me and seemed to improve my playing quite markedly. When I asked the name of the hearty concoction, they would say only that it was a favorite of long-standing with the band but was not necessarily for everyone. After we had emptied the thermos and I still insisted on knowing, Peggy smiled and said, “Very well, Reno. You know Buckaroo is part Mongolian?” I nodded. “Well, it’s a Mongolian drink,” she said, hesitating. “It’s . . . fermented mare’s milk.”
As you might suspect, on that note the party ended. I have no recollection of anything other than crawling off to the bathroom and hearing Buckaroo’s voice sometime later through the door.
“Reno?”
“Yes?” I replied weakly.
“Can I come in?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Are you all right?”
“No, but there’s nothing anyone can do, not even Buckaroo Banzai.”
“We’re putting on a syncopated show at the Hollywood Palladium in Los Angeles this coming Saturday. I really enjoy your playing. Can you make it?”
“If I’m better,” I said.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine tomorrow. I’ll wire you a plane ticket and expense money.”
“Does this mean—?” I wasn’t quite sure of the correct terminology. “You’ll be needing me all the time?”
“I’m offering you an internship to the Banzai Institute,” Buckaroo said. “The stipend isn’t a lot—only five hundred dollars a month, plus your lodging and meals—but you’ll learn to fight, shoot, and handle a lasso. And if you make it to resident, you’ll have the full resources of the Institute at your disposal. You can study in depth whatever topic you choose, alongside some of the finest minds in the world.”
I balked, momentarily awash in self-pity. “Do you think I can make the grade?” I asked.
“Humanity demands it,” he said.
“I’ll see you in Los Angeles.”
(Backstage in Atlantic City we wait to go on. Buckaroo materializes in his usual hurry, looking for something to eat, trailed by a gang of reporters.)
Buckaroo Banzai: I’m starving. Somebody help.
Rawhide: I’ve got half a tuna sandwich.
Buckaroo Banzai: Same one you had yesterday? Anybody got any fugu?
(I offer him a sliver of the poisonous Japanese blow-fish. Depending on how it is prepared, it is either indescribably delicious or deadly.)
Sitting here, looking at my notes of our performance in Atlantic City, the night of the Jet Car test, the smell of fermented mare’s milk evokes a train of memories from the early days to the present. I am immobilized by the image of Rawhide, our dear departed friend, offering Buckaroo a tuna fish sandwich from his hat, a half-eaten mouldy piece of fodder which even the voracious Buckarro tosses back as unfit for human consumption. Nearby sits Professor Hikita, brow furrowed in puzzlement as he studies slides through a spectroscope and tries to concentrate in the noisome room which reeks of stale spirits and concerts past. Fermented mare’s milk, coffee, and beer are passed around; gorgeous women flit silently through, ready for instant action, awaiting only a chance word or a curious glance, while outside in the waiting audience young hearts beat fast with anticipation that syncopated music will soon begin.
And it isn’t long in coming. Someone shouts, “Perfect Tommy’s here,” and in pads the culprit, guilt written all over his face. With him is the network commentator, no longer on her way to Cambodia, instead intent on a little spade work where we’re concerned. Is it true you’re all sharpshooters? she asks. Yes. Like the FBI? Somewhat, although we are not crime solvers in the main. Then what are you? She explains apologetically that she is our biggest fan but has been instructed by her network to ask some “hard” questions. I accordingly refer her to a paper issued by the Banzai Institute which lays out our aims, philosophy, and sources of funding, pointing out that we are a non-profit enterprise in all respects. As for our
As you might suspect, on that note the party ended. I have no recollection of anything other than crawling off to the bathroom and hearing Buckaroo’s voice sometime later through the door.
“Reno?”
“Yes?” I replied weakly.
“Can I come in?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Are you all right?”
“No, but there’s nothing anyone can do, not even Buckaroo Banzai.”
“We’re putting on a syncopated show at the Hollywood Palladium in Los Angeles this coming Saturday. I really enjoy your playing. Can you make it?”
“If I’m better,” I said.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine tomorrow. I’ll wire you a plane ticket and expense money.”
“Does this mean—?” I wasn’t quite sure of the correct terminology. “You’ll be needing me all the time?”
“I’m offering you an internship to the Banzai Institute,” Buckaroo said. “The stipend isn’t a lot—only five hundred dollars a month, plus your lodging and meals—but you’ll learn to fight, shoot, and handle a lasso. And if you make it to resident, you’ll have the full resources of the Institute at your disposal. You can study in depth whatever topic you choose, alongside some of the finest minds in the world.”
I balked, momentarily awash in self-pity. “Do you think I can make the grade?” I asked.
“Humanity demands it,” he said.
“I’ll see you in Los Angeles.”
(Backstage in Atlantic City we wait to go on. Buckaroo materializes in his usual hurry, looking for something to eat, trailed by a gang of reporters.)
Buckaroo Banzai: I’m starving. Somebody help.
Rawhide: I’ve got half a tuna sandwich.
Buckaroo Banzai: Same one you had yesterday? Anybody got any fugu?
(I offer him a sliver of the poisonous Japanese blow-fish. Depending on how it is prepared, it is either indescribably delicious or deadly.)
Sitting here, looking at my notes of our performance in Atlantic City, the night of the Jet Car test, the smell of fermented mare’s milk evokes a train of memories from the early days to the present. I am immobilized by the image of Rawhide, our dear departed friend, offering Buckaroo a tuna fish sandwich from his hat, a half-eaten mouldy piece of fodder which even the voracious Buckarro tosses back as unfit for human consumption. Nearby sits Professor Hikita, brow furrowed in puzzlement as he studies slides through a spectroscope and tries to concentrate in the noisome room which reeks of stale spirits and concerts past. Fermented mare’s milk, coffee, and beer are passed around; gorgeous women flit silently through, ready for instant action, awaiting only a chance word or a curious glance, while outside in the waiting audience young hearts beat fast with anticipation that syncopated music will soon begin.
And it isn’t long in coming. Someone shouts, “Perfect Tommy’s here,” and in pads the culprit, guilt written all over his face. With him is the network commentator, no longer on her way to Cambodia, instead intent on a little spade work where we’re concerned. Is it true you’re all sharpshooters? she asks. Yes. Like the FBI? Somewhat, although we are not crime solvers in the main. Then what are you? She explains apologetically that she is our biggest fan but has been instructed by her network to ask some “hard” questions. I accordingly refer her to a paper issued by the Banzai Institute which lays out our aims, philosophy, and sources of funding, pointing out that we are a non-profit enterprise in all respects. As for our
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