DENNIS HOPPER USA ICON DIES

Written in April of 2010

Dennis Millard was born May 17, 1937, on flat ground, outside of Dodge City, Kansas. It was spring time on the small farm, tiny green grass sprouts that would turn into endless tarmac were beginning to break out. Dennis's mother,  Marjorie Mae Millard was a beautiful poetess of the soul who loved to swim rivers and lakes in summer time.  

The Millard family really wasn't a stand out, in Dodge City, they seemed distracted and tuned into a radio wave, looking westward somehow. Dennis has always had that look about him, looking forward through everything and onward.

Marjorie Mae dearly loved young Dennis, he was her blessed soul connection. She would spend hours holding him in the breezy groves of his fathers Hemp farm. John grew Hemp to make rope for the war effort. Summer was the sweetest  time on the Millard farm, their front porch was covered with books. Marjorie Mae home schooled Dennis until they moved to California. She taught Dennis to read Whitman, Carl Sandburg , Tolstoy, Abraham Lincoln and Shakespeare.  

Dennis could swim by the age of two, Marjorie Mae would take the boy swimming in rivers and creeks. By the age of 7 Dennis was already working with John to bring the hemp crops in. The flower farmers would can  jelled chicken soup stock, wild bird meat, fruit, berries and vegetables (which they raised themselves organically). The flower unit was self sufficient, the tornado cellar was always larded to the max to survive the Kansas winters on desolation row.

Dennis never really thought about cutting loose until the Millard family loaded up their 48 Pontiac. The V8 car had a trailer knob on the fender to hook up their small Airstream. The trailer was nice for siestas on country roads.  The flower unit was now headed west riding radio waves to California. 

(ASIDE: I realized while editing , that the story begins to bust loose and get down some as the Millards drive to La Mesa! So I am busting loose in the 1950s with Dennis Millard. The inconstancy and lack of tenor is hardly the hallmark of a true PRO. Vonnegut writes all over the place but he is a one of a kind American legend, so he can! Fuck it anyway, EVERYTHING IS IN YOUR SOUL. It flows outside and around time zones into the present, from Heaven into Hell, more on Lee Strasberg methodism latter.) 

The Millards enjoyed a steady drive to La Mesa. Dennis's father John or poppy, was on his way to a new job as post office manager there. Young Dennis kept busy in the back seat of the Pontiac, reading Hemingway,  Shadow comics and eating chicken sandwiches and Clark bars while poppy drove. The flower unit was driving through Texas, northwest, on Highway 90 hugging the Mexican border. Hank Williams and Bob Willis were on the  radio along with devilish bits of cantina music coming out of Juarez. The potent mix of  southwestern music, black bean smell from the greasy spoons, and dry night air tantalized Dennis. It  filled him with wild gringo energy and vision. It made him feel like busting things up somehow. Later Dennis would relate the story of the trip to James Dean, it emboldened both of them to say, "fuck off man" to wonder bread America, circa 1950. 

The Millard's bought a three bedroom pink deco style house that was on the edge of an orange grove in La Mesa. John settled into his job as post office 91491 manager and Marjorie Mae got a job as a life guard instructor, she looked sweet in a the red tank top swim suits. 

Dennis went to Helix High in La Mesa. He was not an uninspired student exactly, but he hated authority figures. Amazingly he was very sociable, coming out of the cloistered environment he was raised in, on the Kansas hemp collective.

Dennis discovered a passion for beautiful women at Helix High School, which he has to this day. Later,   he married and divorced Michelle Phillips for eight days just to fuck her. Hopper preferred to spend time at the swimming pool and surfing, and rarely studied. He was voted "most likely to succeed"  which rang true. Poppy and Marjorie Mae never bothered pushing Dennis much in formal academia, they new he was on his own radio bandwidth. Marjorie Mae's home schooling of Dennis on the Kansas Hemp collective was superb. Dennis didn't need more formal education in a high school.

Besides discovering " the world of  pussy" at Helix, Dennis connected with a desire to express his feelings and thoughts on stage. He also loved the attention and praise he felt on stage. Dennis earned a scholarship to San Diego's Old Globe Theater. He proceeded to hone his acting chops on Shakespeare and Camus. After graduating form high school Dennis moved to LA and began acting in the Pasadena Playhouse. He invented his stage name "Hopper" which was purebred Hunkeism circa 1950 Times Square scene, to be 'hopped up' on speed. 

In reading  Hopper's bio on Yahoo, it seems the 'breaks' the average Joe busts his balls for just happened for Dennis. Dennis is hugely talented, Great Spirt given. I don't think he is the type who works at it much, but he is a hard worker. Further evidence of Hopper's extreme talent is in the type of roles he attracts, he was given insane roles from the start.

Dennis Hopper's debut on national TV in America was a guest spot on the NBC show "Medic" in the early 50s. He played an epileptic soldier no less. I can visualize Dennis sweating and shaking in army fatigues on Black and White TV saying,an "no man, I can't ". The epileptic soldier would come back to Dennis in roles to come. One was the photo journalist in the black out war epic "Apocalypse Now".

