Bucky Fuller: The Cracking of a Geodesic Egghead

The other nite I went to see a fully accredited culture hero. A liberally lovely evening. The whole range of beautiful people and even a couple real ones came out to hear a kindly and intentionally invisible old man. I was surrounded, engulfed, by just-rite long hair overflowing Harris-Tweed-Jackets. My hungry hormones kept me distracted as too beautiful women in bluest blue jeans, with that just-rite toudh of peroxide, smiled langurously to a not-too-listened-to lecture. What a strange assortment of people! I suppose it was the beginning of their weekend, — a time to “let loose.” But a bit too beautiful to be natural. Too frightened to be real. And punctuated by a seventy year old couple squeezed next to a glazed eyed wild haired freek. What sort of prophet calls forth an assemblage such as this? Timothy Leary is on an extended vacation, so it must be that Bucky Fuller’s back in town.