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Sometime in the early to mid seventies I read Tom Wolfe's The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.  I have read all my life, and I had read One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and Sometimes A Great Notion as soon as they were published.  My good friend Ernie Richardson had somehow come across Kesey's first novel early on, and I'll swear a bunch of us in Poplar Bluff, Missouri were among the very first to read it.  Well, among the first few thousand, maybe, but still right out there.

In the seventies I was in Lake Tahoe, leading the wildest life humanly possible, along with a great friend, Mike Carson, who was even wilder that I (I think).  When I read the Wolfe book, I started tracking down the old haunts amongst the Redwoods where Kesey and The Merry Pranksters used to hang out, although they were long gone.  I also discovered, by calling information, that Kesey's home phone in Oregon was listed, and, as was my wont during that time, called him up.  The conversation was brief and to the point (I admired his books and might be up that way).  He replied, politely and softly, that if I was I should stop by.

One night after many days of drinking and doing everything else possible to our minds and bodies, Mike Carson and I decided in a moment worthy of (or perhaps surpassing) the late H.S. Thompson, to drive to Oregon -I think it was Pleasant Hills- near Springfield, anyway. It was at least 8 or 9 hours away, and involved driving through the High Sierras, the California redwoods, and along the Oregon coast.

We drove all night.  I think Mike drove, but we might have taken turns.  We both had bad habits of wrecking cars.  At some point in the night, after entering Oregon, we stopped at a bar and I tried to get some pot.  I'll never forget this, obviously- the bartender reached down below the bar and sold me some right on the spot.  He had a whole stash and they just sold it as a commodity.

Somehow we got to Pleasant Hills, and I got on the phone to Kesey.  He answered, and I told him we had driven up to see him.  He stated, very politely, that he and his family were in bed-it was very late- and maybe we could do that tomorrow.  Mike and I drove around and somehow found his house.  All I can remember was that it was nicer than I had expected and lights were on that emitted a soft warm glow.

Mike and I stood on the road outside Ken Kesey's house in the black Oregon night, deranged, and took a leak.  Then we got in the car and drove back to Tahoe.