weather is promising noisy boomers, brisk winds and enough precipitation to wash your Green Room out to sea.  If the venue allows, should you postpone for a day?  Not yet, the tyrannical Florida weather is just waiting for you to do that so it can take a 24-hour snooze and come back the next day.

Fortunately for you, the first day of your weekend features an indoor show which looks to be packed and all your friends will be there.  It should be a time of satisfaction, of reaping your rewards, an occasion to sit back and bask in the sunlight of a job well-done.  Instead, you’re up at night, visions dancing through your head of lightning bolts like those Billy Batson used to conjure up when he yelled "SHAZAM!”  Waiter, this is an outrage, there’s a large fly in my soup!

Showstoppers Wil Maring & Robert Bowlin (lead photo and this one by Rick Davidson)

Friday, May 1, 9 a.m.

Before we tackle the elements, there’s a show to put on.  That wry little devil Wil Maring is coming in from Bramblebranch, Illinois tonight with the partner she politely calls “Mr. Bowlin.”  Robert Bowlin, master guitar player, fiddle virtuoso and who knows what else plays his role as the long-suffering husband to a T, generally deferring to Wil but every so often getting off a muted zinger.  Maring plays bass, sings like an angel, writes lovely songs and invariably leaves her audiences tickled pink.   There’s a cruel rumor afoot that Robert might fiddle up Orange Blossom Special tonight because Bill is 85 and can only wait so long.  Generally, Mr. B. eschews the song so people won’t think he’s a showoff, but this is an obvious emergency so we’re hoping he’ll relent.

The mayor of Gainesville, good old Harvey Ward, will be in house to introduce his local buddy Mike Boulware.  Mike’s been on the sidelines for awhile with a nefarious illness he finally wrangled into submission and he’s eager to get back to work and cast his pearls before swine (not Harvey…the rest of us).  Boulware has some new songs to show off and will open the show for Wil and Robert, a fitting move since he’s the man who first brought them to Gainesville for the Hogtown Opry in 2023.  Maybe Mr. Bowlin will let him sit in as the train whistle on Orange Blossom Special.  Not that I’m pushing.

Bill with faithful Indian companion AMK (photo by Wendy Thornton)

Friday, May 1, 3 p.m.

My favorite emcee Anna Marie Kirkpatrick keeps sending me texts of optimistic weather forecasts from the Gainesville Sun, completely ignoring the bleaker ones from the Weather Channel, AccuWeather and Dan Bland, the weather man.  Meanwhile, Gina Hawkins is shoveling coal into her imposing Karma Machine while artists Gary Borse and William Schaff are chanting Ho’oponopono prayers to drive the clouds away.  Gary has friends in high places, so you never know.

The outlook is bleak, but as Davey Crockett once said, “Be sure you’re right—then go ahead!”  Of course, we all know what happened to Davey.  We’ll start with the Last Tango In Gainesville movie at noon on the Heartwood lawn and carry on from there.  If Will Thacker’s Gathering of the Tribes gets three or four hours to reune and raise a glass before the storms invade, it beats nothing.  And we’re not ready to give up on Ho’oponopono.   The practice emanated from the depths of the wise and sophisticated Hawaiian culture, which is nothing to sneeze at.  After all, look where they live.

Mo' better Mike (photo by Rick Davidson)

The Ecstasy

The evening of May 1 was lovely to look at, delightful to hold, a rare time when the planets aligned, the prince nudged a slipper onto Cinderella’s foot and everyone lived happily ever after.  The weather was clear, everyone arrived on time, the mayor surprised Mike Boulware with a nice introduction and 70 paying customers filled the room with bonhomie, joi de vivre and appreciation for the vast talents of the performers.

First, Uncle Remus Boulware roasted a few marshmallows over the campfire and spun wonderful tales of Bre’r Rabbit and Bre’r Fox before inching into some emotional melodies that made ladies weep and grizzled old men clear their throats.  Then those gypsy rovers from over the hill, Wil Maring and Robert Bolin showed up with their magic flutes, guitars and fiddles and went about their business.

Many of you may never have heard of Wil and Robert but anyone who has experienced their charm and massive talent always comes back for more.  Their repertoire is unique, tough to label, a combination of Maring’s thoughtful and lovely originals, a couple of old standards and a tablespoon of swing, up from a teaspoon.  Robert Bowlin may not be a household name but musicians know who he is and what he’s capable of with guitar or fiddle.  Aware of Bill’s withering age and predilections, Robert finally acceded to his three-year-old request to play the Orange Blossom Special, but don’t ask him to do it again.

Nobody’s in a hurry to go home when these two are lighting up the stage with clever tunes and revealing tales of the bizarre lives of poor souls addicted to playing music for a living, but there’s a grand finale for everything, including enthralling acoustics.  With a sigh of regret, the room rings with applause and appreciation and Friday night is done, a sad victim of the sleepy Heartwood cleanup crew.  Fortunately, there’s always tomorrow when they’ll be back again to spice up the afternoon set of Patchwork on the big stage.

Day is done, gone the sun and there is little hope for succor in Mudville.  The rainclouds rattle in the west and pick up their pace, off to spoil the next day’s party.  Not a solitary forecaster offers encouragement.  We kneel down by the side or our bed and chant a few Ho’oponoponos.  Hey, you never know.

Chasing Rabbits Band (photo by Rick Davidson)

Saturday, May 2, 11 a.m.

The Heartwood team has decided to set up for music inside and out.  Paul Boharski, privy to exclusive weather reports known only to the Portuguese Navy, is vacillating.  “If we can get by this one morning storm we should be okay until after two,” he predicts.  We agree to run the Last Tango movie inside and set up for the first band outside at one. Everybody is concerned about the possibility of high wind gusts later on, but one catastrophe at a time, please.

People start to drift in, stopping at the merch table to talk or buy a t-shirt.  Nobody is especially optimistic, especially Cathy DeWitt who keeps texting advice to go inside.  Though devoid of raindrops at Heartwood, it’s pouring at her house.  Gina Hawkins and Vicki Bordeaux email to say they’re also under fire.  We call Gary Borse, who is still chanting in his back yard.  “You can’t expect Ho’oponopono to cover the whole city,” he scolds.  “It’s a focused phenomenon covering a limited area.  Don’t worry, though.  Heartwood will be alright.”  Okay, Gary, if you say so.

A slow stream of weather-defiant ex-hippies meanders in.  “It rained at Woodstock, too!” one of them remembers.  “Yeah, but we were 21 then,” grumps his dubious wife.  We realize we’re going to take a bath—if you’ll pardon the expression—on t-shirt sales.  Messages rain in asking about cancellation but we promise the show will go on.  The crowd grows to about half the size of the Last Tango earlybird brigade with still no precipitation.  We feel like the Dutch kid with his finger in the dike.  We know the apocalypse is coming, we just don’t know when.

