Independence Day
In elementary school, a preeminent concern is coalescence, fitting in with the group, making others comfortable with you. Nobody wants to be that guy, a subject of tittering, ridicule, maybe even hostility for his deviation from the norm.
In high school, a little exceptionalism is tolerated, perhaps even appreciated if it stays within the bounds of the prep zeitgeist and avoids radical behavior, elitism or voluntary secession from the group. Showboating is abhorred except in unique individuals with oversized personalities and/or special talents…clever jokesters…off-the-rails athletes…hip prodigies.
All this being the case, it is often difficult to discern the true wheat from the chaff, the talk-the-talkers from the walk-the-walkers, the kids with a flair for independence from the majority who love the nest. My friend Tom Rys, a big talker, feigned the bravado of a young man ready to hitchhike the land, live in a cheap tent, slog through quicksand to find his fortune. Tommy Rys was a big fraud. When it came time to meet me at the train station for our long trip to college in Stillwater, Oklahoma, Rys was a no-show, a closet homebody masquerading as Jack Kerouac, a real disappointment.
Truth be told, Tom Rys was not alone in his posturing. The choice of Home or Away for college shone the merciless spotlight of Truth on one and all and when the final reckoning was made the crowd at the depot was small. I looked around one more time, shrugged and got on the train. This is what I’d been waiting for for years; a chance to call my own shots, carve a path of my choosing, make every moment my own. There would be mistakes of course, plenty of them, but they’d be my mistakes, errors of, by and for the Bill and I could live with that and smile. Lay on that horn, Mr. Engineer, it’s a long way to Tipperary.
I had a long stopover in Chicago, long enough to zip over to the priceless and archaic Wrigley Field to watch the hapless Cubs stumble around. Stan Musial was in town with the Cardinals that day, so at least one team would be playing baseball, a tasty alternative to vegetating at crowded Union Station.
I took the El to Wrigley, was delighted to find that you could sit anywhere but the box seats for the price of a general admission ticket and enjoyed the game, even though Stan The Man didn’t show. I was congratulating myself on my cleverness when I got on the wrong return train and ended up in a mystic wilderness far from any locomotives. By the time I got back to Union, my train was on its way to Ponca City without so much as a thoughtful apology. CLANG-HONK! Mistake Number One, and I’d barely gotten started.
It was Sunday when I finally arrived at the Stillwater bus station and caught a taxi to the OSU campus. The cabbie wanted to know whether to take me to my dorm or to Whitehurst Hall, the administration building; I foolishly thought I might need some paperwork so I opted for the latter, which was closed, of course. This left me with the enjoyable task of toting two suitcases full of lead a half-mile to East Bennett Hall. By the time I got there, the skin on my hands had peeled off down to the bone. CLANG-HONK! Error Number Two, and it was still early in my career.
In those days, all male students who attended a land-grant college, of which Oklahoma State was one, were required to participate in the miracle that is ROTC. If you were in Army ROTC, you received a wonderful M1 rifle, which was almost as heavy to carry around as my suitcase. Naturally, you had to learn how to take apart your rifle and put it back together, which I did with aplomb, although I always seemed to have a few annoying parts left over. It was hard for a New England lad to grasp that he was actually carrying around a weapon of death, so that may explain a few things. Like why, after shooting the clip which held my cardboard target to its backing, I started to march down the rifle range to put it back up with bullets flying all around me. That certainly livened up the afternoon. CLANG-HONK! Three strikes and you’re lucky to be alive.
All of this was certainly disconcerting, but if you live, you learn. Mother is not there to make sure you get on the right train, Dad won’t be carrying those leaden bags and nobody will be picking up your target for you. The cavalry is not on the way. Get it wrong, do it again. And actually, the whole experience was a blessing in disguise. It prepared me for the wooly nightmares of travel in Mexico many years later. The wise men say that the trials which don’t kill you only make you stronger. You DO have to make sure they don’t actually kill you, though.
