http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LMc-T6z0YyM&feature=youtube_gdata_player
I went to see the movie Easy Rider. Two freaks on their motorcycles (Dennis Hopper, Peter Fonda) decide to go to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras. Along the way they pick up Jack Nicholson. Before they go to the Mardi Gras they drop some acid, but not much happens as I recall. except another example of how impossible it is to capture the internal psychedlic experience externally, i.e on film. At the end of the movie, Dennis Hopper is riding his motorcycle by himself when he is passed by two Southern good ol’ boys (driving a pickup, shotguns on their rack) who yell out at him: “Get a haircut.” Hopper gives them the finger.
A gun barrel protrudes and then there’s an explosion the shotgun blows away Hopper and his motorcycle, the explosion echoing through the theater. The pickup drives away but turns around and then blows away Fonda, too, the bits and pieces of his flaming motorcycle fall earthward and drop on the road and then explode. As the pickup drives away, the movie ends. The culture wars had begun.
“What the fuck do they wanna do that for?” I yell suddenly anxious and uptight. “Now I want to go out and blow up some motherfucker for blowing him up. What the fuck good does it do? It just makes people crazy, that’s what it does. It just polarizes people. It’s fucking insane.” My friends look at me strangely. But now I look around me, wondering where the next crazy bastard with a shotgun is. Paranoid again.
In England I had learned to love waking up in the morning, walking by the local store with the aroma of freshly roasted coffee breathing into the street, without having to wonder whether someone was going to take a shot at me, or whether some friend was going to be drafted, or whether some other friend was going to O.D. America, 1969. Too Goddamn Intense. FROM AN AMERICAN STORY
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