Fifteen minutes into the first act, a drizzle begins, then a very light rain.  The band, Chasing Rabbits, plays on like the band on the Titanic, waiting for disaster to strike.  Instead---amazingly---the rain relents, retreats, ground down to nothing either by unusual good luck or the efforts of faux Hawaiians chanting in the hills of Fairfield.  People are looking at the weather on their cell phones and seeing storms overhead, but there is nothing.  Call it what you like, I’m going with the chanters.  The day…hallelujah!…is saved, the principals exult and the crowd thickens.  It’s the ultimate boon, the successful shot in the dark, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  It’s the Hawaiian Miracle of The Grand Finale! 

Heroes Of The Day

1. The Audience.  In an era when professional abstainers--those who strive to find a reason never to leave the house--abound, let’s lift a toast to those who always show up.  Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of pessimistic weather forecasters stays these rugged individuals from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.  The frantic meteorologists, rabid for rain, didn’t help, painting an ugly picture of torrential downpours, stage-blasting lightning and powerful winds, the better to keep you cowering under the bed.  Let’s hear it for the likes of Gary Gordon, encumbered by a grumpy body but possessed of substantial grit and a stellar wife.  The ex-mayor wobbled in, did his bit on stage and sat through the entire show.  Not to say there aren’t people with legitimate dilemmas, of course.  Regular customer Jill Rosier gets a day pass because a tree fell on her house.  Trump that, Michael Goettee.

2. The Bands.  Michael Derry and Chasing Rabbits showed the patience of Job as their 1 pm set was delayed 20 minutes by introductions and an unexpected award given to Bill.  Once unleashed, they went at their task with a vengeance, rousing a fretful crowd previously staring at the storm clouds.  Eventually, a light rain fell halfway through their set, lasting about 15 minutes and running off not a soul.  The band played on.

Patchwork band (photo by Rick Davidson)

The Rabbits were followed by Cathy DeWitt’s long-lived group, Patchwork.  Cathy, who was thrilled to be high and dry, has been in every Bill Killeen event in one incarnation or another, performing with The Relics at the ‘22 Tango and with Patchwork at all three Hogtown Oprys.  Patchwork provides a nice change of pace from the rock ‘n’ roll bands, playing everything from original Florida folk, country and bluegrass to forties swing and rhythm & blues  This time, they had Wil Maring and Robert Bowlin with them to add to the fun. 

Couch Messiahs (photo by John Hawkins)

The Couch Messiahs, now about twenty years in existence, might be Gainesville’s most popular band.  Mike Marino, Don David and company have a broad set list, playing a mix of Americana, roots music, R&B and country, bringing a high-energy sound to the stage and always delighting a growing fan base.

Nancy Luca Band

Over the course of the day, the audience at these affairs ebbs and flows as fairgoers opt for lunch off the grounds, go home to feed Spot and Puff or reune with friends in a quieter setting.  They always return, however, for local phenom Nancy Luca.  The crowd swelled at the Last Tango In Gainesville when she jogged on stage and the same thing happened Saturday.  If “beloved” is an overused word, and it is, it’s entirely appropriate where Nancy is concerned.  Unsullied by success, she acknowledges everyone as if they’re old buddies, she poses for photos with anyone who asks (even Randall Roffe) and she never even inquires what she’s getting paid, despite flying to and from L.A. on her own dime.  Then, of course, she goes on stage and kicks ass with her old pals, Anna Marie, Tom Holtz, Fritz Knaggs and George Covington III.

Uncle John's Band

After days of agonizing over the choices, we hired Uncle John’s Band from Tampa to close the show.  Paco Paco and FATWOOD did the job at The Last Tango with a grand flourish and we were looking for another strong finisher this time.  Gina Hawkins and I eventually pared the list to her favorite pair and I opted for this Grateful Dead cover band because GD music is universally loved but also due to the fact they had played Gainesville earlier in the year.  “The audience loved them.” said Chelsea Carnes of Heartwood.  “The people were up and moving.”  The price was a little more than we usually pay, but there are six players and they had to come up from Tampa.  “I guarantee you won’t be disappointed,” said Rich Whiteley, the head man.  We weren’t.  Faced with fast-dropping  temperatures and a post-Luca dwindling crowd, Uncle John’s Band stopped many would-be departers in their tracks with their first number.  It’s no easy task following Nancy’s energetic set, but this outfit was ready to wake up the echoes.  It’s safe to say that virtually noone was sitting during their set.  One lifetime Deadhead who accepts no imitations stared at me in wonder and said, “Close your eyes and that’s The Dead on stage.  I can’t believe it!”  After the show was over, I told Rich, “If I do this again, you won’t be last on the bill.”  Then, I thought about it and turned around.  “On second thought, of course you will.”

3. Solo Acts.  As I marveled in next-day Facebook posts, my emcee Anna Marie Kirkpatrick, faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, was the glue that held the show together.  Charged with introducing the principals, nudging along the pokey soundchecks and keeping the trains on schedule, all while singing with Nancy Luca in the fourth set, AMK was a colorful blur.  Only Liberace had more costume changes during the same afternoon.  At the end of The Last Tango, there was a bit too much time between the end of FATWOOD’s set and the arrival of Tom Shed to sing Auld Lang Syne.  Our fault.  This time we got Don David on stage as Uncle John’s last notes rang out and Anna Marie had a sudden inspiration to back him up with the band for the closing number.  All went swimmingly.

We decided to have a few friends of the bands make introductions this year.  Grand Finale publicist Will Thacker brought on Patchwork and David Atherton introduced Couch Messiahs with aplomb, but David Hammer lit up the afternoon with his Introducers Hall of Fame uniform bought for $43 from China.  When Nancy Luca saw it, she made David a deal he couldn’t refuse and is now the proud owner.  Those three introducers, by the way, are people who always show up and ask no questions when called upon.

Richard Parker & Will Thacker, champions of justice

Something should be said about Richard Wynn Parker, president of the Subterranean Circus Fan Club.  Richard’s unsolicited publicity bulletins for our events are all over the internet, you couldn’t avoid them if you tried.  He operates in a whirlwind, spinning out colorful hype and endless fantasies from his fan cave in Jax.  Mr. P. used to travel the Gainesville route in the good old days as a restaurant supply salesman and made friends everywhere he went.  He is an unparalleled example of a caring husband, a great friend and a stoic who “won’t let the old man in.” as Clint Eastwood likes to say.  Live long and prosper, Richard!

4. The Heartwood Guys.  In Chelsea’s absence, Stirling Myles carried the ball and did it well, smoothing out the wrinkles, laying out the chairs, nudging me to keep the schedule on track.  We started out 20 minutes late after the opening intros and awards and we finished on time at 8:15.  Stirling was so impressed he went home early.  Paul Boharski, production manager and master of the Heartwood sound machine, covered himself in glory Friday night with the sound quality at the inside stage.  Mike Boulware called it one of his favorite listening rooms anywhere; Wil Maring and Robert Bowlin were just as impressed.  The sound checks Saturday were challenging but kept to under 20 minutes.  All the musicians we talked to were upbeat about Paul’s steady-as-she-goes operation.

