In September 1995 Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters set out from the west coast in an old school bus en route to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland Ohio . His troupe was taking part in the festivities of the newly opened museum. Along the road they stopped in a handful of cities, including Chicago , where I got on the bus with my nine-year old daughter, Trinity Valentine. It was as close as I'd ever wanted to get to a legend.

Kesey was a legend alright: the author of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest , and the subject of Tom Wolfe's Electric Kool Aid Acid Test. And this wasn't his first bus trip across America . Back in 1965 he took his original band of Merry Pranksters on the road, along with the Grateful Dead, Neal Cassidy, and a huge contingency of self-styled gypsy hippies. Their mission was to introduce the new drug LSD to hungry young minds along the way.

But this current 1995 tour was a pale comparison to the original trip. This time it was a business trip all the way, not a mind altering excursion into the structure of the universe, as it was in the 60's. The original International Harvester bus had been scrapped years before and sat rusting in Kesey's Oregon farm yard. It had been replaced by a newly painted psychedelic replica of the original. But here's the irony: the majority of Pranksters were now grown up business men and women that followed behind the reconstructed hippie bus in a brand new air-conditioned rental coach, complete with sleepers. Once the entourage arrived in a city, say a block before their destination (perhaps a Border's book store), they climbed clandestinely out of the new bus and into the old.

A great illusion! To their cheering fans it appeared as if they were still the revolutionary legends of old, weathering one more storm in the rickety old bus, when in fact the comfortable one waited down the street for them. Hippies forever! They always did put on a good show, but sometimes without much substance. Yet they were master magicians, after all, confident at protecting the old illusion, Maya , from the undisciplined hands of the neophytes, everywhere present and in need of direction.

Ah. Kesey, the true prankster, always ready to lend his illustrious name to such charades, lest the children get out of hand and lead them all into trouble: " I'd rather be a lightning rod than a seismograph." Alas, the Magic grows old and mellows; the youth continually enter the landscape with out any instructions: the Resurrection always needs proving and refinement. "What's really interesting is the mystery." Kesey once wrote. "The need for mystery is greater than the need for an answer."

In Chicago , after the book signing, Kesey and his crew had places to go and people to meet. There would be a scheduled coffeehouse appearance later that night, but first an afternoon trip down Lake Shore Drive to the West Roosevelt YMCA. Buses weren't allowed on the outer drive, but what better irony than to illegally ride "on the road" that was itself an acronym for the mind altering substance that propelled them forward in the first place, LSD? Kesey could afford the fine, having broken the speed limit of light on so many occasions before this one.

Having known the two of us from a previous encounter, Ken invited Trinity and I along for the ride. And as if in some distant midsummer night's dream, somewhere down the road to another parking space, the occupants broke into song; the entire bus joining in unison, singing the old Beatle's standard, The Yellow Submarine . Everybody joined in - except Ken Kesey and me. He was involved in conversation with the director of the West End YMCA; I was involved in a conversation with my daughter.

Upon entering the bus the first thing my darling little nine year old daughter said to me was, "Dad, this bus smells funny." She was familiar with my bus, a smaller sized school bus that I used to travel to art fairs and haul her and her friends around town in a mock performance of school.

When I replied, "It's the smell of decaying hippies" I got an evil stare from the big woman at the back of the bus; chuckles from most everyone else.

"No, dad, I'm serious. it really smells weird in here."

"Trinity, darling, you know that I am always serious. They're smoking dope." - one would think that after all these years these aging hippies would've gotten high already - "They're getting high."

"Oh." Unsure just what that meant, Trinity returned to the window, flashed peace signs outwards towards the people gawking at our colorful mobile spectacle passing them by, and began to chime in with the rest of them. We all live in a Yellow Submarine.

And then, from the back of the bus, a great lion roared, "Who the fuck are you?! And who the fuck let you on this bus!?" Unknown to me, it was the infamous Mountain Girl, a calloused dragon thrusting a challenge at me from her stronghold and lair. Carolyn Adams is her name, and her fame came from fucking every hippie of note, including Jerry Garcia, Neal Cassidy, even Kesey himself, with whom she also bore a daughter, Sunshine. At the time of the bus venture, Mountain Girl was involved in a court action against Jerry Garcia's grieving widow, demanding that the legal Mrs. Garcia turn over half of the dead singer's estate to her. "to the true love of his life.'

"The same person that let you on the bus, that's who." Not a very original reply, but that was all I could think to say under the awkwardly developing circumstances. Someone had just whispered in my ear, "Man, chill out, that's Mountain Girl you're fucking with. And today is her 50 th birthday!"

Whoa! The whole episode suddenly became rather intimidating. Here I had unknowingly offended the Queen of the Hippies, and on her birthday no less! Truth be told: I never cared for the hippies, even the famous ones; I had a different philosophy. But of course everyone on the bus held her in reverence, none of them knowing (or caring) who or what I might be.

And yet, it was obvious that the once youthful and sensuous Mountain Girl had evolved into an overweight, burnt out, nasty and mean tempered old bag that few wished to go up against, although I doubt if anyone would have acknowledged this openly. But I was not one of them, as I spoke my sentiments into the void: "And I'll tell you another thing, lady. I plan to get off this bus at the very next stop!"

You can bet she let me have it with both barrels, for the next several minutes berating me for every slight ever made against the hippies the world over, holding me personally responsible for their failure to turn the world back into a primitive tribe of naked tree worshipping leaf smokers. Yes, everybody was impressed with her prowess, and so she triumphantly lit another joint and passed it on, as the band played on and the Yellow Submarine continued its journey over the concrete waves that skirted Lake Michigan like a sprawled-out, half-naked goddess gone frigid. And for the rest of the journey I sat quietly like a misspent Buddha, swollen from the absorption of so much poison fruit.

Two hours later, back at the Border's, Trinity and I disembarked and were met by a small remnant of modern-day hippies, still meandering outside the bookstore with their autographed copies of Kesey, their ecstatic faces aglow with longing. They really envied us our journey aboard the Magic Bus, but the two of us were glad to be back home: "Dad, do we have time to stop in Border's and read some books before my mom gets here and takes me back to her house again?"