♪ Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you ♪
♪ Happy birthday, dear Sissy... ♪
The surprise of Sissy Hankshaw
is that she did not grow up a neurotic disaster.
If you were a small girl in a low-income suburb
of Richmond, Virginia, as Sissy was,
and your own daddy sometimes makes jokes
about you being "all thumbs,"
then you toughen up... or you shatter.
♪ ...Happy birthday to you. ♪
Oh yes!
Oh, did you make a wish?
No, and I'm afraid she ain't gonna make much of a brain surgeon, neither.
Hey, she could be a butcher.
She could retire in two years on the overcharges alone.
She might make a hell of a hitchhiker. Ha ha ha ha ha.
If she were a boy, you mean.
She is, if I may speak frankly,
somewhat of a medical oddity.
Well, the Lord made them things big for a purpose.
Although...
Lord only knows what that might be.
Doc, oh Doc...
if a young man ever shows up here
with ugly fingers...
you know, would you please...
Dear lady, please remember the words of the painter Paul Gauguin
who said, "The ugly may be beautiful...
but the pretty, never."
I don't suppose that means very much to you.
I'm not stupid.
There's nothing about your past, present or future...
that your hands do not know.
And there is nothing about your hands
that Madame Zoe does not know.
I, Madame Zoe...
er... Jesus-fucking-Christ!
Husband...
is she gonna find a husband?
Oh...
I see men in your life.
Oh...
I also see women.
Lots and lots and lots of women.
Oh...
let's get out of here.
The gods did not choose Sissy Hankshaw
for her thumbs per se,
but rather for the use that she would make of them.
Hitchhiking would become her customary mode of travel.
Hitchhiking would become, in fact, her way of life...
a calling to which she was literally born.
"Greater freedom of movement."
♪ In perfect dreams ♪
♪ Love has no extremes ♪
♪ All the world can be ♪
♪ Endlessly in perfect dreams ♪
♪ In perfect dreams ♪
♪ You can fly, it seems ♪
♪ Sailing nakedly ♪
♪ Weightlessly, in perfect dreams ♪
♪ Dream... ♪
♪ Have a rendezvous ♪
♪ A fling... ♪
♪ Or two ♪
♪ Dream... ♪
♪ And I promise you ♪
♪ It all rings true ♪
♪ In perfect dreams ♪
♪ Life is quite serene ♪
♪ You and I could be ♪
♪ Happily in perfect dreams ♪
♪ Dreams... ♪
"Sissy, precious being,
how are you, my extraordinary one?
Next time you're near Manhattan, do ring me up.
There is a man to whom I simply must introduce you..."
- Crimeny. - "Thrill! The Countess."
♪ Moving ♪
♪ Give me motion ♪
♪ Grooving ♪
♪ On a notion ♪
♪ Ooh... ♪
♪ Ooh ooh-ooh... ♪
Goin' north?
- You want some? - Thanks.
American cheese.
It's the king of road food.
You in show business?
- I was a successful model once. - For magazines?
I was the "Yoni Yum Feminine Hygiene Dew" girl
from 1965 to 1970, and then I got laid off.
- So now you're bumming around? - Yeah.
Hitchhiking?
Please don't think me immodest...
but I'm really the best.
- You're the best? - Yeah.
I am.
When I was younger, I hitchhiked 127 hours without stopping.
I crossed the continent twice in six days,
cooled my thumbs in both oceans,
and caught rides after midnight on unlighted highways.
When I'm really moving...
moving so freely, so clearly, so delicately
that even the sex maniacs and the cops
can only blink and let me pass...
then I embody the spirit and the heart of hitchhiking.
I have the rhythms of the universe inside me.
I'm in a state of grace.
Well, right off...
I don't remember how old I was when I found out I was part Indian.
My mama's family, a lot of them had lived out west in the Dakotas.
One of them had married a squaw, Siwash tribe.
You may say that my pleasure in Indianhood
and my passion for car travel might be incongruous...
if not mutually exclusive...
but after all, first car that ever stopped for me
had been named in honor of the great chief of the Ottawa.
New York City.
Sure is a hell of a town.
Ominous.
...gold or silver beads, she has... - Ah!
Sit down, dear, do sit down.
Take a load off those lovely tootsies.
Would you fancy some sherry?
Shit, oh goodness, I'm all out of sherry.
How about some red Ripple?
You know what red Ripple is, don't you?