Da Mayor, His Excellency Harvey Ward (photo by Rick Davidson)

5. Gainesville Mayor Harvey Ward.  In how many towns does the mayor show up to introduce musicians and deliver proclamations at a rock ‘n’ roll reunion?  Okay, maybe Berkeley.  Harvey graciously did all this and even hung around to take in a few acts and describe his own abbreviated musical career.  We’re trying to encourage him to take up a new instrument for future extravaganzas because accordion players are in very short supply around here.

6. The Homegirls.  Thanks to Julie Osborne and Laura Benedetti for their many long hours at our multi-lingual t-shirt table and to my wife, Siobhan, for bringing pheasant-under-glass lunches and eclair desserts, traveling back and forth to Fairfield to feed the animals and putting up with all the aggravation these affairs produce.

Goodbye and good luck to the inimitable Regina Coeli/Gina Hawkins, my significant other in all the Hogtown Oprys and this Grand Finale.  She has abandoned us for the sweet life in lovely Brevard, North Carolina, where she will now be known as Mrs. Ed.

Finally, to my pal Richard Parker, who firmly insists there will be another reunion event: Don’t bet on it, Richard, but if there is it will be for everyone who has made it past the American life expectancy age of 79.  We will call it Overtime and bring in Willie Nelson and Dolly Parton to play.  Will Thacker will juggle a dozen poisonous snakes, Anna Marie will lead the two-day dance marathon and Gina will parachute in for a visit.

Happy Trails to you til we meet again.

That’s all, folks…

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

Grand Finale shirts still available in both colors and five sizes.  $30 to Ringmaster, PO BOX 970, Fairfield, Florida 32634.  All shirtholders get free admission to Overtime.                

Quo Vadis?

“Would you like to swing on a star,…carry moonbeams home in a jar….and be better off than you are?  Or would you rather be a mule?”---Johnny Burke 

What would you do if you were in reasonably good health but were told you had a month or two, maybe even a year to live?  Might be a good idea to mosey up to the ticket office at the train station because maybe you do.  Once you’re rolling at a good clip down the Septuagenarian Highway, all bets are off.  Worse yet, the Octogenarian Turnpike is a permanent Falling Rocks Zone, the original Highway to Hell where strange, unnamable body parts start collapsing inside you and leaking out your orifices.  Sooner, rather than later, you’re gonna take a trip on that old gospel ship and go sailing through the air, so it’s past time to sign that reverse mortgage, get paid off in small bills, grease up the woody and head for Adventureland.  Maybe you’ll even find some magic along the way.

Sure, we know it’s neat and tidy at Assisted Living but have you ever seen Bryce Canyon at night or ogled The City by the Bay while walking across the Golden Gate Bridge?  Maybe catch a Sedona vortex at prime spinning time and watch your impetigo fade away?  Oh, pish-tosh, you say but sober observers Bill and Siobhan once met Marge and Eddie near the airport vortex and Ed said this: “My lungs used to hang out at an interstate ramp, holding a sign that said ‘Will Work For Air.’  At home in Michigan, I can’t walk across the street.  But in Sedona, I can do anything I want, like hiking out here today.  It’s the vortexes.  They create miracles.”  Yeah, we know, you’re rolling your eyes.  Eddie would say don’t knock it if you ain’t tried it.  “There are all kinds of options for travelers,” he says.  “Would you rather go somewhere for a chili cook-off or a life-changing experience?”

If you’re on your way to Santa Fe or tripping out to Taos, you might want to stop exactly in the middle of nowhere at legendary Ojo Caliente, New Mexico, where believers pour in daily for the healing waters.  Caliente is one of a very few hot springs spas on Earth the waters of which contain four healing minerals---arsenic, lithia, soda and iron in naturally sulfur-free waters.  We felt invigorated after an hour there, but for an elderly Native American woman in our pool, the waters were a lifesaver.  “I travel two hours to get here and two hours back every week,” she said.  “Sometimes more.  I can’t function otherwise, I get no help from what doctors recommend.  This place is a panacea for me.”

Maybe your flesh is willing but your spirit is weak.  You’ve always wanted to see California’s rosewoods, so take a long look at the big boys and edge on up to Mount Shasta, a renowned spiritual destination with a powerful energy vortex and the Earth’s first chakra.  Shasta is a hub for healing retreats, meditation and nature-based wellness, focusing on spiritual growth and rejuvenating body and mind.  The mountain, itself, is renowned for its stunning natural beauty, snow-capped peaks and mystical Bohemian vibe.  If you occasionally wonder where have all the hippies gone, you can still find a bunch here, wandering through the crystal shops tootling their flutes.  Lisa Marie Mercer is already on her way.

Where Is Edgar Cayce When You Really Need Him?

Edgar left us alone and blue in 1945.  Thousands he rescued from misery mourned the day, attesting that but for him they’d have been laid in the cold, cold ground years ago.  Cayce was an American clairvoyant who reported and chronicled an ability to diagnose disease and recommend treatments while he was asleep.  During thousands of transcribed sessions, he answered questions on subjects like healing, reincarnation, dreams, the afterlife, past lives, nutrition, Atlantis and future events.  Cayce said he was a Christian (probably the safest thing do do at the time) and not a spiritualist or a communicator with spirits.  He is considered the founder of the New Age movement and a principal source of many of that movement’s characteristic beliefs.

In the Fall of 1910, Edgar Cayce became the subject of increasing publicity for his medical readings.  The following profile was printed in The New York Times on October 10 of that year:

“The medical fraternity of the country is taking a lively interest in the strange power said to be possessed by Edgar Cayce of Hopkinsville, Ky, to diagnose difficult diseases while in a semi-conscious state, though he has not the slightest knowledge of medicine when not in this condition.

During a visit to California last Summer, Dr. W.H. Ketchum had occasion to mention a case involving Cayce and was invited to discuss it at a medical banquet attended by 700 physicians.  Ketchum’s speech gave an explanation of Cayce’s strange psychic powers during the previous four years.  The talk created such widespread interest that one of the leading Boston medical men invited Ketchum to prepare a paper as a part of a program of an upcoming meeting of the American Society of Clinical Research.  Its presentation created a sensation and Ketchum was deluged with letters and telegrams inquiring about the amazing Edgar Cayce.”

People who had been helped by Cayce began coming out of the woodwork.  The public couldn’t get enough stories about this miracle man.  On January 17, 1911, Cayce and his father gave a public demonstration at a suite in Louisville’s Seelbach Hotel.  In June, a Nashville newspaper advertised Cayce’s readings.  Cayce was mentioned in a new encyclopedia.  Cayce’s increasing popularity attracted entrepreneurs who wanted to use his reputed clairvoyance for profit.  A cotton merchant offered him $100 a day for readings about the cotton market.  People asked where to hunt for treasure, the outcome of horse races, where to dig for oil.  In May of 1921, the Cayce Petroleum Company began drilling about six miles north of San Saba.  In June, 1922, Cayce advertised free baby picture day at his studio in Selma, Alabama.  It was a non-stop circus as everyone wanted a piece of Edgar Cayce.   By October, he was associated with the Cayce Institute of Psychic Research.  Cayce was now spending most of his time on non-medical issues.  There are all kinds of speculations on what Cayce was and was not but the prevailing opinion of most observers at the time was that he was a legitimate healer, the likes of which we haven’t seen since.

