Zack Armstrong

If ever there was a time for a brightly colored bus, packed full of people, heads full of acid, to drive the country with no other mission than to have fun and no other destination than further, it was - without a doubt - the 1960s. But if ever there was a time for a repeat trek, it is the now and the present and the past two months or so. The disquiet and uneasy haze that has been confusing and weighing us down recently could use a good broadside from a careening fun-bus driven by a lunatic with complete control.

But alas, alas - the captain is dead.

"Have you heard? Ken Kesey died today. I can't believe it."

This is a line from an e-mail that a friend sent me. I hadn't heard from him in months, but he was suddenly inspired to write. It was Saturday, Nov. 10, the morning that Kesey died, and before I was finished checking my inbox, I had three separate notifications. Word traveled fast. And those were just the e-mails.

It became a main topic of conversation for the majority of the weekend.

First, it was with my roommates, one of whom received e-mails of his own. Next, it was the talk at work and then finally at a drunken Veteran's Day barbecue. Everyone seemed to know and everyone wanted to make sure that everyone else knew so it was heard again and again, spoken as though it was being revealed for the first time.

It was strange. I cannot recall ever having conversations about him with any of the people, but now they were so abundant; a secret love held close until tragedy pried it loose.

As many times as I discussed it though, I never really spoke with anyone (italics) about (end italics) him. Most conversations consisted of a list of the hard facts: complications with cancer; it was his liver; he was diagnosed with diabetes just under 10 years ago.

And that was peppered with the repetition of the phrases like: "I can't believe it" and "I (italics) can't (end italics) believe it."

We never really got in to discussing him, his work and his ideas.

But, I for one, just didn't know how to say it. Still don't. I am sitting here right now looking down at his books - plus one by Tom Wolfe - and trying desperately to figure out how to express what he has meant to me and it isn't easy.

What do you say about the end of a man's life?

I can exclaim that he did mean something to me and try to express how much with a series of hand gestures and comparisons, but that doesn't sound like enough. I could say that I'm going to miss knowing that he's around, but that somehow falls short, too.

But, I guess the best way to honor such a man is simply to talk about him. We need to talk about who he was and what he wanted and remember just how great that would be.

It is tragic that it took his death to bring his name to the surface, but the more that I think about it, his ideas seem more real to me now than they ever have before. I have never known another time in my life when the rumble of the combine has been so staggeringly loud and there is no one's voice I would rather hear screaming through the din, than Kesey's.

But I can't.

I am willing to settle though, on the next best thing. Let's just talk about him. Not only to honor the life of the man who meant so much to us, but also to remember how good his ideas are, and why we can and should still try to take them further today.

I know this guy who just bought a bus and I've got some spray paint so all we need is and a bunch of green Kool-Aid and hmmm· something else. If you have "something else" and you are not an undercover police officer, please contact me at once. It is time to say goodbye Ken.

You will be missed and missed in style.