Fruit punch with a hard-on.
To my own special Sissy.
So my letter brought you flying, huh?
Now where were you?
Salt Lake City? LaConner?
I may have a little surprise for you.
But first tell me about yourself.
It's been six months, hasn't it? In some circles, that is half a year.
- How are you? - Tired.
That is the very first time
in the eons that I have known you
that I have ever heard you complain,
and now you're tired, poor darling.
"Born freak can only go uphill."
Freak shmeak!
All of us are freaks in one way or another.
Try being born a male Russian countess
into a white, middle-class
Baptist family in Mississippi and you'll see what I mean.
Well, I've always been proud of the way nature singled me out.
It's the people who have been deformed by society I feel sorry for.
I've been steady moving for 11 years and some months.
I think I should rest up for a spell.
I'm not as young as I used to be.
Shit, oh goodness! You won't be 30 for another year
and you're more beautiful than ever.
Does that mean you have an assignment for me?
You were the Yoni Yum girl
from... let's see...
1965...
through 1970.
And you always smelled so nice...
like a little sister.
I loathe the stink of females.
They're so sweet the way god made them.
Then they start fooling around with men
and soon they're stinking like rotten mushrooms...
like an excessively chlorinated swimming pool,
like a tuna fish's ree-tirement party. They all stink...
from the Queen of England to Bonanza Jellybean... they stink!
- Bonanza Jellybean? - What?
Oh...
Jellybean...
Well, she's a young thing who works on my ranch.
Anyway, my dear, I am getting out of photography now
and into watercolors.
The exact man that I have wanted you to meet,
is my artist, the watercolorist.
- But Countess... - No, no, no.
Don't get agitated. I realize that you have always avoided
all but the most rudimentary involvements with men
and I might add, you have been right.
But what I am getting at, is there comes a time
when it is psychologically impossible for a woman to lose her virginity.
She can't wait too long, you know?
Now I'm not saying that you must lose yours,
but uh... just ponder it a bit, that's all.
Well, what makes you think this watercolorist and I
would develop a romantic relationship?
I can't be sure that it would,
but what have you got to lose?
Well, okay, I'll try it...
for you. It seems kind of silly, though...
me goin' out with an artist in New York City.
Oh good, good, good, good!
You'll enjoy it, you'll see.
Julian is a gentleman.
And by the way, Sissy,
he is a full-blooded Indian.
Hi.
Julian? Are you okay?
This is bad. We better get him home.
He has asthma. Take him home, he'll be fine.
- You come with us. - Yeah.
- The cigarette is not helping. - I beg your pardon.
Hold up.
I've been enthralled with your photographs for years.
When the Countess said that you might like to meet me,
he never explained why.
I was ready to paint... for free.
And now I had to go and spoil it.
Let's talk back at your house.
Come on, honey. It's gonna be fine. We're going home.
- Oh God, this is dreadful! - It's not your fault.
You know, asthma attacks are brought on by emotional stress.
Poor Julian he is just so high-strung.
The excitement of meeting you
must have upset his chemical balance or something,
because, my dear, you are so stunning.
Don't be afraid of us, Sissy.
- Come on. - Oh, I've never ridden in a cab before.
The whole idea of paying for a ride
just makes my thumbs hurt.
That is so interesting, but don't worry, dear.
It's not nearly as bad as it sounds.
Just take a nice seat in the back.
...what I was saying, no, she has a style.
"Crazy Guggenheim" has more style.
I'm saying...
Ooh...
Lay him out on the couch. I'll be right back.
Keep the airways open is what I know.
- What do you mean? - Keep the airways... this...
Just take a nice seat, honey. Take a seat.
- Is this right? - That's fine, that's fine.
You want a drink?
- Hey! You want a drink? - Thank you.
There, that ought to beat them bronchial buggers into submission.
I was a medic in the army.
Thank you.
I really should have gone into medicine instead of publishing.
Sometimes though...
I think pushing books is a lot like pushing medicine.
Think of books as pills.
And I have pills to cure ignorance,
pills to cure boredom...
pills to elevate moods,
and pills to open people's eyes to the awful truth.
Too bad they don't have a pill for bullshit, is what I say.
So, where do you live, Ms. Hankshaw?
I'm staying with the Countess.
I know.
But uh... where do you live when... you're not in New York?
- I don't. - You don't?
I mean, I don't live anywhere in particular.