Ah, But We’ve Still Got Charlie Goldsmith! 

We know you’re cynical, and with good reason.  We all saw the Elmer Gantry movie back in 1960, watched Oral Roberts con enough suckers to build a university in 1963, suffered the ravings of crackpot radio evangelists while driving through Arkansas and were mesmerized by the gall and eyelashes of Tammy Fay Bakker on the televised PTL club in 1974.  Phonies, every last one of them, trolling for dollars from a general public desperate to believe.  So what’s the story with this new guy, this Charlie Goldsmith?  Seems like he just popped in out of nowhere one day and now he’s got the natives all adither for the first time in generations.

Goldsmith is an Australian “energy healer,” who’s been around longer than you think.  He apparently discovered his healing talents at age 18 and was willing to participate in several scientific studies to state his case.  In 2015, The Journal of Alternative and Complimentary Medicine published results of the first study in which Goldsmith treated 50 reports of pain at a 76% success rate and 29 reports of non-pain problems at a 79% success rate.  That’s not soggy gingerbread.  The study, conducted at NYU’s Lutheran Hospital caught the attention of producers who got him a TV deal, a series called The Healer, showcasing his unique gift of alleviating pain and promoting healing within minutes.  Despite initial skepticism, his work has amazed many, including medical professionals.  Goldsmith’s unusual ability is to focus his energy on a patient’s problem areas without actually touching him.  Often working in under one minute, he focuses on “transmuting and releasing” stagnant energy, which patients describe as experiencing sensations of heat, cold and/or tingling.  He sometimes hovers his hands over the affected area, aiming for immediate relief especially from chronic pain, inflammation and infections.  By all indications, his success rate is close to 80%.  And here’s what makes Charlie Goldsmith most different from your run of the mill healer---he doesn’t charge a penny for his services.

In 2025, Goldsmith authored the book “Human Medicine: The Lost Manual for your Emotions” and developed Ennie, an energy healing app.  Based in Los Angeles, he continues to collaborate with doctors, researchers and sports organizations to integrate his methods into modern medicine.  He also conducts live shows focused on human medicine and healing.  He remains very focused on bridging the gap between energy work and traditional medical practices.  Oh, and even without collecting patients’ fees, Charlie Goldsmith is currently worth a nifty thirty-eight million dollars.  

Shelter From The Storm

Meanwhile back in Funkytown, the last survivors of the hippie revolution of the sixties and seventies are gathering at Heartwood Soundstage this weekend for one last be-in.  Successor to the penultimate Last Tango In Gainesville, The Grand Finale offers two days of music, memories and potential goodbyes for The Generation Which Changed The World, even if just for a couple of decades.  “Sure we were naive idealists high on drugs,” says Andy Dennis of Cassadega, “…maybe we were a little bit selfish.  But we were aware enough to know society was running off the tracks, the government was out of control and we had young kids with bright futures being mowed down in Vietnam for no good reason.  Today’s kids should be so naive.”

The Grand Finale comes in two parts; a Friday evening concert on Heartwood’s inside stage by Wil Maring, Robert Bowlin and Mike Boulware at 7 p.m. and an all-day bash with five bands on Saturday, preceded by the Last Tango In Gainesville movie at noon.  Two deceased heroes of the Last Tango, Paco Paco and Blake Harrison will be remembered during the afternoon.  Admission to the Saturday session is free but a ticket from Heartwood is required.  Use the address below to order tickets for either or both days.

“It’s like Custer’s Last Stand for us,” smiles Ricky Coniglio of Hartford.  “I’m joining up with two old fraternity brothers from back in the day.  All of us have health issues, but we said the hell with it, we’re going.  We went to the Subterranean Circus the first year it was open and everybody in the house gave us a hard time.  I put an enormous poster of Raquel Welch on my wall, smoked pot and started burning incense.  They threw me out of the fraternity and my friends Jerry and Clark quit the next day.  We’ve been best friends ever since.  Whenever we get together, I bring the poster. We put it up on the wall over our restaurant booth one year and everybody in the place came over to see what was going on.  One guy even sold us some grass.  So you ask if our little band of brothers is going to The Grand Finale, perhaps the last of its kind ever?  I ask you---is the Pope a White Sox fan?  See you at the t-shirt table.  I’ll be the guy who looks like Jerry Garcia and I’ll be purchasing the Extra-Large.”

Here’s the link for tickets, compadres:

https://heartwoodsoundstage.com/shows/the-grand-finale-01-may.

bill.killeen094@gmail.com   

That’s Impossible!

When we were kids, we were infatuated with the magic box called radio.  Most of them were sizeable then, some as big as furniture pieces, often ornate and almost always set up in the parlor or main room of the house so many people could listen at the same time.  And they did, to Jack Benny, to Fibber McGee and Molly, to Meet the Press, Ellery Queen Mysteries and Duffy’s Tavern.  The kids had The Lone Ranger, Jack Armstrong--All-American Boy, The Green Hornet and others.  All us kids could answer the whispered question, “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men.”  That was Lamont Cranston, aka The Shadow, who could make himself invisible and was the first to let us know “The seed of crime bears bitter fruit!”

Then there were the beloved Red Sox games starting in February in a faraway paradise called Florida, where the grass was always green and you could play ball all year long.  The announcers were ebullient, describing their surroundings as Monsignor Daly and our catechisms might paint heaven, not a cloud in the sky, perfect temperatures, the home team uniforms as white as the driven snow.

All of this bounty was provided by the munificence of radio, the ultimate source.  It woke us up in the morning, put us to bed at night and played music all day long.  It gave us war bulletins, told us what the president was up to, brought glee on snow days with its no-school bulletins, told us what was on the menu at Adventure Car Hop.  We couldn’t imagine a world where radio played second fiddle to anything.  Then one day, Jackie Mercier pulled up on his bike and spoke blasphemy.  He told us sometime soon radio would be upstaged by an electronic device which would let us see pictures along with hearing sounds.  “I think they’re gonna call it television.” he said.

Everybody laughed at the hilarious folly.  “Jackie, that’s impossible!” said Bobby Bennett, who was extra-smart because his father was a doctor.  “How can you get the picture from somewhere else to here?”  Exactly!  It was a pipedream, a crime against nature, the notion of fools.  But gee, what if we could actually see Ted Williams smack one up into the light tower?  Then one day, we did.  It was a very small picture, grainy as hell, almost as if you were looking through a veil, and the sound was crackly, but we did see Ted Williams rounding the bases, never tipping his cap.  If this was possible, what might be next?

Austin, 1962.  Photo by Marjorie Aletta

Oh Lord, Won’t You Buy Me A Monterey Pop?

