Be Not Content: A Subterranean Journal by William J. Craddock, Rudy Rucker

By William J. Craddock, Rudy Rucker

Be now not content material is a coming-of-age novel set in San Jose, California, within the mid 1960s—describing William Craddock’s reports as a tender acidhead. this can be a hip, profound, and wonderfully-written ebook, a different chronicle of the earliest days of the nice psychedelic upheaval. Be no longer content material is stuffed with heat and empathy, tragic every now and then, and intensely humorous in spots, a wastrel masterpiece the place laughter performs counterpoint opposed to the oboes of doom. a magical underground masterpiece that’s been nearly unobtainable for years. introduced again to existence through Transreal Books through an contract with Craddock’s property.

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You got a lil trouble,” he said, stooping to finger the chain. I read the colors on his back—HELL’S ANGELS MC—OAKLAND. Having heard my share of horror stories concerning the outlaw overlords, I waited to be beaten to death. Instead, they repaired my bike, stood by while I started it, then motioned for me to follow across the intersection. I wasn’t about to argue. We stopped at a diner in San Jose and, although still nervous and unsure, I strode in proud behind the supernatural outlaws and sat with them at the counter.

Through Indian, I met Bob Lee, a good-looking, black-haired, lean, twenty-eight-year-old rider who became the club’s Veepee; and Johnny Strater, thirty-seven, who’d come from Oklahoma in ’54, sang great old downhome songs and played the guitar, was the best bike mechanic and street fighter I ever met, and was also the truest of honest friends, watching over me like an older brother (which, in fact, he was) until warrants and hassles forced him to split for LA. Indian introduced me to Quack Jack when Quack’s name was still “The Cowboy” because he always wore high-heeled cowboy boots, and to Ernie who wore braces on both legs and yet was such a wild strong cat that he went on to become president of a chapter of the Angels.

Christy sat on Eddie’s unmade bed—the bed she’d loved Eddie in for over a year before he finally broke his mind.  .  .  . tension that suddenly everyone in the house felt.  . a last nervous laugh, the thought, “What’s happening? ” hanging in the atmosphere. ” in a fearful whisper, afraid that voicing the anxiety would somehow shove it into existence. The words echoed and rang and draped themselves over chairs and spelled themselves out in poster-lettering on the walls and ran on the floor and hissed in the impossible wind and suddenly everything was WRONG and Eddie leaped to his feet, ran into a wall, stumbled into the kitchen and swallowed five caps of very good acid and a leering tab of STP.

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