I stare idly out the passenger window, at a barefoot, grinning, dancing fool of vaguely Rastafarian extraction, whose chest is slick with so many days’ toil.
Here I have a novel featuring Sixties’ rebels wrapped in a wicked suspense narrative, and I am ITCHING to give the Furthur Festival folks a 40% off sticker.
No stone is left unturned, escorting us from acid parties with Cary Grant, JFK, and Marilyn Monroe, to behind the scenes of the assassination of the President.