Dennis's seizures were so realistic, that it earned him the attention of Hollywood's elite, setting the stage  for the rise of the phoenix out of the the ashes of golden era TV, circa 1954. Others to rise from the ashes were Clint Eastwood, Steve McQueen and James Dean. Hopper was offered auditions all over Hollywood. He did an audition for Harry Cohn, the hard ass head of Columbia Studios.  Harry told Dennis to pick a 15 minute bit from any play he wanted and perform soliloquy. Dennis picked a short sonnet from "Othello". At the end of the audition Cohn told him to drop the Shakespeare crap and get real.  Dennis looked Cohn straight in the eye, with the intense and shameless Billy stare he used in "Easy Rider" and said what else? "Go fuck yourself man". He was immediately eighty-sixed from Columbia Studios, (big fucking deal he hardly needed Cohn).

What does a screaming giant of talent do if he gets eithty-sixed from Colombia Studio? Go to Warner Bros. Hopper immediately got a job as a stand in for James Dean in the film "Rebel Without a Cause" circa 1955, and a bit part as one of the "juvenile delinquents" in the film. Jimmy and Dennis immediately became best pals. They would smoke dope together in the bath room of Dean's Airstream on the set, putting towels in the cracks to keep the "odious" smoke from the attention of Warner Bros. security. The two friends would talk for hours about beat stuff, writers, Camus,  Sartre, and Carlos Williams. They loved music of all types, Monk and Miles Davis, as well as Country and Rockabilly. Both precocious farm boys were living life in full color, trying to bust out of the grind. After shooting they would hit jazz clubs in LA and play conga drums. 

Both Hopper and Dean landed roles in the film "Giant", (a film about Texas oil money in circa 40s) Jimmy got the primo part of Jet Rink (a Howard Hughes type bad boy). Dennis's role was very untypical for him. He played a clean cut kid who was very anonymous. They both were in love with Elizabeth Taylor, who they thought "had the most beautiful tits in the world". The three would sit around in Giant's Texas set compound, and talk about life, laugh, smoke dope and drink wine .  

After Giant,  James dean bought a Porsche 550 Spyder for racing and off track driving. Everyone knows how Jimmy died in the famous auto crash. Dennis Hopper was bummed out by Deans death. He felt like he had lost a true soul brother. Some people think Dennis was the heir to Deans rebel throne. Dennis did become a counter culture hero later in his own right, not because of his best pals accident.

Dennis went on to do some Western's including "Half way to Texas, Hell USA" circa 1958 directed by Hath Hathaway. Hathaway was a hard driven alcoholic director with a red pin cushion nose. He resented Dennis's beatific manhood and took it upon himself to whip it out of the boy. He didn't take to no "improvising" and decided to bust Dennis up like a wild bronco for not following the script to the tee. During a scene I am sure Dennis would rather forget, Hath made him do 80 takes and some push ups. The experience was not good for Dennis. He wasn't over the death of his  friend James Dean and was suffering from "too much too fast". Hath later predicted wrongly " why the boy will be corralled out of the industry". The red neck director ended up getting shit canned by some drunk Navajos while on a drunken weekend. This is what happens to people who try to destroy others because the others are scary.

Dennis did get shit canned from Warner Brothers after "Halfway to Texas, Hell USA". With enough money and some time on his hands he decided to go to Manhattan and study methodism with the  Lee Strasbourg… Ooh la la . The method is to let your soul out without letting the script get in the way. In New York Dennis met people that were more on his wavelength than the red neck western directors at Warner Bros. Chris Harrington and Andy Warhol were key influences on Dennis's expanding concept of art and film in the 60s. 

Harrington introduced Dennis to Roger Cormen who was directing a low budget acid flick called "The Trip" with Peter Fonda in LA. Dennis took over co-writing duties from Cormen  writing the script with Peter Fonda.  The Lee Strasbergs were closer to an acid trip than "The Trip". There were some nice touching freely scenes in the film, today you would call "The Trip" retro. 

At the time Cormen was working on another low budget film, a nut-so vehicle for the Monkees called "The Head". "The Head" was being screen written by Jack Nicholson, and to be honest it was going in a zillion directions, splintering and expanding, because  Nicholson was spiking Cormen's and the Monkee's Cool-aid with Purple Owsley. Dennis was a guiding light in bringing the forces together to finish "The Head". Had Dennis not stepped in when he did Nicholson, Cormen and The Monkees might still be on acid filming "The Head" today.

After "The Head" Hopper decided to direct himself. He had directing experience with Andy Warhol in the factory, on such films as "Skin" and "Aluminum Potato".  Dennis was also studying photography. 

Back in LA one night Dennis went to the "Whiskey" on Sunset with Michelle Phillips to hear The Doors play. Dennis planned to met Peter Fonda and Terry Southern. Southern looked liked Norman Rockwell with his short hair and Meerschaum pipe. He was totally out of place at the Whiskey in the 60s, but he was a wacko genius. Southern met Dennis during the filming of "Giant". Peter Fonda showed up at the Whiskey that night in his white leather pants, no real biker would wear shit like that man. The dude made an impressive entrance on his blue metal flacked chopper . You would have to say there was something in the brew that night. While Jim Morrison sang "Back Door Man," Hopper, Fonda and Southern put down the outline for a film to be called "Easy Rider".

"Easy Rider" circa 1969, was ground breaking in more than a few ways. Firstly there was not much pre ordained script to speak of, only an outline. Terry Southern was famous on the "road set" for shaking the script at Hopper and Fonda, trying to keep the film on track. Secondly there were only real drugs to be used as props and ingested on the set. Hopper and Southern did the script writing duties on the fly. Dennis played the protagonist character "Billy". Peter Fonda was Captain America.  Fonda insisted that only Harleys would be used in the film. Other uses of creative genius included using real life "red necks" with no acting experience in the film. And of course the 16 mm acid scene in the New Orleans grave yard, filmed by Dennis. 