I just keep movin'.
Hmm...
the traveler, eh?
Well, you might call it that...
but I don't really think of it as traveling.
Well, what do you "think of it" as, then?
Movin'.
Oh...
How unusual.
Hmm...
Well, Rupert, before you get too engaged
in your research on scotch as a cure for aging,
are you gonna call Elaine
and cancel our reservations, or shall I?
What would we do without our little efficiency expert, Carla, huh?
Without her the whole world would just go to hell.
She's gonna be running for mayor next year, you know.
Hey, Rupert... Rupert!
Up yours... "Herr doktor book salesman."
Will the demands of your "medical profession"
allow you to cancel or shall I?
- Oh let me do it! - Oh, so the girl has to do it?
The girl's gonna do it. You're not gonna do it.
Where are the others?
Rupert and Carla had a little hassle and went home.
Julian fell asleep.
We covered him up.
We thought we should make you comfortable too.
Yes, thanks.
Oh... mine...
mine are fuller, but yours are more perfectly shaped.
Highly... highly debatable.
I'll wager they're the exact same size.
Hmm...
yours are large, Marie,
but Ms. Hankshaw's... Sissy's are more firm.
You'd think they would have started to droop,
I mean, from not wearing a bra.
Howard, watch your manners.
You're embarrassing her.
Here, Sissy, let me compare.
This is a finer place than the place I live.
Oh, Howard!
Sissy...
- What are you doing? - Getting dressed.
But... but I don't want you to go.
Please, stay. I...
l... ahem... we can go to dinner.
I owe you a dinner and, and later...
- Julian, I have to go. - Why? Why do you have to go?
My thumbs hurt.
I've made a mistake. I've been negligent.
I have to hitchhike a little bit every day no matter what,
or my thumbs, they get stiff and sore.
I have to go, Julian.
Sissy had crossed the continent 400 times
and passed everybody twice...
but she had never seen anything
like what she had just witnessed in Julian's apartment.
Turning to the Countess' for an explanation,
she received instead, another surprise.
Sissy...
Sissy, you can desist from wearing paths
in those forgotten highways.
The Countess has arranged a job for you.
And what a job.
A job for me?
I am once more about to make advertising history.
And only you, the original Yoni Yum Dew girl
could possibly assist me.
"The Food and Drug Administration said Wednesday,
female deodorant sprays may cause such harmful reactions
as blisters, burns, and rashes.
Although FDA judges that the reported reactions
are not sufficient to j-justify
removal of these pr-products from the market,
they are sufficient to warrant
the proposed mandatory label warnings."
Shit, oh dear, it's enough to make me asthmatic.
The nerve of those twits. What do they know about female odor?
Don't interrupt...
here's my concept.
My little ranch out west,
it's a beauty ranch.
Well, it has a few head of cattle
for atmosphere and tax purposes...
but it is a beauty ranch...
a place where unhappy women, divorcees, and widows mostly
can go to lose weight,
uh, remove wrinkles, or change their hairstyle
and pretty themselves up for the next disappointment.
My ranch is called "The Rubber Rose,"
after the "Rubber Rose" douche bag.
My own invention and, bless its little red bladder,
is the most popular douche bag in the world.
So, get this.
It is on the migratory flight path of the whooping crane.
The last flock of wild whooping cranes left in existence.
Whooping cranes, in case you didn't know it,
are noted for their mating dance.
Now picture these birds
doing their sex dance on TV...
right there on the home screen...
creation's most elaborate sex ritual,
but clean and pure enough to suit the Pope...
with lovely Sissy Hankshaw in the foreground...
her white gown, red hood attached,
big, feathery sleeves, trimmed in black.
And then,
in a very subdued imitation of the female whooping crane,
she dance-walks over to a large nest
where there sits...
a can of Yoni Yum and a can of Dew!
Oh my very goodness gracious!
Grandiose, lyrical,
erotic...
and Girl Scout-oriented. You can't top it.
So the Countess dispatched Sissy out west
for her first modeling assignment in years,
but not before warning her to keep her distance
from those nasty and uppity cowgirls
who worked his so-called ranch.
He also insisted
that she avoid any contact with the alleged holy man
who lived on the ridge above the Rubber Rose,
known as "The Chink," though apparently he was Japanese-American.
He appeared to be one of those berry-picking moon-howlers.
The kind of old kumquat who might fuck a snake
and then write a little poem about it.