I didn’t know a lot of famous people in 1962.  To us, we lived here and famous people lived over there.  The notion of one of us crossing over to their camp was never considered.  In 1962, the ultimate dream was to some day have a $100 a week job and a wife who looked like Jean Shrimpton.  Fame and fortune were crafty demons seeking to lure you off the road most travelled.  And there might have been no single person I knew less likely to achieve success than 19-year-old Janis Joplin, a cranky, unkempt University of Texas art student who broke every rule society put in front of her.  I met her at a party at the apartment of one Neil Unterseher, a UT scholarship tennis player and friend of Gilbert Shelton.  She was dressed all in black and carried a black autoharp, wending her way around the crowd of “straight people” (Janis’ description of almost everyone else).  Nobody paid a bit of attention to her.  Then she sang a little folk song and it was a different story.

When the party broke up, she walked off down Congress Avenue with me and Lieuen Adkins, talking about nothing.  We dipped into a sparse eatery, found a booth and a bat followed us in the door, circling the restaurant menacingly while the employees sought to corner the thing.  Janis, of course rooted for the bat.  Loudly…earning the enmity of the bat posse, which encouraged us to leave.  Eventually, Lieuen (who actually had a curfew) went home and Janis and I found some foliage to sleep in on the Texas State Capitol  grounds, roused several hours later by a security patrol which was not amused.  We became friends, maybe because I was just as weird to her as she was to me.  Or maybe because the bent members of the Texas Ranger magazine staff enjoyed a certain status among the studentry as slightly off-kilter mavericks on a mission from a different god.

Originally, I lived in Gilbert’s condemned apartment and stayed in the deserted building after everyone had moved out and until the wreckers knocked on the door.  I hitchhiked to Houston looking for a job, didn’t get it, and returned to Austin, picked up at the county line by Lieuen, who asked me where I was going to live.  I told him I didn’t know and he advised that Janis had found a free house, the owners of which were in Europe for the next three months.  She took me in and I stayed there for  eight weeks, at which time the owners made an unexpected early return and threw us out.  During those eight weeks, I was privy to endless rehearsals by Janis’ band, The Waller Creek Boys, which included Powell St. John and Lannie Wiggins.  After the rehearsals, there were endless speculations about “making it,” finding some modicum of success in the cold, cruel world.  Lannie and Powell were content to earn a simple living plying their trade, evading the nine-to-five trip they equated with death.  Not Janis.  “I want to be a star!” she raved, waving her arms in the air.  Everybody laughed.  Stars in those days did not look like Janis.  They looked like Joan Baez, or the lovely blonde-haired Lolita, who charmed the boys at the UT Student Union’s Wednesday night folksings.  Janis couldn’t even get a singing job in a bar.  To earn extra money, she found a waitress gig at a Pancake House.  She lasted three weeks.

There was no question Janis Joplin had talent, though in those days it was spent on folk songs, old Bible numbers, western stuff.  But now and then, a St. James Infirmary Blues would sneak in and everybody would sit up straight.  Janis had the musical chops but she also had an uncompromising determination to do everything her way, to barge ahead recklessly and crash into obstacles.  She always wanted to be on the edge, whatever the subject.  When I read her a newspaper article about a dumb high school kid who took some new drug called LSD and tried to fly off his garage roof, she said, “I want some of that stuff right now!”

One night, an English professor hanging out at the folksing told her, “Janice, it’s impossible to succeed with your modus operandi.  You have to bend, to clean up your act, to be nicer to people you don’t like, to sing stuff you don’t want to sing.”  She gave him a crooked smile and a confident look.  “Why should I?” she asked.  “Bob Dylan doesn’t do that.”  The prof had no idea who she was talking about.  Dylan had about one album at the time.  But I always remembered that line.

Everybody knows what happened when Janis Joplin eventually hit San Francisco in the midst of the hippie revolution and hooked up with Big Brother and the Holding Company, still doing things her way.  I ran into her again at the first Atlanta Pop Festival and she said, “Can you believe it, Killeen---I’m a fucking corporation?”  She was utterly thrilled that the straight people finally had to bow down.  But her demons never left.  “How’s your life otherwise,” I asked.  “You know, when I’m on that stage getting all the love, there’s nothing like it.  It’s the time in between that’s tough.  But I cope, I have my ways.”

The same thing which created her, alas, finally brought her down---the hutzpah, the need for a higher high, the runaway train demeanor.  She was full speed ahead til the end.  Any fool who thinks Janis Joplin opted for suicide is a blind observer.  With suicide, everything stops.  Janis wanted nothing more than to keep on going, as fast and as far as possible.

“That’s Impossible, Whether It Happened Or Not!”

On the final day of the 2026 National Basketball Association season, the hungry Orlando Magic invaded TD Garden in Boston looking for their sixth consecutive NBA victory, one which would free them from a play-in game and install them as a top six playoff team.  Things were looking rosy for the Magic because the home team Celtics had announced than none of their top eight players would risk injury by participating in what was a meaningless game to them.  The Celts had already sealed the championship of their division and had nothing to gain from a victory.  You can imagine the mood of the Boston fans as they dutifully worked their way to their seats to suffer through the coming massacre.  “I have season tickets, but I almost stayed home,” admitted John Dykes of Woburn.  “I thought we’d lose by forty.  I just came to watch the new guys who never play.”

That’s when the noted Celtics culture arrived at the party.  Some people think the notion of a franchise’s “culture” is a corny fraud, but the Celtics have a long history of success and team pride that winning brings and such teams have elevated standards.  The rarely-used players in the starting lineup intended to play exactly the same way as the regular rotation, thrilled with their rare opportunity.  Things started as expected, with Orlando jumping off to a 29-20 first-quarter advantage.  They couldn’t shake the young Celts, however, and at halftime their lead was by the same nine points.  There was murmuring in the Garden, raised eyebrows, nervous laughter.  Do you think that maybe…no, of course no  It’s the NBA…things like that just don’t happen.  Except, this time they did.

A big white guy wearing an undershirt beneath his tank named Baylor Scheierman started throwing up moonshots, and they went in.  Another big lug named Luka Garza did the same.  Pretty soon everybody on the team was hitting ridiculous threes, causing the game announcers to start screaming in delight, slapping their foreheads and falling off their chairs in wonder and disbelief.  The crowd was aroar with shock and delight.  The Celtics threw up 42 points to the Magic’s 20 and led by 13 after three quarters.

Dazed and confused at the prospect of what one Orlando reporter labelled a “borderline catastrophe,” the Magic came off the bench with a vengeance, geared up their defense and played with the desperation of wild dogs, eventually tying the game at 108 with 1:37 left to play.  It stayed that way until with 31.6 seconds remaining Garza, well-guarded in the corner, tossed up a miracle that soared high and true.  Final score, Boston 113-108.

It was an unheard of result which defied a historical comparison.  Nothing like this had ever happened in the National Basketball Association before.  Even blase Las Vegas was in shock.  “It was like Chuck Wepner just beat Muhammad Ali,” said one paralyzed Caesar’s Palace habitue.  “Things like that don’t happen in the real world.”  As Orlando coach Jamahl Mosely wobbled off the court, he turned and answered a television interviewer’s question by saying, “All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.”  And that’s where he went three nights later to play the 76ers. 