(ASIDE: The pimple faced drug dealer wearing the funny Kango hat in the opening sequence was Phil Spector. He did the bit for free, even volunteering the use of his haunted Bentley as a prop. He bought it from Keith Richards a week earlier. I will never forget the scene as John Kay starts to wail " 'Pusher Man', well I popped allot of pills " ME TOO). 

"Easy Rider" was  a bust out film for Fonda, Nicholson and Hopper. Jack Nicholson was ready to give up acting because he couldn't find work. He was selected at the last minute to replace Rip Torn as the country lawyer. All these guys had worked with Roger Cormen who was a master at film making on the fly, for cheap.  

"Easy Rider" was so successful at the box office that it put all the guys involved at the pinnacle of their careers. Only Jack Nicholson continued to move foreword at break neck speed. Peter Fonda, petered out for some years. Dennis sunk deeper into drug use and the despair of alcoholism . He was writing the eternal script and did a film called "American Dreamer" circa 1971. Another film from this period  "The American Friend" was a great film about a expat living  in Europe. The character  drove a 58 Cadillac around the streets of Berlin, wore cowboy boots, a Stetson and a garage jumpsuit like Neal Cassidy. Dennis was not shaky and gave a strong and powerfully brooding performance.

As most residents of Taos, New Mexico will know, Dennis Hopper lived there in the 70s. One night he was working on the eternal script in the "hash house" of his log cabin and teepee mansion. All the cocaine and whiskey caught up with him. Dennis drove down to the square in Taos wearing his garage overalls and Stetson, carrying a couple of loaded six guns. He preceded to act out a nervous breakdown in stages, shooting a few caps into the air. To be honest this kind of activity was an every morning wake up call/ritual for Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. But Dennis Hopper is a very sensitive artist and this was no fun for him. Thank the Great Spirit of Taos, no one was hurt, but Dennis sadly hurt himself.

After a some months in rehab and some attempts at Alcoholics Anonymous, Dennis relapsed. One morning he got a call from Francis Ford Copalla (who was an unknown at the time) asking him to play the role of a tremulous X green beret slash photo journalist in a film called "Apocalypse Now"circa 1979. The film was a freaked out dark saga, Joseph Conrad genesis. Dennis was primed for the part in his present state of mind, on the verge of another nervous breakdown. Actually the weirdest shit happened to allot of the people involved in the film. 

Much of the cast was unknown at the time, but are big stars today. Sam Bottoms, Lawrence Fisburne, Harrison Ford, Robert Duvall and Scott Glenn. The most bizarre casting was the Reverend Billy Graham's son, Bill Graham. Bill Jr. played a young Army officer whose presence on the set wasn't enough to keep the Devil in check. The experience with "Apocalypse Now" scared the preacher boy so much that he never acted again. Choosing to go home and live with his parents the rest of his life.

Copalla had a nervous breakdown during the film and sweated off 70 pounds. His wife had to help him finish the dark, obsessive work.

In the opening sequence , Martin Sheen (who played the GI sent to kill Col. Kurtz) gets wasted in his Saigon hotel room. This scene was shot by Copalla while Sheen was actually having a stroke. The sadistic director wouldn't cut to get Sheen to the hospital. 

Marlin Brando ( who was paid a huge sum of money to play Col. Kurtz) was "ODing" on food, booze and screwing  too many asian girls throughout the film. 

Dennis got to act out his nervous breakdown again, but this time it was on film. He was brilliant playing Colonel Kurtz's friend, a X green beret photo journalist. He would walk around Col.Kurtz's death camp, long hair, beard, Cambodian rice farmer's PJs and camera. Shaking like the Army epileptic he played on American TV circa 1960, telling anyone in ear range, using broken sentences. " He is a man…. a god, a genius, this is what the man (Kurtz) is about". Dennis did his part 88.5% ad libbed in a very raw emotional state, while wasted. 

Brando was totally out of control in this thing, like a huge Water Buffalo in heat. Marlin refused to take any direction what so ever. Copalla could have used a Hath Hathaway to break Brando's spirit here. As most people know this awesome film was a zillion dollars over budget. I would give Copalla's wife the credit here, the film poured into 300 cans, edited, unedited made it because of her. 

Dennis Hopper  was so prolific as a  actor and director, one would have to tell his story in books from A to Z His work and life is so powerful that trying to put it in a box is like gazing into the sun. By 1981 Dennis got really serious about AA and sobered up. He  has  stayed sober a long time, and gone on to do work with all the great people in the film industry, never losing his weird hipness. Recently Dennis Hopper has been diagnosed with prostate cancer and is in bed mostly at his home, hassling with his last wife. No one ever accused Dennis Hopper of not having "balls like a bull".

In closing I would like to explain how I write stories, because I don't want to confuse people who are interested in facts. This story was written in similar, but not the same fashion as Dennis Hopper's  film "Easy Rider". I take a time line or a bio and fill in the blanks writing flow of consciousness, expanding on  facts I have read in my life. So allot of the bullshit in this story is about my own addiction, nervous breakdowns and insanity. Of course, I am no Dennis Hopper, not even close. The man is on fire and this story, which was so hard to write, is only surface. 

What comes out is what you get. You might laugh at this story, it might scare you, or it might leave you cold. That has to do with who your are, not who I am. VB

My  hope is that the Great Spirit of Sierra Madre is folding Dennis Hopper in light and keeps him here with us until he is ready to go, as this is written by VB. 

