John Perry Barlow had robbed his third bank in as many weeks, and with a pile of money and a gargantuan thirst, he crossed the border into Mexicali. He had been on a bender for a full week when he managed to stagger out into the blinding light of day. In the dusty unpaved street he saw a catch-colt drawing a coffin cart and nearby, a woman who might have been fifty or a hundred and fifty trying to turn a patch of scorched ground green. It was a moment that would change his life. In his later years, only a few friends knew that he was a fugitive, had once been a man of violence. The John Perry Barlow most knew was a man who constructed irrigations systems from spare parts and put a new roof on the school house, a man who would stand up to the bandits, for there were still bandits, and he knew them as he knew himself. He was the protector of that town well into the early 20th century.
Or maybe, just maybe, John Perry Barlow was the son of Wyoming Mormons who dropped acid with Timothy Leary, walked away from admission to Harvard Law and from a contract for a novel with Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, publishers of luminaries like Flannery O’Conner and Jack Kerouac. He would become a writer in another form, eventually putting his immense talent to work as a lyricist for Bob Weir and the Grateful Dead, penning hits like Mexicali Blues and Cassidy. Continue reading “What is truth? March 11, 2018”