Enter The Charlatan
The 1960s were the heyday of college humor magazines, much to the consternation of the university administrators who had to oversee them. Unlike the proper college newspaper, which was generally manned by responsible, straightlaced individuals, the humor mag was often the repository of slightly bent individuals, daring and disobedient quasi-journalists with a healthy disrespect for authority and an ability to see the faux wizard behind the veil. To battle their genius, college administrators often used censors to examine all magazine copy before each issue was printed. The editors countered these enemies by sneaking into print esoteric offerings not understood by the censors until too late. It was an ongoing cat and mouse game often won by the gleeful rodents. Now and then, of course, Pest Control was called in and a few editors were fired. You pays yer money and you takes yer chances.
In the years BK (Before Killeen), there had been a jaunty humor mag at Oklahoma State called the Aggievator, the odd name attributable to the fact that OSU was previously an A&M school. The university administration phased it out after too many incidents which rankled the school’s alumni. Early in his sophomore year, Bill appeared before the Board of Publications, asking for a reinstatement, but was denied. He decided to publish an off-campus humor magazine himself, calling it The State Charlatan. In no time, he rounded up a crew of illustrators, photographers, ad salesmen and general no-accounts and the first issue appeared. Whitehurst Hall refused to let the publication be sold on campus, so Bill and his pirates navigated through the dormitories, dodging RAs left and right, to peddle the Charlatan in the dead of night. It was an easy sell. There is nothing so popular to young people as a product you’re not allowed to buy. Mr. Killeen promptly put out a second issue. It was an even greater smash hit.
Resistance appearing futile, the OSU administration decided to take a new tack. Killeen hadn’t published anything treasonous, vulgar or alumni-rattling so far, so they decided to let him sell his new magazine at the student union. Naturally, this turned out to be the horrendous University Is Going To Hell issue, which frazzled the brains of the admin elite. Bill received an official letter which advised him that one more issue of that ilk would warrant expulsion. In his junior year, he published one final shot and moved to New York City. The Killeen family is still waiting for its first college graduate.
The 1960s were the heyday of college humor magazines, much to the consternation of the university administrators who had to oversee them. Unlike the proper college newspaper, which was generally manned by responsible, straightlaced individuals, the humor mag was often the repository of slightly bent individuals, daring and disobedient quasi-journalists with a healthy disrespect for authority and an ability to see the faux wizard behind the veil. To battle their genius, college administrators often used censors to examine all magazine copy before each issue was printed. The editors countered these enemies by sneaking into print esoteric offerings not understood by the censors until too late. It was an ongoing cat and mouse game often won by the gleeful rodents. Now and then, of course, Pest Control was called in and a few editors were fired. You pays yer money and you takes yer chances.
In the years BK (Before Killeen), there had been a jaunty humor mag at Oklahoma State called the Aggievator, the odd name attributable to the fact that OSU was previously an A&M school. The university administration phased it out after too many incidents which rankled the school’s alumni. Early in his sophomore year, Bill appeared before the Board of Publications, asking for a reinstatement, but was denied. He decided to publish an off-campus humor magazine himself, calling it The State Charlatan. In no time, he rounded up a crew of illustrators, photographers, ad salesmen and general no-accounts and the first issue appeared. Whitehurst Hall refused to let the publication be sold on campus, so Bill and his pirates navigated through the dormitories, dodging RAs left and right, to peddle the Charlatan in the dead of night. It was an easy sell. There is nothing so popular to young people as a product you’re not allowed to buy. Mr. Killeen promptly put out a second issue. It was an even greater smash hit.
Resistance appearing futile, the OSU administration decided to take a new tack. Killeen hadn’t published anything treasonous, vulgar or alumni-rattling so far, so they decided to let him sell his new magazine at the student union. Naturally, this turned out to be the horrendous University Is Going To Hell issue, which frazzled the brains of the admin elite. Bill received an official letter which advised him that one more issue of that ilk would warrant expulsion. In his junior year, he published one final shot and moved to New York City. The Killeen family is still waiting for its first college graduate.