DENNIS HOPPER DIED AT 74, TODAY MAY 30TH, 2010

FREE ROMAN POLANSKI

 WILL THE LA COUNTY PROSECUTORS AND RIGHT WING AMERICAN SQUARES CHASE THE MENSCH TO HIS GRAVE? 

One can garner soft information from the carefully staged and propted baby picture of RP. Roman's tiny left hand is indifferent to the Teddy Bear on the Bauhaus white box (extraordinarily modern and avant garde for 1935). The look on young boychik's face, glitch, ready to nose dive, precociousness intact. Standing like a little man, spatially, a czar and Hollywood Caesar.

Writing about Roman Polanski is tough. He is not an average person, he will be remembered with the same revere as Beethoven or Tolstoy. He is a person who has risen above horrific conditions, He has suffered harassment from 40's Nazis, and in the present day, morality avengers of the Untied States local and federal government.

Boychik grew up surrounded by coven of yenta witches, in Krakow. His father (Rszyard Liebling) was a Marxist. The Liebling house was full of adoring aunts and extended family. He had a brief moment in the sunlight, until the Nazis marched into town.

Boychik's life changed fast in 1939 when the Nazis invaded Poland. He was like baby eagle, thrown from a loving nest on a magic mountain, into the depths of the Krakow ghetto. Ghetto police, SS, used Roman for target practice once, making him hold up chunks of rotting wood as Luger fodder.  

Roman was never in Auschwitz, but his mother (Bula) died there. His father survived the war in another concentration camp. RP's dad loved Roman like moon rays. One night Rszyard did a quick change act on the SS, smuggling 6 year old Roman out of the Krakow Ghetto into hiding with a  goy family of farmers in the Polish Forest. The spartan goys were freaked out by the glitzy street hustler of the Krakow ghetto. One night, with no regards for poor Roman's safety, the putzes gave him a few stale Kuklas, and threw him into the forest. Over the next few years, while other kids were in grammar school, RP was running from the Nazis, eating roots in an underworld tail spin and black haze of Gestapo and SS terrorism.

Aside: The author sincerely believes and states from his heart, that Roman Polanski running from the Nazis as a boy is enough. He should no longer have to run from Los Angeles County prosecutors. RP in his twilight years, should be allowed to live his life out in peace after what he has gone through. In modern day enlightened Europe at least they have enough sense to leave great artist alone.

At times Roman would hide in rural bush for days, sometimes hooking up with resistance fighters, carrying ammo and supplies for them on his back. Other times RP would go it alone, hiding behind velvet curtains in small theatres. It was in these country-side Polish movie houses, lying alone, hallucinating from hunger and neglect that RP began to put himself into a trance state to escape realty, while taking in Polish film through every nerve and pore. He connected through trance and self hypnotism to his future life and never looked back, knowing with vision and soul that he would survive the Nazis. 

Roman would project the x-ray images he received in the hiding places into screenplays and film. When the war was over RP began to live a more structured life, in a more secure world (gross understatement). Still terrorized by dreams of his past. 

Roman knew right away that he wanted to make films and by 1954, still living in Poland he was accepted in the Lodz Film School.  He began making films with a small hand held camera. Simple, spartan, black and white images of lust, hate and physical torture played out in a circularly plots, at times doled out with paucity. 

Roman's boyhood with the SS made him one tough and mildly sadistic cookie. Visualise the scene in 'Chinatown' where he slits JJ Gillie's nose with a stiletto, very convincingly. There was a weird realty in the bit, and you can see Nicholson was freaked out for real, Roman would always go for real terror if he could get it from his actors. His first film circa 1953 'Rozbijemy Zabawe' (Bust Up the Dance) was part art happening and pre-reality show of sorts. RP paid the local Krakow mafia to come in and bust up a Lodz dance and filmed it. Roman was inventing dark, absurdest cinema and shaking off SS violence. 

By 1958 Roman split Poland for the Left Bank of Paris. He started making independent films. As always walking on the dark side, Rogue Morgue Avenue blue velvet and rusted iron. While in Paris he did allot of  short film work, One stand out  was 'La Gros et el Maigre', a tough love affair. The short film garnered international attention and won awards. Film Noir was prevalent during Roman's period in Paris. But Roman Polanski's dark cinema of the absurd was original, he was no Goddard copy cat.

Romans first feature length film was released in 1962 "A Knife in The Water" a simple, three act and out psycho- drama about a couple who invite a hitchhiker to go sailing and mentally abuse him for kicks. Roman would do screenplay work as well as direct here, a trend he would follow through his film career. RPs first hand knowledge and experience of sadism at the hands of the SS, drove him to strive for dark realism and true to form terror on the set. At one point during filming "A Knife in the Water" he pulled a Lugar of his pocket and fired it into the air. Roman then picked up a bullwhip and started cracking it, like a circus master, creating a mood of stark reality. He received a "Best Foreign Language Film" nomination at the Oscars for "A Knife in The Water". Evidence of how talented young Roman was. The attention RP garnered began to feed his image as a infant terrible and hellion.

Bored with Paris, RP moved to 'glitz capital' USA, Hollywood in 1965. He experimented in the B movie genre of horror-film schlock, and ganja vision. "Dance of The Vampires", a Polanski experiment stared Sharon Tate. The two opposites met and fell in love. She was gentle, peaceful, self aware and easy going. Qualities that soothed and nurtured Romans dark side and fear driven nature.

