I'm Not There. Page #6

No time for autographs, dearie.

- What's that over there?

- Where?

Do the Watusi, John!

Whoa!

Mr. Quinn?

Mr. Quinn, yoo-hoo.

Yes, Mr. Quinn, hello!

We're all just here at the car. No worries.

Good. Sayonara.

Mother. Mother.

Oh, Mr. Quinn! What a privilege

to have in our midst...

...a true visionary, and such a splendid

example to the youth.

And such marvelous songs.

So truly wonderful.

- Howdy.

- Our dear friend,

Carolyn Hester, the folk singer?

She was saying,

just the other day, how liberating

what you're doing really is

for all... Mr. Quinn, hello!

Ma'am, I'm terribly sorry.

Carolyn said that? You tell Carolyn

to come see me anytime,

now that she's, uh, liberated.

Jude, you know, like in the song

"Generation Dungeon,"

when you say "he has the eyes of a camel

- and sleeps on a hook... " That's Victor, right?

- Mr. Quinn!

'Cause I saw a picture of him once

in a magazine, smoking Camels,

which I know

Danny Ronk used to smoke,

but then he switched

to Lucky Strikes in '64.

Mr. Quinn, we really ought to hurry.

Everyone's at the car!

...till early '65.

- Norman, Mona, Sammy...

Sammy? Who's Sammy?

Sonny. Sonny Dover.

The central doyen of the inner circle,

and Jude's oldest ally.

He plays maracas

on "Medicine Sunday. "

Judey! Lover boy! Ah!

Two words on Shakespeare,

Mr. Quinn, for our listeners.

Two words?

Raving queen,

and cosmic amphetamine brain.

I dig Shakespeare.

I have a question for Mr. Quinn.

Oh, Keenan, please

forgive us. Mr. Quinn,

allow me to introduce to you

Mr. Keenan Jones,

arts editor and host of the BBC.

I remember you.

Yes, I was going to ask

Mr. Quinn why he insists

on putting us and the rest

of the world on so?

Some might be persuaded

to doubt his sincerity.

Well, who said I was sincere?

Are you saying you're not sincere?

No more than you, you know?

No more sincere than you are.

See, you just want me to say

what you want me to say.

You might think

nothing can reach

those tens of thousands,

living by the dollar.

But you'd be wrong.

Hey. What are you doin' here?

You alone?

Now, why would that be

any concern of yours?

Look, I'm sorry about what happened.

- Nothing happened.

- Fine. Nothing happened.

Oh, come on.

I was straight with you.

I thought you had no recollection.

Look, I can't recall

San Francisco at all.

And I can't really

remember El Paso,

but you shouldn't take

it all so personal.

I don't, believe me.

My current situation far precedes

anything from the past.

But you never know how

the past will turn out.

Sorry.

But your kisses are nothing like his.

I bet.

- Anyone I know?

- Good one.

No, your lucky tongue will not decay me.

Fine, you take your glands,

and your medallions,

and make love for once, freely.

So that's what you think

you have over everyone.

Freedom.

I just got to clean up a little bit.

And I'll be fine.

Here's a tip:
Use your fists.

Very funny, Coco.

Hey, Coco!

Coco!

You look and sound very tired, very ill.

Is this your normal state?

I take that as an insult.

Do you suffer from sore eyes,

groovy foreheads, and curly hair?

Take Zoomdom!

Hey. Hey, isn't that

what's-his-name, the poet?

- Ginsberg?

- Allen Ginsberg?

Oh, my God! It is!

Wait a minute.

Hey! Allen thought

that was you in there!

I don't think you two have met.

- Hi.

- Hey.

Allen, tell him what you said to that reporter,

the one that asked

if you thought that Jude had sold out.

What, they're asking you?

I said I didn't know.

Perhaps you sold out to God.

What's that even mean?

Well, if your mission

was to see whether

you could do great art on a juke box,

well, you know, then we all benefited.

Profited, you said, by his coercion.

That was it. So. What now?

Now? What's left?

Oh, my salvation?

Well, see what we could do.

Oh, he'll give it to you!

That was Allen Ginsberg, man!

See ya later, Allen Ginsberg.

Would you say, then,

that the collective struggles

of the color discrimination

or the war have failed,

or as I believe you inferred earlier,

do you think it's the process

itself that's at fault?

Who cares what I think?

I'm not the president.

I'm not some shepherd.

I'm just a storyteller, man.

- It's all I am.

- Well, certainly.

But as someone

who once cared deeply,

as a storyteller, as...

for social justice, equality...

certainly you still care as a human being.

Well, why? Why?

I mean, what do you care?

If I care, or I don't care, what's it to you?

All right, what if I said

I never cared about, you know, folk music?

About, you know, protest songs?

It was all about jumping into a scene.

You know, I was never

gonna stay there. I mean, I just...

I knew I could do it

better than anybody else.

Well, I don't believe you.

No, I mean, you know,

what matters to me...

you know, it matters

what's happening now.

Does it matter to you when

songs you're writing now

are being used as recruitment tools

for militant street gangs,

like the all-Negro faction in the United States?

Oh, yeah.

A group that promotes precisely

the kind of violence

your earlier songs oppose?

If you're asking me, man, am I a member

of the Black Panther Party,

the answer's no.

Man, I can't really tell you how I care.

Well, I presume at the very least

that you care something

about what you sing every night.

What are you...

How can I answer that,

if you got the nerve to ask me?

I mean, you've got a lot of nerve,

asking me a question like that.

- Do you ask the Beatles that?

- Do I...

- Or Mr. Eve of Destruction?

- Would you ask Barry McGuire that?

I have to ask, because you have the nerve

to question whether I care.

I'm not questioning you because I don't

expect any answers from you.

Maybe Victor Mature.

He looks like Victor Mature.

More like Elsa Lanchester,

man, with a North Mexican kind of thing.

That's very protest-y, man.

You know, it's very very protest-y.

You know, I am convinced of one thing.

You either do care about nothing at all,

or tremendously much

that people think so.

And you ask for my time?

Mr. Quinn, we really do need you in...

Listen, I know more about you, right,

than you will ever know about me.

You think I give a crumpet

what you write in your lousy paper?

Now, I don't need to look to someone else,

man, to tell me I'm good.

Slaughter me, for all I care.

I refuse to be hurt.

Mr. Quinn, we really

do need you in the car.

Hey, man.

You refuse feeling deeply about anything.

It's clear to anyone

how entirely self-conscious you are,

in everything you do.

- That's enough!

- Feeling deeply?

That's what this is about?

What precisely, please do tell,

am I supposed to be feeling, huh?

I'm simply referring

to standard emotions:

Pain, remorse, love.

Yeah, I have none of those feelings.

# You walk into the room #

# With a pencil in your hand #

# You see somebody naked

and you say #

# "Who is that man?" #

# You try so hard #

# But you don't understand #

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