♪ I long to be lifted... ♪
♪ I long to be lifted ♪
♪ Lifted high... ♪
So we take in the good energies.
Taking in, we turn.
And we give them out.
And take in and take out good things.
You feel that? Good, huh?
♪ I long to be carried ♪
♪ Carried by... ♪
I've traveled through the Yucatan with the circus,
popping false eyelashes off a trained monkey with my bullwhip,
when one night I ate peyote and had a vision.
Niwetúkame, the mother goddess...
came to me on the back of a doe,
with hummingbirds sipping the tears she was shedding,
crying, "Delores...
you must lead my daughters against their natural enemy.
You must come to the Rubber Rose Ranch
and prepare for your mission...
the details of which will be revealed to you in a third vision."
Whoo!
Usually she preferred to hitchhike
without a fixed destination...
hitching for hitching's sake...
for freedom and movement and that alone.
But something was pulling her to the Rubber Rose,
something softer than money and stranger than work.
Someday...
if that Sissy Hankshaw ever shows up here,
I'm gonna teach her how to hypnotize a chicken.
Did you know chickens are the easiest critters on earth to hypnotize?
You just twirl a chicken in the air 20 times,
it's yours forever.
How exciting.
Are you a pilgrim?
No, I'm more of an Indian.
l... I think she means are you gonna go see "The Chink"?
Well, I may, and I may not.
But seeing him's not my main objective here.
You know, th-that's good 'cause, you know, he... he might not see you.
I mean, we drove all the way from Minneapolis
and the crazy bastard tried to stone us to death.
Yeah, it bummed me out. I thought he was a master,
but he's nothing but a dirty old mountain man.
He took out his wanker and shook it at Barbara.
I mean, I wouldn't go up there if I were you.
I wouldn't, okay? Bye-bye.
It was like showering rocks...
I had a vision that it hit me in the head.
By any chance, are you Sissy Hankshaw?
Yes, I am.
Well, my goodness, why didn't you telephone?
Someone would have driven into Sisters to pick you up.
I'm Miss Adrian from the ranch.
The Countess wrote me that I should expect you.
Oh, get in. You must be exhausted.
Uh, Donna, help Ms. Hankshaw with her...
...with her luggage.
Twit. You really ought to have phoned.
We were just in Sisters
escorting some guests to the afternoon train.
More guests leaving ahead of schedule.
Three checked out today.
They decided to transfer
to Elizabeth Arden's Main Chance Spa in Phoenix, Arizona.
It costs $250 a week more than at the Rubber Rose.
So, why are our guests leaving and going to Elizabeth Arden's?
I'll tell you why.
It's that plague of cowgirls.
I'd like to complain.
Some of you cowgirls have been sleeping two to a bunk again
in violation of the agreement that "crimes against nature,"
are to be kept confined to the hayloft.
Yeah.
Well, I don't care who sleeps with who or where or how.
But the moaners and the groaners and the screamers
ought to turn down their volume
'cause some of us are trying to sleep...
or meditate.
I'd like to complain about the food here.
It's rotten to the core.
Hallelujah, sister.
They've gradually infiltrated every sector of our program.
The one named Debbie...
she considers herself an expert on diet and exercising.
The ball...
with Bonanza Jellybean's permission
- And against my explicit orders... - Someday...
she's been coercing the guests
into trying something called Kundalini yoga.
Do you know what that is?
It's trying to mentally force
a serpent of fire to crawl up your spinal column.
Humph.
Oh, and there's a new one.
The one called "del Ruby."
- She has the goodwill of a scorpion. - Whoa!
The little barbarians are destroying everything I've built,
mocking all that the company stands for.
But now that the season is practically over...
we operate April through September...
and the Countess is finally coming...
I'll get those little peckers.
Our ranch has all the latest in modern facilities.
Guests can relax on our veranda or swim in our pool,
all in view of spectacular Siwash Ridge.
At the Rubber Rose Ranch,
we prepare more than 850 lo-cal meals per day.
Your attention...
We have a facial wing
and next to that is the hair barn.
We have 15 hair experts from all over the world.
Up there is where the fanny flab flies off
at the rate of about 675 pounds a day.
That's a lot of salted ham, Sissy.
- Wow, you're gonna make a movie. - Hey, give me that!
Ladies, as most of you have been informed,
one of the fringe benefits of your stay here at the Rubber Rose Ranch
is a rare opportunity to get a look at the world's
last surviving flock of wild whooping cranes.