Roman Polanski was and is a very hardworking filmmaker, leaving little to chance, but never closing the door on spontaneous psycho drama. RP made two films in the United States of significance, "Rosemary's Baby" and "Chinatown". "Chinatown" is held up as a kind of "filmmakers' film" and "sacred cow" like "Citizen Kane". You can't argue its beatitude in film history, but it always puts FL to sleep. "Rosemary's Baby" is RPs greatest film. A great expression of New York City urban sophistication, stylishness, and the most realistic interpretation of a witches coven imaginable. Roman set the standard for devil films with "Rosemary's Baby". For Christ sack, he lived through true world hell at the hands of the Nazi devils. His choice of Mia Farrow and John Cassevetes (a genius director in his own right), for the lead roles was magnificent.  

By the late 60s, Roman and Sharon Tate were "jet setters" rich artist couriers, harbingers of fashion, beautiful people. These labels and the lifestyle are outdated for the most part today. The couple was part of a very select group of Hollywood A list hippies. People like the hair stylist Jay Sebring (who gave Steve McQueen his great Caesar style cuts), Jack Nicholson, Marlin Brando, Harry Dean Stanton, Michelle Phillips, Dennis Hopper. On the low end of the late 60s LA hippie chain was the bum and pussy, Charlie Manson. Charlie's Drano sucking coven broke into Roman's house while he was away. Susan Atkins, Tex, Linda all dumb fucked, burned out minds bent on hypno voodoo 666, cut up Sharon Tate with a buck knife on an evil lark, high and blind. Appalling, even more so because Sharon was pregnant. Sharon Tate was a nice person who loved everyone, not a snob. FL thinks? If there is God? For fuck sack, there just couldn't be, but? What type of twisted karma? God as the planet fucker lets good people attract evil dope devils and violent unwarranted death. Consider also, that Sharon's baby never saw the light of day. Buddhist monks would say that Roman's unborn baby had good karma not to face what Roman had to face at the hands of the SS and Gestapo. The monks would also say that Sharon and Romans angel baby will be lucky to miss out on the  horrific extremes that we the living will face in the twenty-first century.

Aside: In the deepest part of my silent inner green forest, sometimes I wonder why anyone would bring a child into this out of control planet?  Baby's as gold charms? Selfish emotional needs?. The planet Earth is like a runaway CARBON-BANK TRAIN that is taking the planet down while spewing a few cheap tricks for the rich, schmucks like the Getty family, oil and sultan monsters. I don't hate the rich, there are some green rich, and very good hearted rich. But the modus that perpetuates carbon depedence, just another buck to be made on oil at the Merch, is what will do us all in.

Of course Roman was shattered by the brutal, unfounded and sadistic executions. The murder tragedy broke Roman's "green twig". RP's life without his mother, friend, lover and muse, Sharon Tate would gravitate into a series of "acts of denial". Roman found himself unable to deal with the bile in his heart. Like many, he turned to partying, the escape of excess. Fame, beauty, talent and jet set lifestyle gave him access to the best coca, booze, women, scenes, exotic locations available.

(Circa 1974, after the release of "Chinatown")

One such exotic location, A list fun house of sorts was Jack Nicholson's house on Mulholland Dr.… A modest enough bachelor pad, coca villa and peace palace that shared a circular drive way with a similar style house owned my Marlin Brando. When it came to sexual bravado and overall freakishness, Brando the wing nut gladiator had a most peculiar outlook.

But let's get back to the Jack man's pad. Brando preferred to fuck and dope up alone, but Jack man enjoyed having  pals around. With a mind like a squirrel, the Jack man would always keep separate stashes of booze, coca and weed. The B and D grade stashes were for women, screenwriters, critics, Mexican gardeners and cops. A grade stash was for women he wanted to fuck and close pals like Art Garfunkel, Roman Polanski and Lou Adler.

Jack man's house was an ongoing party house for the select that were allowed past security at the front gate. Roman had open invitation to Jack man's house and was welcome at any of the "hip" Hollywood party houses of the Aquarius era. Roman was using on a daily basis, still trying to lock out his pain. RP got a call from Jack man one afternoon, Roman was sitting in the bar of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. Jack told him that an aspiring actress wanted to audition for him and would like to meet Roman at Jack man's house that night. Roman was half in the bag by the afternoon already. Jack man was going to New York that evening so Polanski could have the fuck nest on Mulholland Dr. to himself for the budding stars audition.

Aside: The Jack man had no ideal what was going on and was duped by (Vickys) mother as was Roman. In no way  does  FL's story allude to any guilt or wrong doing on the part of Jack man Nicholson.

Roman went straight from the Beverly Wilshire Hotel to Jack man's coca lounge. Roman was on a bender and wasn't eating. Once comfortably settled into the palace RP garnered all the A grade  stash and opened a bottle of Hennessy Cognac. RP was laying on the living room floor, strung out, when the guest bell rang at the front gate. Roman looked out the window and noticed an older women in a Cadillac dropping off a young women at the gate. She was allowed into the yard by security, Roman met her at the front door. 

Let's call her Vicky. Vicky was a very mature 14 year old who looked 20 years old. Her mother, the beard, was a grifter and set the hook using Vicky as squid. Vicky was no virgin, she had been pimped since she was 12 to feed mamas heroin habit. Vicky and Roman smoked some weed and drank cognac. Roman was in a blue haze, after very little conversation he invited her to the hot tub in Jack man's back yard. There was no talk of audition or future film projects. More over, there was a jaded romp, coca on the genitals, oral sex and a fuck in the tub. Roman was so loaded he didn't know if Vicky was 60 or 14. After a hot shower and a couple of shots of Russian Vodka, Vicky called her mom to pick her up. Roman gave her $1500 for the romp. 