Impossible But True

1. The original Dirty Dancing came in 1518.  For some reason, people began dancing uncontrollably for days in Strasbourg, France, led by Frau Troffea.  For some, days turned to months, with many eventually collapsing from exhaustion, stroke or heart attack.  The cause remains debated, with theories including mass hysteria, ergot poisoning and a lively Twist concert by Chubby Checker.

2. There was no Summer in 1816.  Following the eruption of Mount Tambora on Sumbawa Island in Indonesia, massive quantities of volcanic ash and aerosols blocked the sunlight and caused global temperatures to drop dramatically, leading to snow in July, widespread famine and the cancellation of Willie Nelson’s Mediterranean Tour.

3. There really was a Great Boston Molasses Flood in 1919.  A  25-foot-high wave of molasses rushed through the streets of Beantown at 35 mph, destroying buildings and killing 21 people.  The cause of the disaster was a leak in a hulking 50-foot molasses tank built by the Purity Distilling Company four years earlier.  The resulting debris was virtually impossible to move because it was coated with molasses.  Sticky wicket.

4. Giant birds defeated humans in the Great Australian Emu War of 1932.  The Australian government was all adither about the soaring emu population in the country destroying farmers’ crops in the Campion wheat belt district of Northern Australia, thus deployed military personnel with machine guns to combat the enemy.  Alas, the criminal emus were very hard to find and the shootings were abandoned a few weeks later.  The government admitted the emus had won the war.

5. In 1950, Bill Killeen fell from the tallest tree on Garfield Street and landed on a telephone post.  What are the odds?  The tree was about 2 1/2 times the height of the post, high enough to see most of the city of Lawrence from the top branches.  My pal Jackie Fournier, safely entrenched on the ground kept yelling, “You’re going too high, Billy!” but fearless explorers march to the beat of a different drum.  When a branch under my feet finally cracked, I was able to claw at lower branches to slow my fall.  Just when I ran out of branches, the top of the telephone post showed up.  I probably touched every wire on the pole climbing down, but somehow was never fried.  Jackie asked me if I was secretly from another planet.  I told him I wasn’t sure.  I’m still not sure.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

   

 

Foiling The Reaper

When you’re 85 years old, you are aware that the Grim Reaper is somewhere in the vicinity and it might be time to incorporate a few delaying tactics.  Sitting quietly in Section 109 and hoping he won’t notice you sometimes works, as does taking a different route from your house to Publix every week.  A nice trapdoor into an alligator pit just inside the front entrance to your home is a thought and Reaper-proof socks that smell like Vieux Boulogne cheese would send anyone off at a run.  Over the centuries, all civilizations have had to contend with the problem, some with better luck than others.

Chinese alchemists and European nobles such as Diane de Poitiers in the 16th century consumed gold and mercury to achieve immortality, believing that because gold did not decay it could prevent human deterioration.  Someone should have told them that Qin Shi Huang, the first emperor of China tried it and died of mercury poisoning in 210 BC.

These days, death-defiers like Bryan Johnson on the West Coast are getting injections of young blood from twentyish donors.  Pope Innocent VIII tried that in 1492, receiving blood from three young men, all of whom died in the process.  So did Innocent not long after.

“Virginal Warmth” was once a thing.  The practice was based on 1 Kings 1:1, where elderly regents like David were accompanied by young virgins in bed to transfer heat and vigor into a cold old body.  If it didn’t work, well, who’s to complain?

Trepanning, the practice of drilling holes into the skull to allow evil spirits to escape, thereby extending life, once seemed like a good idea.  Didn’t work, but some ancient skulls showed bone regrowth, indicating the patient survived the procedure.  What’s left?  Holding your breath?  Moving to Venus?  A Cloak of Invisibility?  The Reaper is a diligent adversary with cheap transportation, a high success rate and a dearth of mercy, but an abundance of caution around demons, which he hates.  So if you know any of the little devils, think about inviting them over for tea and a game of cribbage.  If they like the surroundings, maybe they’ll stay.  And you, too.

Baby, It’s Cold Inside

Cryogenics, the study of the effects of very low temperatures (-150 degrees Centigrade), began in the late 19th century with the liquefication of gas, notably oxygen in 1877.  Pioneered by figures like Raoul Pictet, Louis Cailletet and James Dewar (inventor of the vacuum flask in 1892), it evolved from scientific curiosity into industrial gas manufacturing, supercomputing, medical preservation and rocket propulsion.  In 1908, Dutch physicist Heike Kamerlingh Onnes successfully liquified helium at 4.2 K, allowing for experiments near absolute zero.  In 1911, Onnes discovered that certain materials lose all electrical resistance at cryogenic temperatures.  Cryogenic hardening of materials was discovered in the 1940s, increasing the lifespan of tools and putting some weird ideas into the brains of outlaw scientists.  Finally, it happened: in 1967, Dr. James Bedford became the first human to be cryogenically preserved for future resuscitation.

James Bedford (1893-1967) was a University of California psychology professor who was fascinated by the possibilities of Cryogenics.  Dying of kidney cancer but hoping for future revival, he volunteered to be the first person to undergo cryopreservation to escape imminent death.  Following his demise, his body was immediately treated to keep blood flowing, then frozen using early methods and transported to a facility in Arizona.  Over the decades Bedford’s body was moved from one storage facility to another as preservation techniques supposedly improved.  James Bedford is easily the longest-surviving human being in terms of cryogenic preservation, having now rung up 57 chilly years.  In the cryonics community, January 12 is celebrated as “Bedford Day.”

How Does It Work, Dr. Science?

Cryopreservation works by replacing body fluids with antifreeze agents to prevent ice damage and then cooling to approximately –196C using liquid nitrogen.  The process stops biological decay by halting metabolic activity, allowing cells to enter a state of suspended animation known as vitrification, where liquids become a glassy solid rather than expanding ice crystals.  The dead guy or gal is slowly cooled, often over several days, until the body reaches the desired temperature, then stored in a vacuum-insulated container known as a cryostat, which does not require electricity, ensuring long-term stability.  Nobody wants his future annulled by a silly water oak tumbling onto an electrical wire.

Like any new venture, the early Cryogenics business had its ups and downs.  Early efforts were plagued by disasters, including nine bodies decomposing in a Los Angeles crypt in 1979, a big oopsie in anybody’s book.  There were also unhappy reports of “dying sludge” at some facilities and James Bedford’s 1991 examination found him with a collapsed nose and a cracked chest.  He’ll be so disappointed when he wakes up to that annoying inconvenience.

Currently, the oldest company in the Cryocare business is Alcor Life Extension Foundation, which first appeared in the early seventies.  Struggling with all those ungainly old bodies, the folks at Alcor came up with a new idea---preserving only the heads of new customers, the philosophy being that future tech would either regenerate the body or transfer the head or brain to a spanking-new one.  Probably just as well---examinations of early thawees showed severe physical trauma, including snapped spinal cords and fractured hearts.  Dr Bedford must be rolling in his cryostat.

