Bovine Serenade
by Bessie the Cow
Chapter 8: Westward Ho!
You probably didn't know that robotic bovines are naturally intuitive, that we have premonitions and can sense events happening before they do. But we are.
"So, Bessie, how'd you like to move to LA?"
Gulp. Why not ask me how I felt about catching Mad Cow Disease? Let's just say my initial reaction wasn't "wildly ecstatic."
"Yes, no, maybe so?" For a human, Kinn displayed unusual levels of empathy. Nonetheless, the proven scientific fact that dairy cows happen to possess remarkable emotional sensitivity seemed largely lost on him.
I reached into my bag of witty retorts, but couldn't pull out anything applicable for this particular situation.
"And?"
And I was ruminating, chewing over the ramifications. Humans can be so dense. When they think about the most intelligent beings in the "animal kingdom," the usual suspects like orangutans, dolphins, elephants and octopuses likely spring to mind. Dairy cows don’t make the list. They're always astonished when we solve problems and display intelligence. Well I may be a slow mover, but I'm a quick learner. It wasn't like I couldn't see where Kinn was coming from. I could. Not that it made it any less terrifying.
As I assessed the situation, the good news was that after playing FAC we now had irrefutable evidence that dazzling crowds of 7,000 was no problem for us at all.
The bad news, for those of us naturally resistant to change, was that now that we'd proved that it was no big deal to dazzle crowds of 7,000, there was no reason to think that we couldn't get the exact same reaction from audiences of 70,000. But herding them all into one huge feed lot—I mean "venue"—would take some doing. That step required assistance from "industry types." There weren't a whole lot of these "A&R men," managers, booking agents, publicists and so on doing business in Colorado among the pine trees, dirt roads, and rock formations. No, these types generally stoked the starmaking machinery in big cities replete with palm trees, freeways, and an ocean—someplace like the show biz capital of America, El Lay California. Being where the industry lives and plays was the argument for going west right there. Of course, every argument comes with a counterargument.
You see, as much as I enjoyed Kinn's company, even a being made from papier-mâché, spare Erector set parts, and a junkyard windshield wiper pump could tell that he was being seduced by the materialistic concept of more. I knew that this Victor Levine character—Kinn's childhood friend and would-be Milkmen manager who was supposedly a Hollywood hotshot even though Kinn and Silva had to pay his way to Colorado to come check us out—had been trying his best to sell Kinn on the concept of how much plunder could be ours for the taking from conquering The Golden State. We just needed the right general to lead the siege: him. The fact that I thought Kinn had been doing a pretty good job leading the troops might not carry much weight. In any event, this Victor character was dangling carrots like a free album that we could record at Crystal Sound and access to his purported connections with movers and shakers.
While the part about Victor being a hotshot Hollywood band manager seemed kinda fishy, he actually did manage Crystal Sound. He'd wangled the job by virtue of his previous stint at now-defunct Northstar Studios in Boulder, which had been conveniently owned by his brother-in-law who'd fleeced a bunch of drug dealers into investing in a tricked out facility which looked an awful lot like the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. It was now defunct because an even grander facility, Caribou Ranch, had opened its doors for business at exactly the same time ... only that facility was up in the mountains, grandly set in an aspen grove in a national forest, decked out with deluxe log cabins where "rock royalty" could chill for months as they split their time between whatever sybaritic pleasures they could devise and making recording history.
During our previous chats, Kinn had casually dropped the fact that, per Victor, the decor of Crystal Sound was dominated by displays of gleaming gold, platinum, or multi-platinum records hanging from every available inch of wall space. These mega-sellers had been recorded by what I presumed to be human luminaries with names like Stevie Wonder, Bob Seger, and James Taylor.
Now it wasn't like I couldn't see why Kinn would be sorely tempted to try to "make it" in a city where would-be stars typically relocated for precisely that purpose—and some small percentage of them actually did. The small problem was defining "making it." Was performing in front of 7,000 lusting milkmaids and milkmates, making a few thousand 1982 dollars for playing 45 minutes, and being fawned over by an adoring press somehow not "making it?" Hold that thought.
Regarding the free album bait, itwas true, with my help, Kinn and Silva had come up with a batch of catchy material they could hardly wait to record. They'd never recorded an entire album before. It had always been four songs here, six songs there. That was a major temptation. To date, we'd done so well with our studio efforts, that it was hardly stretching imagination to believe that we could be signed to a major deal on the basis of having a complete great album "in the can," one that was recorded at a fabulous studio which was justifiably famous for hatching so many superhits. That would have eliminated all risk for the record company. I hear tell they loved that. If we indeed became a "signed act," Kinn's dream of "coating the continent in milky effluvium" the same way we'd already coated the Rocky Mountain region with the same whimsical enzyme, would be well within reach..
On a rational level, it all made perfect sense. Why then was I filled with such a deep sense of dread? Why was the thought of moving making me despondent? Maybe it was because I didn't have a human ego. Maybe it was because I'd been hanging out with legendary beat poets who all had Buddhist leanings; they were encountered all over Boulder thanks to having plum teaching jobs at Naropa Institute's renowned Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poets, an outpost for the intelligentsia where affluent and often neurotic New Yorkers who could afford to buy enlightenment mingled with big-time beat poets and Buddhists in a Tibet-like setting in the Rockies. And maybe it was because bovine instinct told me that both Kinn and I already were "making it" right where we were.