On The Road To Mingus
Early in the summer of 1962, I loaded up my sturdy Cadillac Superior Model hearse with a few essential earthlies and headed for Albuquerque, New Mexico, the plan being to publish a Charlatan there together with my friend Jacques Guerin, a man of means whose father was the current Ambassador to Trinidad and Tobago. The spirit was willing but the radiator was weak, crumbling to inadequacy just outside Oklahoma City. My limited funds would only allow a modest fix-up, leaving New Mexico a bridge too far. Gilbert Shelton, a Texas Ranger magazine staffer who would become editor in ‘62, had invited me to Austin to help him put out the magazine. The radiator repairman hedged on whether I could make it the 400 miles to Shelton’s place but said it was possible if I filled the thing up every 50 miles. I did it like clockwork and came stumbling into Austin with a smoky, wheezing vehicle in its last gasps of labor. I pulled into the alley leading to Gilbert’s digs as the great hearse entered its death throes right at his front door.
“Jesus, Killeen!” marveled the greeting Shelton. “You sure know how to make an entrance.”
Early in the summer of 1962, I loaded up my sturdy Cadillac Superior Model hearse with a few essential earthlies and headed for Albuquerque, New Mexico, the plan being to publish a Charlatan there together with my friend Jacques Guerin, a man of means whose father was the current Ambassador to Trinidad and Tobago. The spirit was willing but the radiator was weak, crumbling to inadequacy just outside Oklahoma City. My limited funds would only allow a modest fix-up, leaving New Mexico a bridge too far. Gilbert Shelton, a Texas Ranger magazine staffer who would become editor in ‘62, had invited me to Austin to help him put out the magazine. The radiator repairman hedged on whether I could make it the 400 miles to Shelton’s place but said it was possible if I filled the thing up every 50 miles. I did it like clockwork and came stumbling into Austin with a smoky, wheezing vehicle in its last gasps of labor. I pulled into the alley leading to Gilbert’s digs as the great hearse entered its death throes right at his front door.
“Jesus, Killeen!” marveled the greeting Shelton. “You sure know how to make an entrance.”
If there was a better place than Austin, Texas to be alive in 1962, you’ll have to show me startling evidence. The mere landscape itself of this green, hilly town charms the eye, the nearby lakes soothe the mind and the hefty Colorado River, which cuts through just south of downtown, is the exclamation point on the sentence.
The attractive University of Texas, wealthy as Midas, draws prominent faculty to the school to rouse young minds, a long musical heritage guarantees color and excitement, the prominent Mexican quarter lends depth, and oh, yes, better Mexican gastronomic options than any place south of the border.
The citizens of Texas have spirit, pride, an absurd nationalistic fervor for their state, which is not necessarily harmful. For those who look at the state’s voting history and assign the place to Gooberland, not so fast, my friends. The people I met there….the staff of the Texas Ranger magazine, the musicians, the post-beatnik era denizens of the raunchy Austin Ghetto, the habitues of Threadgill’s beer, cheese and yodeling emporium were often brilliant, talented and very funny. They were looking for Truth, action, a way around the pitfalls of a boring adulthood. They philosophized that Peter Pan might be right after all. The Moribund Life might swallow them up sooner or later, but they were postponing it as long as possible. In short, they’d have fun, fun, fun ‘til daddy took the T-bird away.
That Girl
There was a party somewhere every night in Austin. Anyone who thought this was a gross exaggeration need only check with Rangeroo Lieuen Adkins, who knew where all of them were and made a point of not missing many. Lieuen was the Ranger’s poet laureate in the spirit of Ogden Nash, an accomplished underage drinker and a foil for the deviltry of editor Shelton and others. He was also a living example of Murphy’s Law; if something bad can possibly happen it will. Once, during a critical water balloon battle between Shelton’s forces and the crosstown armies of writer Joe E. Brown’s West Side Boys, Lieuen was posted upstairs and out of the way at Shelton’s apartment, tasked only with guarding a reserve pile of balloons and observing and reporting the movements of the opposing forces. Typically, he was snuck up on, gagged and bound, and his weapons destroyed. Moreover, the enemy now assumed the high ground and won the battle. Oh, the shame!
One fine night at a party hosted by UT tennis player/bon vivant Neil Unterseher, I was consorting with Lieuen when a new face appeared, a young lady decked out floor to ceiling in black garb down to her little boots. She was carrying an alien instrument which turned out to be an autoharp. Asked to sing, she chose an old folk ballad and the widespread murmur of about five dozen partygoers gradually came to a stop. What have we here?