This is not a case of pedophilia, Vicky's  mother was a fucking vulture and Roman was duped. Later Vicky's mother received a further settlement from Roman which went up her arm. Vicky has exonerated Roman years ago and just wants to live a normal life, after being raised by a demon.

When word got out that Vicky was only 14, the LA County prosecutor indicted Roman for having sex with a minor. 

During the years of the Reagan Governorship, there was a movement by Orange County conservatives, Walt Disney  Gene Audry and John Birch to bust Hollywood's A list hippies. The heat was put on LA Vice and Narco squads to bust the "hippy" movie stars. Roman knowing the right wing Reagan and John Birch squares would throw the book at him as example, skipped bail and split for Europe. Roman is a unique personality in that his time spent in the Krakow Ghetto, sadistically persecuted by the SS and Gestapo left him with a phobic mania and deep fear of being locked up. 

Once settled in France, a country that has more understanding about the nature of sex and love as it is, not as is written in law books. Roman continued to direct. 

Aside: Two films which are standouts "Tess" a adaption of a Thomas Hardy novel, staring Roman's new girl friend,  Natasha "Hot Lips" Kinski, was a lovely romp with the feel of "love in the potato patch on the Tolstoy commune". The second film worth mentioning is "The Pianist" autobiographical, a Jew running from the Nazis in World War II. This was Adrian Brody's break out film and Roman captures the freakishness and fear of being on the run from the Gestapo immaculately. 

In closing, a breif defence of Roman Polanski by Marshal Dillon and Chester. Let's make two lists, split a page in half and on the first slice write the names of all who have enjoyed and benefited from the art of this gifted human being Roman Polanski. And on the second slice, list the names of those two or three who might have suffered from Roman's misguided lust, which is iffy at best. Now, list the names of all those who want to put Roman Polanski in the Puritan's Pit. 

Do the addition or subtraction and take the liberty to judge for yourself and ask yourself the question "Does Roman really deserve to be judged by a rat fink, like Michael Douglas, whose jack ass self preceeds him? Or other Putitans?

Harley Ride in 1969 Deer Woman

In 1969 it was the sweet summer of love all over the world.  The Rolling Stones had released "Honky Tonk Woman"  and were throwing a mammoth party attended  by 200,000 in Hyde Park, London. Mick Jagger released thousands of white doves to fly free, into the air, each carrying a Jasmine peddle to evoke Buddha spirit.

About the same time in 1969, Victor Burgundy was getting ready for graduation from Wentworth Military Academy High School in Lexington, Missouri. Wentworth was a second rate private school that Victor attended because he couldn't get into St. Johns. He excelled in History, English Literature and played football quitting after breaking his nose in three places his sophomore year. VB refused to wear a face guard because he felt it would hide his pretty face. After the hit his face and mind would be bent the rest of his life.

Young Victor had a gift for gab and a telepathic imagination. He had a plan and wanted his family to forgo his graduation. He asked his ma, Pauly Mai to lend him some money. He planned to buy a Harley "shovel head" police unit so he could get of town fast. 

When the long anticipated graduation day came in June, VB had all the stash in place. He had bought a  67 Road King  with a "shovel head" engine with a  eight ball suicide clutch and a kick start at a Missouri Highway Patrol auction. The bike had police options. It was in meticulous condition because of regular maintenance. Victor had a  rain suit, leather coat, some overalls and kilo of Thai stick. He tied his rolled army issued pup tent with sleeping bag side ways behind the large leather saddle. He stored his Harley in a stall at the school stables, a old run down barn with some sway backs, rustled from the glue factory. For Victor getting out of military school in Bumsfuck Missouri was like receiving  a get out of jail card dropped from heaven by Jefferson Davis, freeing VB from Andersonville.   

VB would often go to the stable ( heavy with trees, free and open land) smoke dope with pals, camp and swim the horses in the near by Missouri river. Often they would go fishing for Cat Fish and Suckers, cooking them on sticks over camp fires. These were happy Sundays out of uniform. One time a friend, Tom Minter, drowned himself and his horse trying to make it across the strong current of the Missouri. Making it across was a talent you had to develop. They finally retrieved old Tom's body still hung up in the reins with his horse " The Clock" near the Gulf of Mexico, in the Mississippi. Too bad, knowing Tom he would have rather gone all the way out to sea with his horse, Viking style. Tom Minter and "The Clock" RIP.

Graduation was over at 2pm on Sunday. Victor didn't even bother to say good by, he threw his diploma and uniform in a dumpster, running in his boxer shorts as rain poured down. When he got to the stables his white pony was ready to rumble, hidden under a green tarp on a bed of straw. VB pushed the heavy bike up a dirt path, unto the road, choked it, throttled it, gave the kickstart peddle a mighty push, turning the engine over the second time. 

Victor was off and running like a bat out of hell, grinding  every gear on every shift of the suicide clutch. You really needed a extra hand or foot to ride them. He roared over the old black metal, riveted Missouri River bridge, leaving Lexington Hell at legal speed. Once out on I- 70 Victor was getting in clutch groove.