If you’re looking for a Latter Day Saint of the Cryogenics persuasion, that would be one Bredo Morstol, who died of a heart condition in 1989.  His loving daughter and grandson brought Bredo to the States for Cryogenic preservation and wound up in Colorado in 1993, where they stored the body in a Tuff Shed on dry ice.  The Chamber of Commerce in Nederland, always looking to increase tourism, initiated Frozen Dead Guy Day in 2002, with events like coffin races, a polar plunge and a parade of hearses to honor “Grandpa Bredo.”  In 2023, the festival was moved to Estes Park with headquarters at the famous Stanley Hotel, where Turkey Bowling has been added to the event card.

In Zuzalu, that's how conditions are.

Others

Some immortality advocates view aging as a disease for which we have a moral responsibility to find a cure.  Others believe everlasting life will ultimately come from humans uploading themselves to computers so they can live forever in digital form.  Life expectancy has already doubled in the last 100 years, so with billions now being invested in longevity research there’s every reason to believe greater gains are possible.  Here are some of the shenanigans today’s anti-aging pioneers are up to:

1. Stitching old and young mice together.  No, really.  Scientists Mike and Irina Conboy, trying to understand the role blood plays in how tissues age, decided to see what would happen to an old mouse when it received young blood.  So they did what any curious young imps would do and stitched a few pairs of mice together.  As the tissues healed and blood vessels formed, blood trickled from one animal to the other.

The results were compelling.  The old mice became stronger and mentally sharper, and markers of age were reversed.  Although the sample size was small, the Conboys’ findings were notable enough to be published in the peer-reviewed journals Science and Nature and have significantly influenced the longevity community.

2. Getting injected with young blood plasma.  Inspired by the Conboys’ research, tech entrepreneur Bryan Johnson began getting injections of his 17-year-old son’s blood plasma.  “I never imagined my little baby would grow up to be a life-extender, but that’s what is happening,” said Johnson.  “Now I am giving blood to my father, as well.”

Several others jumped in, including a company called Ambrosia Plasma, led by Jesse Karmazin, which launched a clinical trial to find out whether young blood plasma really could reverse aging.  Each subject received a single dose of plasma and was measured for about 100 blood markers before and 30 days after the treatment.  Media hype followed and the treatment briefly grabbed the attention of some of the biggest tech billionaires.  Karmazin claimed striking results but the trial’s findings were never published.  In 2019, Ambrosia Plasma ceased operations after the U.S. Food and Drug Administration admonished that “Such treatments have no proven clinical benefits for the uses for which these clinics are advertising them and are potentially harmful.”  Spoilsports.

3. Testing anti-aging drugs on dogs.  Biotechnology start-up founder Celine Halioua is determined to find a drug that can treat aging.  Because humans age so slowly, however, running a clinical trial would take decades and cost billions.  So, that wily Celine has found an ingenious hack---her company plans to test longevity on canines instead.  She claims “dogs develop the same age-related diseases we do at approximately the same time in their lifespan.”  But because they don’t live nearly as long, Halioua believes she could see results from a drug within six to twelve months.

Another clever bit: until now, U.S. regulators have never approved trials on a drug for aging.  Celine contends that if her plan is approved, it will illustrate that anti-aging medicine is a legitimate field and potentially open a route for future drug research in humans.

4. Creating a longevity city.  Russian-Canadian cryptocurrency superstar Vitalik Buterin wanted to see if he could radically extend human life for everyone, so in March of 2023 he set up Zuzalu, an experimental pop-up city that brought together 200 of the brightest longevity minds for two months to tackle the problem of aging.  Buterin sought to create a test space where like-minded people could collaborate and “work on possible treatments in a very structured way,” with the ultimate aim of exporting their discoveries to the world.

Zuzalu got people talking about how to accelerate the longevity movement and raised the idea of a potential “longevity state” built around a belief that humans can and should defeat aging and death.  In such a place, innovation would be encouraged and barriers to research removed, creating a new kind of society.

5. Merging humans with machines.  Professor Nick Bostrom of Oxford University thinks immortality lies in giving ourselves over to technology entirely.  He contends that “radical life extension won’t come from medical research but will go instead through us first developing really powerful Artificial Intelligence and incidentally unlocking a lot of other radical possibilities for humanity, like uploading into computers.”  Other Transhumanists agree with this more extreme agenda---merging entirely with machines.  The notion covers everything from biohackers inserting microchips under the skin to tech startups working on replicating the human brain.  True devotees believe this is the key to humans ultimately cheating death.

Meanwhile, the Grim Reaper smiles, picks his teeth and sits on a rock reading Walden.  He has all the time in the world. 

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com  

      

Weirdos

Weirdos.  You can’t live with ‘em, you can’t live without ‘em.  Okay, yes you can, but it’s not nearly as much fun.  My initial weirdo was Timothy McGovern in the first grade.  One day, Timothy climbed up on the class window sill, opened the window, saluted, yelled “Goodbye, cruel world!” and jumped.  Of course, it was only the first floor, but he still made quite an impression---on us, if not the new sod down below.  A few days later later, they came and took Timmy away, but we never forgot him.

Then, in fourth grade, we got Leo Monte.  He transferred in from points north and west, maybe Des Moines.  Leo might have been Charles Schultz’ model for Pigpen in his Peanuts strips, he carried a cloud of dirt with him wherever he went.  On his first day in class, Sister Mary Lawrence sent him to the bathroom to wash his hands.  When he came back, they looked exactly the same.  He usually wore the same torn shirt and stained pants every day, and no socks.  Sister ML told him, “Leo, you have to change your clothes now and then.”  Leo looked up and said “Why?”   And no, he wasn’t poor---his father ran a construction crew and his mother was an attorney.  We used to write essays in fourth grade which the nuns called “compositions,” about such things as what we did on our Summer vacations.  Leo’s first composition was about the neighborhood coal yard, his fascination with anthracite and bituminous.  We kids thought he was pretty cool after that.

Beam Me Up, Scotty!

Anyone who has ever been to the Waffle House at three a.m. can tell you about weirdos.  They cluster there in the pre-dawn hours with the drug dealers, winding-down musicians and nerds who couldn’t get a date, skulking down in their booths gobbling All-Star Special pecan waffles and hash browns and making strange noises.  Any sane person in need of eggs just before sunrise looks around and thinks, Jesus---I didn’t know there were so many grubby lunatics living in the neighborhood.  Good news!  They’re not just from down the block.  Some of them may have teleported in.

Weirdos like FEMA official Gregg Phillips, who claimed on a podcast he was teleported 50 miles to a Waffle House near Rome, Georgia.  Hold your horses before condemning Greg, he claims it was not his idea.  Somewhere in the remote reaches of the universe, the Cosmic Arbiter plunked his Magic Twanger and sent Mr. Phillips adrift through the friendly skies of the Peach State.  On the podcast, Gregg swore that his car was “lifted up” while he was driving and transported to the eatery.

“I was with my boys one time, and I was telling them I was gonna go to Waffle House and get Waffle House.  And I ended up at a Waffle House.  This was in Georgia, and I end up at a Waffle House like 50 miles away from where I was,” Phillips swore on the podcast Onward, co-hosted by right-wing activist Catherine Engelbrecht.

