The next day we were invited to a strange and lovely garden party at a sprawling idyllic rural compound located right in the middle of the world’s largest and most populated metropolis.
The beautiful home belonged to Timothy Leary’s widow, Barbara and her new husband, the cool and hospitable Brazilianarre art collector, Kim Esteve — another friend of Cousin Theo’s. Who the fuck doesn’t Theo know in São Paulo?
The house itself was like a live-in museum with framed Kerouac poems, historical photographs and post-modernist art dotting the walls as far as the eye could see. Strange, eccentric high-society types wandered about like Free-Range Aristocrats. There were also some younger and hip-looking rock n roll types lurking around the grounds — including Derrick from Sepultura, Marky Ramone and a Caviar-toting ex Miss Russia, who gave my girl piano lessons. Miss Russia cringed visibly when I showed her a small section of the new Russian translation of Narcisa — before assuring me that the language was “rich and beautiful” in Russian — albiet “very disturbing.” Mission accomplished again! Next stop, Russia.
After a delicious lunch prepared and served by the gracious and elegant Barbera Leary, her husband Kim gave my girl and I a VIP tour of his stately mansion and art collection.
“I hope these woman don’ put too much LSD in the food!” My girl whispered as we followed our host across the sprawling lawn to check out another wing of his home museum, housing one of the world’s most extensive private collections of Fine Art.
I assured her it was probably cool. Emboldened perhaps at the idea of actually being able to maintain her hard-earned soberiety, even in the company of the late Acid Guru’s woman, she unceremoniously walked over to the also-sober Marky Ramone and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey you!” She growled. “Is true you the guy who make that music, Psycho-therapy!?”
Marky nodded graciously.
“Fock, man, that’s a great song! Hey Joni, take my picture with the Psycho-therapy guy, go go!”
Finally, the party began to wind down. The Psycho-Therapy Guy left, along with a bunch of other people. Most of the remaining guests had been driniking heavily since early afternoon. It was well after dark now, and many of them were beginning to babble incoherantly. Barbara Leary had disappeared and Cousin Theo was nowhere to be found. It was time to take our leave of Sao Paulo and catch a flight home to Rio at last.
We were kindly offered a ride to the airport by one of the visiting hallucinating dignitaries – who promptly sideswiped a pine tree with his BMW on the way out of the compound. When I suggested he let me drive his car, he laughed and said he loved to drive his shiny new Beemer. After bouncing off a couple more trees like an acid-addled pinball, he finally got us out onto the highway.
“I wish you could see what I’m seeing now.” He said to nobody in particular as my girl assumed a duck-and-cover position in the back seat. Miraculously we made it to the airport in one piece, and our new friend continued his magical mystery tour solo. Hope he made it home alive. The most important thing, though, is that we did!
At the ticket counter we were informed there were no more flights to Rio till morning so we caught a taxt to the bus station. The cab driver, luckily, was sober and entertained us with stories about his own narrow escape from the ravages of crack addiction. Adeus, São Paulo. Hello, Rio.
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Trippy, man!…
“too much acid in the food.” LOL
man finally found you, i see you have made a nitch for yourself. You still on touch with Romeo. Sorry to hear about Terry and are living in Santa Theresa? John I am coming back to Brazil for a tour soon i really want to hook up I hope you get this email. Does Gregory still live in laranjeras? I bet you still have contact with Branca as well, she always had the hots for you.
CONTACT ME david.ieginc@gmail.com