It was dark so VB made a pit stop in Independence, the home of Harry Truman. At the Standard Station he checked his oil (no leakage , amazing for Harley's of the time) tire pressure and tanked up. He slipped into a liquor store and bought vodka and Prince Albert in a can . The rain had stopped so he chose to ride through Kansas City and headed for Lawrence, Kansas

Lawrence was  the home of  " The University of Kansas" and William Burroughs was born here. VB made it downtown at 10pm and headed straight for Skip's bar, a local collage hangout. In 69 not allot of people were riding Harleys. When VB backed his Harley into a empty spot in front of Skip's, 60 college kids emptied out to watch. Skips was a great bar with allot of river wood paneling, old oars and Moose heads, shit like that. The coeds were were hot, perfect 10s all over the place. Once VB got to the bar rail no buddy would let him buy a drink, he drank Coors in baby cans. The big Peavy speakers were blaring the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Canned Heat, Muddy Waters and of course Three Dog Night's, "Momma Told Me Not to Come". VB WAS KING OF THE WORLD, FREE AT LAST!

Sittin alone in the corner of Skips at a heavy wooden table was a beautiful Native American girl, she looked like Joan Baez. On the wall over her head was a fake stuffed, White Buffalo head with piercing blue eyes. She wore white buck skin with hand bead work. Her hair was unwashed, crow color, in native braids. VB offered to by her a drink. She was a heavy drinker, so she was thankful for the free drinks. We started to chat and Victor could feel his huge horse cock doing back flips and thrusting forward like a dragon. He hadn't been laid in 4 years at military school.

Her name in the  White-man's  world was Stella Mae but "skins" called her " Deer Woman". She was hitchhiking  to visit her grandfather the great Native American medicine man "Crow Dog". He had a lodge on Pine Ridge Indian Reserve in South Dakota. As it turned out both Victor and Deer Woman were on the loose and didn't have a place to stay that night. VB SLAM DUNK! Deer Woman was about to get the banging of her life, VB let out a war whoop so loud that everything in the bar seemed to stop. So loud in fact that booth he and Stella Mae got 86ed from Skips. 

The lovers walked into a dark alley way. VB lit some Thai stick mixed with China White . Deer Woman took two hits and fell to her knees. VB toked for awhile and he and Deer Woman were in a "energetic mass" covered in white mystic fallout. As the sky began to open, Deer Women began to fumble with Victor's zipper, giving primo head of a higher consciousness.

Deer Woman jumped on the bitch seat of VBs Road King, the engine was cold but started easily . God what a feeling  ridding  into the night with DW holding on, way out there, two love Coyotes! We were crashing and burning, about 30 miles out of town VB pushed down hard on the right handle bar and derailed the ole razorback deep into a cornfield, slipping the eight ball clutch on the tank into neutral and finally layin his pony down. We could have passed out on the spot, but DW insisted on putting up the pup tent. We hopped in, snuggling and sipping vodka from VBs skull shaped flask. 

The next day was dry the air had straw smell. The sun felt good, it turned out the cornfield the love couple went down in the night before was a sunflower field. The smell of  tractor diesel fuel caused VB and DW to dry puke some. Hunched near us was a old Kansas farmer in overhauls wearing a sun bleached ODseeds cap. He looked at VB and said "did you steal that motorsickal from the po000lice boy"? Grinning and spittin some Red Man. Most farmers back then didn't care any more bout the "po000lice" than VB did. Red was sending black steel radio waves towards Deer Woman. Then bursting forward, Deer Woman put both her arms around Red and put her tongue deep into his mouth. Old Red's  20 ton mule hide neck turned 50 shades of red. He invited VB and DW back to his farm house for some brunch. He introduced us to his old lady, mighty kind.  Red's  wife was called Mag. We enjoyed pancakes, home smoked bacon, home made biscuits, fresh farm eggs and Hobo Nut coffee. It turned out Red and  Mag (she looked pure n sweet,white hair in braids with flower dress and white apron), never had kids. They were just gonna keep farming till they dropped on the land. Deer Woman liked that allot, this way of dying, on the earth, falling.  She told them she would make a Indian burial mound under a 100 year old Cotton Wood Tree on their land, when they were ready, they could go lay together and die.

Once back on I-70 West VB and Deer Woman got into brawl while making  a pit stop at Stucky's station near Junction City. Maybe it was the sugar rush. They were eating boxes of peanut brittle washed down with coffee, DW said she wanted to get to Pine Ridge in no less than three days. It would be her grand pa Crow Dog's birthday. VB had other plans, he wanted to go Southwest to New Mexico and party in Taos.  Maybe spending some time at the Limbo Foundation with Mama Bum Rush and the spirit people . VB and DW where smoking Thai stick and drinking vodka from his skull flask 24/7 now. VB had this insane ideal that he could go to the Limbo Foundation and be greeted like a returning holy man.

Tanked up and ready to roll, police unit stoked and rumbling, VB watched Deer Woman, freshly made up, sashaying stealth rumba tango out the girl's room making a B line for and climbing into the the cab of a Peter Built with South Dakota plates. Not even looking back at VB. She had used her charm and schmoozed a cowboy (who was hauling  mustangs) into giving her a ride to Pine Ridge, not wanting to miss Crow Dogs birthday.

Later VB found out the cowboy was shit canned by a bunch of drunk skins at Pine Ridge and had caught gonorrhea from Deer Women, as told by a numeroligist in Vegas.