Take me, for example:
- I had a well-paying job
- I had my own truck
- I had a plentiful assortment of fashionable accessories
- I had numerous friends
- I had an outlet for my talents
- I was a celebrity recognized everywhere I went
- My every need was catered to
I knew that on the Buddhist path, spiritual masters recognize those sort of advantages as enough.
In addition to those advantages, I was keenly aware of how lucky I was to be that rare cow who's made it in a world which harbored abominations like veal houses and Big Food factory livestock farms. These were revolting enough for my brethren—then things went from wretched to horrific when you factored in your messy, premature demise in a, gasp, slaughterhouse. Yikes!
While what the universe had in store for us in LA was largely unknown, there were some knowns: ungodly traffic, noxious smog, and a largely stuck-up populous in desperate need of more no matter how much they had already had accumulated on the material plane. No wonder such a move filled me with trepidation. Buy, hey, what do I know? I'm just a robotic bovine.
One thing I did know, albeit I was just a robotic bovine being, was that it's altogether possible that Kinn, usually an uncommonly prescient fellow, might not have paused to count his own blessings, such as:
- Overseeing a booming pot business that had paid for everything from our guitar picks to our elaborate stage sets
- Performing in a beloved, profitable rock band at the height of the rock era
- Entertaining a bevy of willing milkmaids everywhere he went
- Being a first-call quotemeister for newspapers, magazines, and radio shows
- Living in a mountain paradise with a million hiking and biking trails
- Living in close proximity to legendary beat poets like his next door neighbor William Burroughs and Alan Ginsburg who lived two doors down from him at the highly evocative Hotel Boulderado
- Enjoying a rich social life with popularity off the charts
And so on.
In any event, it was nice that Kinn had come around to gauge my level of interest. Alas, I had a premonition that the decision to move was already a done deal.
"Where would I stay?" I asked nonchalantly, doing my best to mask my concern.
"Uh, er, um, I really haven't thought that far ahead. I'm sure you'll be comfortably ensconced wherever we settle."
"Hmpf." Comfortably ensconced in a storage facility, perhaps?
If I knew then what I know now, that Kinn and I would wind up sharing the same house in The Valley with Silva and ... I can barely spit out her name ... grrrrrr ... Xtine, his girlfriend and psycho bitch from hell, I would have fainted on the spot.
"You know that Mr. Ed and Francis The Talking Mule lived in LA, don't you?"
Well, that was something. I perked up when I heard that esteemed duo named. I wasn't sure if they were still alive, but if they were, it would sure be an honor and a hoot to meet them.
"Do you think they'd want to meet me?"
"Want to meet you? How many talking quadrupeds have there ever been? Not a whole heckuva lot, I assure you. Of course they'd want to meet you. You're my best girl. Not only that, but maybe you'd get your own show like Mr. Ed or star in a series of movies like Francis The Talking Mule."
I can't say I was disinterested as I mulled over the possibilities. Let's see, there was Francis Joins The Navy, Francis Goes To The Races, Francis In The Haunted House and so many other immortal classics I'd seen on the plastic Zenith black and white TV Kinn left on for me. As for Mr Ed, that hunky golden palomino, has any equine actor ever talked in a courtroom before? I mean, that was mind-blowing! We're talking about my wildest dreams here.
But all that was, what's that human expression ... pie in the sky. I had my four hoofs planted firmly on terra firma right where I was. I was one with time and space. I thought I'd adapted well to being thrust into some truly unprecedented circumstances. The idea of having to start all over was discombobulating.
"Well, think it over. If we decide to go shoot for the stars, we'd sure like to have you with us. You've been a good hoof soldier in our milk crusade. We'd never be in the position we are now without you. What I'm trying to say is that everyone really likes you, Bessie. I never had any idea I 'd feel this kind of kinship with you, but I'm sure glad I do."
Kinn was trying really hard to reassure me. It wasn't working, but most humans wouldn't even be polite enough to make the attempt. It was almost true that everyone liked me ... except that reality was closer to everyone minus one. I had a sneaking suspicion there was one human who definitely had it in for me. If there was a confrontation, in my present state, there wasn't much I could do about that. That would be because while assets like my good looks, vocalization feature, and an uncanny ability to squirt lactose into milk pails on cue were strengths, mobility wasn't my strong suit.
For a few brief moments, I let myself dwell on the optimistic thought that there had to be robotics experts in California who could "beef up" my maneuverability. Then I could dance and have a decent chance of self-defense; after all, I'd be an innocent country girl in a strange urban environment, dependent on the kindness of humans . This diffused ray of hope was quickly overshadowed by distinctly unenlightened broodings like pessimism, fear, and doubt.
I don't believe I've ever prayed before, but now I prayed to The Big Steer In The Sky that Kinn changed his mind.
You probably didn't know that robotic bovines are naturally intuitive, that we have premonitions and can sense events happening before they do. But we are.
Chapter 1: Dashing Dairymen
Chapter 2: Rick Plays The Snare Drum With His Head
Chapter 3: Tim Takes The Stage
Chapter 4: Meet Mr. Watts
Chapter 5: We Open For Missing Persons
Chapter 6: Conquering Colorado
Chapter 7: Ric Sees His Successor
Chapter 8: Westward Ho!
Chapter 9: A Cow Writer Co-Writer
Chapter 10: Welcome To LA
Chapter 11: Madame Wong's or How Quickly They Forget