The crackle and spat of an old rusty Triumph echoes off of the buildings on Tiple Street, and in front of the Mudcat Tavern, the dusty wizened rider brings it to a halt, kickstand down, he breaks the dirt-seal of the cracked leather goggles and shoves them up to his forehead."I've been here before,"he mumbles and smiles to himself. Passers-by avoid making eye-contact with the rider, for his eyes are too wide, his smile a bit gleeful for stranger comfort. His clothing is a motley assortment of colors and patterns, and on the back of the battered brown leather jacket is stencilled God's Own Fool. A man in a suit, carrying a mandolin case, stands near... consciously ignoring the Fool. "watch my bike, will you friend," smiles the Fool to the unheeding bystander. Befrore entering the Tavern, the Fool slaps his outfit randomly, producing an awesome cloud of the dust of several time zones, decades,past lovers... and then heaving the handle of the bar, he leaves this atmosphere hovering like a disappearing memory on the street.

"I'll have the usual," he tells the amused bartender," but this time without the ice."

"And that would be...?"

"Frigid pieces of solid water. People like it who drink for comfort, but I have decided to drink for truth." And so the bartender serves him a tumbler of whiskey, as the Fool tosses his dirty gloves onto the bar, and downs the liquor in one gulp."Nice try," he says and wipes his lips on the bandanna wound round his neck, smiling."Now bring out the good stuff. The real stuff. I want to see Heaven reflecting on the brim, and angels wading in the dregs. I would like nothing less than a jarful of the Summer of Love, a 1967 vintage. I want to hear Quicksilver humming like a tuning fork when the heat hits my veins, Ginsburg ranting about the naked night, Ochs grappling with a rhyme,the Pentagon levitating,Gaia's pulse palpitating, the seasons turning and tumbling around me like a rolling wave, while I break free at the roaring edge. I want to take it all in... and then I want to transcend it."

The bartender keeps a respectful distance from the Holy Fool as he pushes another whiskey toward him.