VB was dumb fucked, but he new the  bronco buster slash rodeo clown didn't have a kilo of Thai stick. And he learned how strong willed Sioux women were. VB was destined for the higher calling of a holy man at the Limbo Foundation. He decided to get the hell out of Dodge City, Kansas and far away from fucking I 70, the scene of Deer Woman's hiatus. He headedsouth down rural Highway 50 towards Sugar City through small towns made of cinder block, the locals would stare at VB on his Road King like he was a circus freak. He liked to ham it up for simple country folk, give em a thrill. While stopping  for vodka, he would walk around town like Tony the Tramp with a bull whip. He could do rawhide tricks, snap cigarettes out of tree stumps and bar room stools. 

Sometimes pulling  off a empty road, VB would smoke dope and take nips of vodka from his flask.He would take off down road, putting his feet up on the handle bars riding 33 MPH, like he was sittin on a easy chair in a living room. All the time the dry air and corn fields flowed like green rivers going by in total silence. This beat the living shit out of watching American Idol.

Reaching Sugar City (pop 7689) about 9am. VB tanked up Police Unit, and looked for a cheap motel. He had been sleeping outside and not washing much, as well as, eating allot of  green corn that made him feel like puking. VB rolled into a dump with a neon sign that read  "Circus Motel".  He waited in the 50s deco style front office and rang the desk bell. A not so hot blonde, smoking a cigar, in a see through blue   nighty appeared. She  had a set of  4Os, D cup. Her tits were hanging some and she had huge brown skin pierced nipples. VB noticed a Green Mermaid tattoo on her neck. She asked VB to stay with her in her room behind the front desk because she was lonely. Cool enough, her name was Sharon and her room was like the inner sanctum of a freak show. It was paneled with wood painted black, there were allot small lamps covered with purple lace. Her family pictures  looked like a Diane Arbus exhibition. It turned out Sharon's father had ran a freak show for Ringling Brothers circus.

She came on to VB (still sick from green corn) and he puked all over her. That seemed to turn her on some. When Victor got his big greasy finger in her pussy, wet feathers fell out all over the place. The two loveless and sick birds ended up passing out on each other. The next day Sharon made VB some waffles and coffee, tearfully sending him off. But first she wanted a ride on on the back of VBs Road King. It was like freak show day in Sugar City. She didn't even bother to change her nighty with puke on it. VB and Sharon pulled right up to Sugar City Hall and parked. Sharon did a hippie dance and Victor did some bullwhip tricks, everybody started throwing money.

VB headed out of Sugar City,  southwest on Route 28. It was easy and uneventful, clear riding, passing through Ulysses, Kansas. A few hours latter he made it to Comanche National Grassland Park in Colorado. Victor wanted to camp and lay back here, do some soul searching. The circus freak scene in Sugar City was fun but not uplifting.

After a few weeks of total psychedelic purity and warlock soul travel in Comanche central,  VB ran out of Vodka and beef jerky.  He felt high and purified, a true long body rider ready to share his beautiful inner being  and purple throbbing aura with Mama Bum Rush and the spirit people at the Limbo Foundation in Taos.

He pulled the the tarp off Police Unit, checked the oil, brushed the white pony off. Open the gas line, caped the battery, cleaned the spark plugs some with a wire brush, choked it. Only three sweet kicks on the shovel head starter peddle and…. the beautiful sounds only a Harley can make. 

Deer Woman had left a pair of her braided buckskin breeches in VBs saddle box. It was a the oldest love gesture known  from women to man. Leaving some of her sweet scented deer spirit behind to guide him back to her soul. 

VB took to the road shirtless with his bullwhip wrapped around his waste like a cummerbund, wearing DWs buck skins. And of course, his WW 2 tank commander goggles (which kept bugs out of the eyes). He never wore a helmet, in 1969 helmet laws were dada. You could scramble your fuckin brains any old way you wanted during the summer of love.

Taos, New Mexico was only a 3 hour drive from Comanche territory on Route 64 through Trinidad and Cimeron. When VB got to Taos he asked a  KFC clerk how to get to the Limbo Foundation. He said "dude  you mean them gay weirdoes out by Sphincter pass"? VB, the holy brahmin messenger of love, pulled Police Unit onto front ground of the Limbo foundation at lunch time. He was sick, relying heavily on the Thai Stick and Vodka. He was greeted by some high spirit zombies who asked him to meditate with them in a silly little circle jerk of sorts. During the chanting Victor pulled out some Thai stick and his skull flask. He lit a joint and tried to pass the shit around. It was as though a alarm went off, all the love turned to hate. The Limbo spirit people started giving VB nasty looks. A security guard who looked like Chuck Norris in yoga pants started making threatening moves on VB, telling him to leave the grounds. VB uncoiled his bullwhip and stood the dude back some, skillfully removing a few centimeters of his foreskin in one rawhide crack. In a flash of light the Sheriff had VB in handcuffs on the way back to the Taos jail, were he was booked disruption of mantra. 

The Sheriff allowed Victor to make a few calls. VB called his mother Pauly Mae in Milwaukee and asked if she could wire a few bucks to give to the church. She agreed being the a big sweet pea she was. She then asked Victor where he had been and if could mail his diploma home? He told his Ma he was looking for a job. Pauly Mae then told Victor he got a official looking letter from the  Department of the Army which she took the liberty to open. She then red the shattering news. "Victor William Burgundy is requested to report to Fort Sheridan, Illinois on said date next month to begin processing  to enter the United States Army". 

Victor William Burgundy, sitting in a Taos jail, drafted as of June, 1969 the party was over for awhile.