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C.I.A. Brat - true memoir
Amazon
Adventure1
Category:
Biography
Publisher: Adventure1.com
Pages: 288
Copyright: 2014
ISBN-13: 9781879338210
Price: $9.00 (eBook)
True memoir of how a budding R&B musician survived the 1960's, drugs, and a nutzoid mom.
The term 'CIA brat' is derived from the term, 'army brat.' The connection, in this case is the author's father, an immigrant who started with America's OSS (Office of Strategic Services) during WWII as liaison with the Danish Underground, and stayed on as OSS transformed to become the CIA. The mention of 'drugs,' in the subtitle is in the context of recreational drugs used in the late 1960's, because that was when the author was in his late teens and enmeshed in being a hippie. The term, 'nutzoid mom,' may sound denigrating, yet it's likely every American family of that era had at least some dysfunctional members. However, if there was a Razzie-like prize for most nutzoid mom, the woman described in the memoir might be a top contender.
Kim was Born in Denmark in 1952 and, due to his father's various postings, wound up changing schools 11 times, spread over 5 countries. There were sheltered elitist times as well as 'down in the dumps' times – some triumphs as well as some low points, such as: spending a belladona-addled night in jail during the Newport Jazz Festival. The memoir contains more than a few head-bashingly close calls, some examples; two angry van drivers near Paris, a sexually frustrated bus driver wielding a metal bar in Madrid, two junkies from D.C. who had their drug-money heist spoiled, and saving an 80 lb. teenaged gal from getting raped by four 350 pounders along the Chesapeake Bay bridge. Some of the many tangential topics ruminated about in this memoir include; describing the pineal gland and how it relates to spiritual experiences, death according to blues/folk-legend Elizabeth Cotton, how to form a gigging R&B band, lucid dreaming, and why Nixon's transcribed tapes were so rife with 'expletive deleted.'
Excerpt
Majorca, Mediterranean beach resort, 1967:
The parties at that pad were houte-couture mixed with flower power. Speaking of Flower Power: that defined his younger brother Cedric. The first time I met Ced, he was at Derek’s ice cream sandwich booth. He was alternating between eating ice cream and smoking a doobie, one in each hand. He offered me a toke, right there in the middle of the day, with tourists all over. He was wearing an unbuttoned brown buckskin jacket with his hairy chest showing, but his most distinguishing feature was the hair on his head. Long, partially brushed, dirty golden - he had to be the coolest hippie for miles around. Oh, and the Harley Davidson.
Ron was particularly impressed with Cedric who had that quality, so particular to the coolest hippies: the ‘gift of gab.’ Ced was witty all the time, but it was particularly evident when everyone around him was too drunk and stoned to function, how Cedric would have his funny observations going full throttle.
Somehow, Ron had gotten hold of a sheepskin jacket. It wasn’t just sheep’s wool, it was the actual hide of a sheep with the wool still on it. It was worn with the hide against skin, and off-white wool showing, and came down nearly to his sandals. When Ron and Ced were standing together, down by the boardwalk on a hot summer’s evening, it was a sight to behold. Neither wore more than a swimsuit under their jackets. Ron with his dirty blond jacket and long black hair, Ced with his brown buckskin jacket, with 8 inch tassels and his nearly dreadlock blond curls cascading over his shoulders. Both had their jackets open, baring hairy chests. If you wanted to know where the hippest (or hippiest) party was on any given night, follow those two guys.
One fine day, us four guys in the band called the 'New Things,' went to a hotel called Formentor. It’s the same name used for one of the smaller Balearic islands, but this hotel was on Majorca. It was white, large, and majestic. It was designed to be accessed only by pleasure boats, but we got there by driving along a terrible back country road which was probably only used by construction crews when building the place. When we got there, we went through the giant lobby and came out on the hotel’s rear terrace. It was as big as a baseball diamond, all tiled and landscaped, with fountains, gazebos, alcoves, sculptures, and flowering trees. The view of the Mediterranean was magical, particularly with the host’s super yacht moored nearby. In the center of the courtyard was a giant circular table with a gaggle of glitterati types. At its head was a white haired man, impeccably clad in a dashing white suit. The hotel valets tried to usher us boys out, saying in hushed tones, “This is a private party. You must leave now.”
When the host saw we were being asked to leave, he called out magnanimously; “No, it’s alright. Everyone is welcome here. Let these young men come and join us at this table.” We felt like instant nobility. We found out a bit later, the host was #2 shipping magnate of the world. #1, at that time, was Ari Onassis, who had made headlines by marrying John F. Kennedy’s widow, Jackie. Not only did we partake in a feast fit for princes, but I alone was invited onto the super-yacht boat by the host’s daughter.
She was a couple of years older than me and looked like a cross between a princess and a super-model. We spun records for at least an hour, until I heard my buddies calling out for me over the water from the hotel terrace; “Hey Kim. What’s up? It’s getting dark and we gotta go. We gotta drive that god-forsaken road back to do a gig tonight. Kim, come on!”
The lady and I had been drinking white wine and spinning 45‘s from her ample collection. She took my hand and asked me to stay, even saying she could get me a job as a deckhand. Our eyes met and for a suspended moment, I considered staying on board. How things might have been different if I had sailed away on the ship, hand in hand with a latter-day princess. Then again, I might have got tossed overboard, or drop-kicked off the ship at the next port of call.
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