They stop off here twice a year
at that marshy little lake on the north end of the ranch
and you're in luck because even as I speak,
the flock's over there right now.
Our special guest Ms. Sissy H...
uh, Ms. Sissy Hankshaw is with us.
Merciful Jesus, they're murdering the guests!
Es gibt soviele verschiedene farben von erdäpfel hier in Amerika,
in Deutschland gibts nur eine sorte.
Ja, ja, ja.
Where are the guests? Where are the guests?
Take it easy, lady. They just rode over the hill with the cowgirls.
You're Miss Adrian. We gotta talk about that filming.
Not now, you fool, not now.
Those crazed bitches have led innocent women out
and are slaughtering them at this moment.
We'll all be killed.
Oh...
there's a slaughter going on, all right,
but it ain't the fat ladies that are getting it.
Your hired hands are killing the cattle.
The cattle? They're killing the cows?
That's what they said, Miss Adrian.
How dare you slaughter the Countess' cattle?
What's a ranch without cows?
We're replacing them with goats.
The cows are diseased and in pain.
We're just putting them out of their misery.
According to Ms. Bonanza Jellybean,
the Rubber Rose is indicative of the Countess' values.
They purchased a cheap but weak strain of cattle in the beginning,
- And within... - Oh heavens.
I don't want to hear what Bonanza Jellybean tells all you girls.
Come on, Sissy. I'll show you to your quarters.
Hören sie, wir müssen über diesen film sprechen.
Es ist sehr wichtig. Ich meine,
warum bin ich so weit hier angereist, ja?
Excuse me, miss.
Would you care for your breakfast now?
I feel a bit hungry.
Okay.
Road food! How did you know?
Well, it is a change of the usual grapefruit and melba toast, I'm sure.
"Compliments of Bonanza Jellybean."
She'll be up to see you directly.
Yep?
Welcome, partner!
You seem to know who I am.
Maybe even what I am.
Thanks for the breakfast.
Oh I know about Sissy Hankshaw, all right.
I've done a little hitchhiking myself.
I'd heard tales about you
from people I'd meet in jail cells and truck stops.
Jail cells?
I heard about your, uh... wonderful thumbs.
Hm...
Well, you may claim that I have an unfair advantage,
but no more so than Nijinsky,
whose reputation as the world's most incomparable dancer
is untainted by the fact that his feet were abnormal...
havin' the bone structure of bird feet.
Nature built Nijinsky to dance,
me to direct traffic.
The example of your life
has helped me in my struggle to be a cowgirl.
- Tell me about it. - About what?
About being a cowgirl. When you say the word,
you make it sound like it was painted in radium on the side of a pearl.
Well, I saw my first cowgirl in a Sears catalog.
I was three.
Up until then, I'd only ever heard of cowboys.
Years later, my real struggle began.
I had been teased by my classmates for some time
about my particular fantasy.
Cowgirls exist as an image, a fairly common one.
The idea of cowgirls,
especially for little girls, prevails in our culture.
Therefore, it seems to me
that the existence of cowgirls should prevail.
I mean, otherwise they're being fooled.
Like in the Rodeo Hall of Fame in Oklahoma City,
there are just two cowgirls. Two...
and both of them were trick riders.
Trick ridin' is what cowgirls have almost always done in rodeo.
Our society sure likes to see its unconventional women do tricks.
That's what prostitutes call it... you know, "trickin"'?
Did you know that cowgirls have been around for many centuries?
Long before America.
In ancient India, the care of cattle
was always left up to these young women they called "gopis."
Now being alone with the cows all the time,
these gopis got awfully horny, just like we do here.
Each gopi was in love with Krishna,
a good lookin' hunk of a god,
who played the flute like it was going out of style.
And when the moon was full,
this Krishna would play his flute by the river
and call the gopis to him.
Then he would multiply himself
16,000 times... one for each gopi...
and make love to each one the way she most desired.
There they were...
16,000 gopis balling Krishna on the riverbank
and the energy of their merging was so great,
that it created a huge oneness, a total union of love,
and it was God.
Quite a picture, huh?
Wow.
Cowgirls...!
Well, that couldn't be Krishna, could it?
A bit shrill for a flute. Just our rotten luck.
Well, I gotta run. Delores says I'm needed.
Somebody's here. Maybe it's the Countess.