There were often several people who rotated singing at these affairs and the casual program rolled on, but just before the party broke up, the stranger got another chance. She had everyone’s full attention this time. When she finished, Lieuen and I walked up and introduced ourselves. She was alone and happy to meet anyone. The three of us strolled downtown to South Congress Ave. and found an eatery still open near midnight. While we dined, a solo bat from the nearby bridge tunnel dove through an open door and cavorted for several minutes while frustrated restaurant workers pursued in vain. Lieuen tittered but ducked for his life; the girl thought the whole thing was hilarious.
Eventually, Lieuen was forced to depart. He lived at his parents' house, had a curfew and if he abused it was forced to sleep on the front porch. The autoharpist and I decided to sleep under the stars in some foliage at the Texas state capitol building. As we settled in, I asked her to tell me her name again. “I’m Janis Joplin,” she said. I nodded approval and she looked at me quizzically. “Your name is perfect,” I told her. “When you become famous, you’ll have alliteration.”
That's all, folks....
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
There was a party somewhere every night in Austin. Anyone who thought this was a gross exaggeration need only check with Rangeroo Lieuen Adkins, who knew where all of them were and made a point of not missing many. Lieuen was the Ranger’s poet laureate in the spirit of Ogden Nash, an accomplished underage drinker and a foil for the deviltry of editor Shelton and others. He was also a living example of Murphy’s Law; if something bad can possibly happen it will. Once, during a critical water balloon battle between Shelton’s forces and the crosstown armies of writer Joe E. Brown’s West Side Boys, Lieuen was posted upstairs and out of the way at Shelton’s apartment, tasked only with guarding a reserve pile of balloons and observing and reporting the movements of the opposing forces. Typically, he was snuck up on, gagged and bound, and his weapons destroyed. Moreover, the enemy now assumed the high ground and won the battle. Oh, the shame!
One fine night at a party hosted by UT tennis player/bon vivant Neil Unterseher, I was consorting with Lieuen when a new face appeared, a young lady decked out floor to ceiling in black garb down to her little boots. She was carrying an alien instrument which turned out to be an autoharp. Asked to sing, she chose an old folk ballad and the widespread murmur of about five dozen partygoers gradually came to a stop. What have we here?
There were often several people who rotated singing at these affairs and the casual program rolled on, but just before the party broke up, the stranger got another chance. She had everyone’s full attention this time. When she finished, Lieuen and I walked up and introduced ourselves. She was alone and happy to meet anyone. The three of us strolled downtown to South Congress Ave. and found an eatery still open near midnight. While we dined, a solo bat from the nearby bridge tunnel dove through an open door and cavorted for several minutes while frustrated restaurant workers pursued in vain. Lieuen tittered but ducked for his life; the girl thought the whole thing was hilarious.
Eventually, Lieuen was forced to depart. He lived at his parents' house, had a curfew and if he abused it was forced to sleep on the front porch. The autoharpist and I decided to sleep under the stars in some foliage at the Texas state capitol building. As we settled in, I asked her to tell me her name again. “I’m Janis Joplin,” she said. I nodded approval and she looked at me quizzically. “Your name is perfect,” I told her. “When you become famous, you’ll have alliteration.”
That's all, folks....
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
Aftermath
Last week's photographs juxtapositioned a fading house and buildings with the regressing human body, but illustrated that both still have their charms. This week's pictures celebrate Bill's declaration of independence, a journey from the safety of the nest to the minefield of the world outside. This transition begs for boldness, for bare-bones images with no enhancements, no shelter from the storm. To get them, we went to Signature Beauty Gallery in Avalon Park, the province of Sam and Bethany Rivera. Sam is a genius with lighting and Bethany does the heavy lifting. After weeks of communication with her, Bethany was ready with about 15 classic poses when we got there; a couple just "weren't me," but the others worked out great. While Sam concentrates on shooting and his lights, Bethany makes sure the poses are perfect and is strangely remindful of one's mother. "Sit up straight, Bill. Suck in your stomach. Put your fingers closer together. Do this. Do that." She's the perfect compliment to her husband and the spectacular results are obvious.