“And they asked, ‘Where are you?’ and I told them and they said ‘That’s not possible, you just left here a moment ago.’  And let me tell you, teleporting is no fun.  You know it’s happening and you can’t do anything about it, so you just let go, you just go with the ride.” 

Listen, Gregg, it could be worse.  The ultimate bummer would be if you bounced through the stratosphere, finally got there and the Waffle House was closed.  Do you sit down in the parking lot and sulk or do you get back in the car, close your eyes and hope for a lusty trip to Aunt Jemima’s?

"See--there I am right there talking to G.W.!"

Back To The Future

For the last 22 years, Seattle attorney Andrew Basiago has been making the claim that he time-traveled between the ages of seven and twelve, when most self-respecting lads were playing whiffleball and dunking girls’ braids in their inkwells.  It wasn’t his idea, of course, he was recruited by a secret government program called DARPA for an experiment called Project Pegasus.  Basiago claimed the project used children to carry out their experiments because the kids would be more adaptable to changes in space-time.  He said he was the first child to take the leap.  The Portal to Anywhere was described as looking like two parentheses-shaped booms which were 8 feet tall and about 10 feet apart.  He described the computer configuration from which the portal was controlled as rudimentary and plugged into the wall with a power cord.

Upon activation, the machine created a “vortal tunnel” from radiant energy that was capable of “bending the fabric of reality,” according to Andrew.  (“Radiant Energy” was discovered by Nikola Tesla, whose schematic was posthumously discovered by the government in a New York apartment in 1943.)  The technology was parlayed into what Basiago calls a plasma confinement chamber, which a user jumps into before being transported to a different place in time and space to meet historical and future dignitaries, as well as various extraterrestrial entities and maybe even Dick Clark.

Andrew’s first journey transported him to the state capital of New Mexico, though he remained in the same time period.  Basiago claimed the capital building was a common location DARPA used and a woman friend saw people materialize there frequently.  He continued his training by traveling back in time just a few hours to get the gist of it.  Eventually, he was able to travel back to Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address and check out George Washington’s tent during the Revolutionary War.  Finally, he was ready to meet Jesus, which went off without a hitch, earning him a rare visit to the future.  Basiago traveled to 2045, where he was “transported to a building made of emerald and tungsten steel.”  There he was given a canister of microfilm to be brought back to his mentors.  Supposedly, it contained a wealth of knowledge of every historical event up until that time.  Apparently, everything will not be digitized in the future.

Andrew Basiago later made news by claiming that Barack Obama was a fellow time-traveler who went by the name “Barry Soetero.”  Barack/Barry was supposedly transported to Mars at the age of 19 to communicate with Martian animals and extraterrestrials.  Basiago claimed in a 2012 speech that he had definitive photographic evidence of intelligent life on the red planet, but of course it was a little blurry.  He also insists that he will be installed as President of the U.S.A. sometime between now and 2028 (hurry up, Andrew).  Unlike other candidates, Basiago has posted a very detailed layout of his presidential platform and the 100 policies he intends to enact once in the White House.  His first measure will be to declassify and reveal all technology related to quantum transportation, including the chronovisor and the holographic transportation machine he used to speak to George Washington.  Then, thank God, he will get rid of all atomic weapons, which “could create a tear in the fabric of space-time, of which there is nothing worse we could be doing.  The extraterrestrials don’t like it one bit.”

We don’t know about you, but we’re thinking we might be voting for Andrew.  He didn’t say one word about immigration, Haitians eating cats and dogs or Joe Biden causing world hunger.  And he says he has a critical message from Janis Joplin which he will reveal on New Year’s Day of 2030.  Andrew Basiago---the man for the Big Chair in the next big shootout.  Hey, you could do a lot worse.  You already did.

The All-Star Team

History calls them eccentrics, AI dubs them outliers, but we know they’re just plain weirdos.  Herewith, the Cream of the Crop:

1. Yongmei, bigamist.  This woman got around.  Enough to marry over 900 men in just over two decades.  She made Elizabeth Taylor look like a piker.  Her husband-hunting spree began in 1993, when she realized she could make a quick buck by dragging suckers to the altar.  Yongmei would marry men, usually poor farmers, then divorce them a few days later.  The victims would have to pay her a small amount each time, but after awhile it began adding up.  At her peak, she was making about $8000 a month before she was arrested in 2011.  Hey, it beats playing piano at the Holiday Inn for tips.

2. Marina David, zythophile.  For 34 years (1851-1885) Marina consumed only beer.  That’s it.  No water, no food, nothing but beer.  She was reputed to insist on the strongest and most bitter beers available.  How she survived is a bit of a mystery.  Some say her diet caused her to produce stomach acid, which in turn helped her to break down and digest the sugars in the beer.  Others contended she suffered from a condition that left her unable to absorb nutrients from other food sources.  Despite her proclivities, David led a relatively normal life, leading beer enthusiasts to eschew moderation.  Norm, of Cheers, had a shrine to Marina in his breezeway.

3. Lillian Alling, wanderer.  Alling was an Eastern European immigrant who became famous in the 1920s for attempting to return by foot to her homeland.  That’s right, by foot.  Frequently ridiculed for her foolishness, Lillian was unruffled.  She began a four-year journey in New York, then traveled westward across Canada, then north through British Columbia, the Yukon, then west again to Alaska by 1929, usually walking about 30 miles a day.  In Hazelton, B.C., a telegraph lineman noticed Alling’s tattered and malnourished appearance and phoned authorities, who arrested her for vagrancy to protect her from the elements.  When searched, she was found with two ten-dollar bills and an iron bar with which to “ward off bad-intentioned men, not animals.”  Lillian was kept in jail for two months, then spent the rest of the winter working in a Vancouver restaurant to save enough money to continue her trip.  Records have her reaching the Bering Sea, where all communication with her was lost.  While working in Hazelton, she answered critics with a single sentence: “Don’t think of me as a weirdo---think of me as a through-hiker.”   

4. Shia LaBeouf, performance artist.  Shia is probably best known for his 2014 stint sitting in an L.A. art gallery wearing a paper bag on his head that read “I Am Not Famous Anymore” and crying in front of visitors.  2014 was a big year for LaBouef---he also ran 144 laps around the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam wearing bright green leggings and was escorted out of the musical Cabaret in New York for disruptive behavior and spitting at police.  He also pulled out one of his own teeth, cut his face and refused to shower to truly experience the life of a World War II soldier.  Earlier, in 2013, he took LSD to prepare for a movie scene and later had to be pulled off the director while choking him.   In 2020, LaBeouf tattooed his entire torso and aligned himself with the Westside Harpys street gang.

In May, 2016, Shia launched an open-sourced month-long cross-country journey called TakeMeAnywhere, in which he tweeted out his geographic coordinates daily, allowing fans to pick him up and take him…well, anywhere.  And do just about anything with him in the process.  Some fans were impressed.  “Usually, when you meet your heroes they’re a disappointment,” said one.  But this guy is different.  He was just an amazing guy.  He was incredibly receptive to what we wanted to do and very conversational.  I think he’s a true artist.”

But still…a weirdo.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com