♪ Wondering, wondering ♪
♪ Wanting it all ♪
♪ A curious soul... ♪
♪ Astray ♪
♪ A curious soul... ♪
♪ Astray. ♪
So you look like a big bird, a wonderful bird.
Go down and you protect the product like...
But I'm not a bird, sir. I'm a girl.
But you look like a bird to me
and you will look to the people who will watch the commercial.
Come on, Sissy. We're working here.
Okay... slowly you rise.
And you look at the product, you turn around
and the camera will then see you,
and the camera's over there, remember.
- You got it? - Yes, sir.
All right, then let's do it.
And remember... just be great, okay?
Thank you, sir.
Okay, do it. Go down...
and stand by.
Music. Action!
Cut! We do it again.
Delores zonks out on peyote at least once a week.
But so far her third vision hasn't happened.
Niwetúkame, the mother goddess, it seems
has not gotten back in touch with her yet.
Huh.
Meanwhile, she and Debbie are rivaling each other
like a couple of crosstown high schools.
Tension... cowgirl tension. What a drag.
Well, what is Debbie's position?
Well, Debbie says that if women are to take charge again,
they must do it in a feminine way.
They mustn't resort to aggressive and violent masculine methods.
She says that it's up to women to show themselves better than men.
To love men and set good examples for them.
Guide them tenderly toward the new age.
She's a real dreamer, that Debbie dear.
So, you don't agree with Debbie then?
Well, I wouldn't say that.
I expect she's right ultimately.
But I'm with Delores when it comes to fighting for what's mine.
This is cowgirl territory, and I'll stand with Delores
and fight any bastards who might deny it.
I guess I've always been a scrapper.
Look, this scar...
only 12 years old and I was felled by a silver bullet.
He's here.
Look at him... perverse as a pink pickle.
Hmm.
Well, he's in a snit.
He wants to see you after the barbecue.
- Oh really? - Huh.
Well, why don't you go ahead and get the girls,
'cause he's gonna see me right now.
Okay.
You will all be rounded up and sent to prison
if this goes any farther.
This is not your ranch.
You pathetic little cutesy-poos.
Do you actually believe
that this exhibition of childlike melodrama
is advancing the cause of freedom?
Yes!
You owe us. This here ranch is token payment
to your disgusting exploitations.
That's right!
Then take it.
Go for it, girls!
Go to your bunkhouse and stay there.
Better reach for your spray cans.
Yee-hah!
Not one of these pussies has been washed in weeks.
Yeah, smell this! Woo.
Ooh!
Shit, oh goodness!
Any of you ladies who'd like to join us
you're welcome to stay as full-working partners at the Rubber Rose.
The rest of you get packed, and I mean now!
You've got 15 minutes to move your lard-asses off this ranch.
♪ Cowgirl pride... ♪
Torn between her loyalty to her benefactor, the Countess
and her growing affection for Jellybean and the cowgirls,
a confused Sissy hit the road
with not a Pontiac in sight.
♪ Cowgirl, cowgirl... ♪
Ha ha!
Ho-ho.
Hee hee!
Ha ha. Ho ho. Hee hee.
Hey, wait!
Come on, baby! I'll make you supper.
I'm a friend of Bonanza Jellybean's.
l... I know.
Whoo-hoo-hoo!
There's been some trouble on the ranch, you know?
It's so dark now.
Doubt if I could find my way back by myself.
You save your breath for the climb.
I don't know how to polka.
Me neither.
Personally I prefer Stevie Wonder or Tony Bennett,
but what the hell?
Those cowgirls are always complaining and bitching
about there's only "one station in the area
and all it does is ever play polkas."
Well, I say you can dance to anything
as long as you feel like dancing.
I pledge to you tonight from this office
that I will do everything in my power to ensure
that the guilty are brought to justice
and that such abuses are purged from our political processes,
in the years to come long after I have left this office.
Some people...
Sissy...
the earth is alive.
She burns from the heat
of eternal cosmic longing.
- She longs for her mate. - Hm.
She groans, she moans...
she turns softly in her sleep.
I love those cowgirls.
But...
I just can't be a party to their... utopian dreaming.
Hmm.
What do you believe in, then?
Ha ha...
ho ho...
hee hee.
This is uh, point 3, north 20 zero east.
Roger. Standby... we'll call you back.
Where the hell are those cranes?
When in doubt, keep moving.
There was no road that did not expect her
nor vehicle she could not command.
In the post office boxes that she maintained
near a dozen different Indian reservations
she frequently found letters from the liberated ranch.
And thus, wherever she traveled,
Jellybean traveled with her.
Sissy, don't act dumb with me!
The cowgirls are involved in this whooping crane disappearance.
You know perfectly well they are.
Last seen in Canada, didn't make it to Texas...
Siwash Lake is between Canada and Texas.
The cowgirls have possession of Siwash Lake!
I don't know anything about it.
Sissy!
You are trying to protect those scuzzy bitches.
Well, "Let conscience be your guide," as my mommy used to say,
but it won't work.
Those stinking sluts are going to suffer!
Shut your mouth!
Argh!
Oh, oh dear!
Ahh.
Ooh.
"Sissy, I'm remembering your sweet hands on my scar.
In a few minutes, I'm going to return to the scene of our love.
Last spring Debbie and I left mountains of brown rice
for the cranes to munch. And they stayed at the pond
longer than they ever had in the past.
This time, we're gonna try a different diet on them
to see if they won't stay even longer.
By the way, I'm visiting the Chink once a week again.
Now you know my little secret, huh?
Well, I hear that you don't exactly sit at his feet
listening to Bible stories.
He's really something, isn't he? The billy goat.
I love you, Bonanza Jellybean."
Well, he's not out of danger.
But I think we can safely say he's gonna make it.
Now I'd be pretty surprised if he didn't.
However, there is evidence of injury to the frontal lobe.
And I have reason to fear that this injury may be permanent.
Brain damage?
You mean he's gonna be a vegetable?
A vegetable?
No, I wouldn't say that.
We won't know the extent of the injury for some days.
But there is a genuine possibility
of severe and lasting behavioral defects.
I wouldn't classify it in the "vegetable" category, however.
Thumbs that not once in a lifetime
had been raised in anger,
that had often known bliss but never violence,
that were wound 'round with artistic skill and athletic glory
now had been reduced to the status of weapons.
A sorrowful Sissy had her thumbs transport her
to the one person she knew who might disarm her...
or should we say, "disthumb" her.
I'm afraid I can't help you.
- Oh Doctor! - Please, child.
Don't be dismayed.
We all have our problems these days.
But as the painter Van Gogh said,
"Mysteries remain, sorrow or melancholy remains,
but the everlasting negative is balanced
by the positive work which thus is achieved after all."
I don't suppose that means very much to you.
I have retired... a victim of a malpractice suit.
- Oh... - My last operation
was a simple reworking of a boy's nose.
I was a bit overenthusiastic,
succumbing to my suppressed artistic drives,
I sculpted, in living flesh,
on the face of little Bernie Schwartz
the world's first cubistic nose.
Ah, the thumb!
The thumb, the thumb, the thumb.
One of evolution's most ingenious inventions.
A built-in tool,
sensitive to texture, contour, and temperature.
An alchemical lever, the secret key to technology,
the link between the mind and art.
The humanizing device.
The marmoset and the lemur are thumbless.
None of the new world monkeys has opposable thumbs.
The spider monkey's thumbs are absent
or reduced to a tiny tubercle.
The thumbs of the potto are set
at an angle of 180 degrees to the other digits.
And so...
you are demanding at last,
the privileges of thumb that nature has perversely denied you?
I just want to be normal, Doctor.
Give me that old-fashioned normality.
It was good enough for Crazy Horse,
and it's good enough for me.
Ah yes.
Very well, my dear.
Here's what we can do.
The whooping cranes are here, all right.
They're in fine shape...
and as you must have saw from your flying machine...
unrestrained, free to go as they please.
But this is private property and you aren't setting a foot on it.
None of you.
We'll be back, and when we come back we'll have a court order
and a fistful of search warrants.
I'm scared of you.
Yee-hah!
It will be my extreme pleasure to report to the President
who has been gravely concerned about the fate of our whooping cranes...
...and the Interior Secretary and the American people
that the entire flock of cranes is, indeed, at Siwash Lake,
and in apparently healthy condition.
The cranes have built brooding nests
around the entire circumference of the lake,
and have hatched chicks there.
Uh, including the young birds, there are approximately 60 cranes in the flock.
While this is good news, it's also quite bewildering.
Er, whooping cranes are territorially-minded
and have never been known to nest within a mile of each other,
and yet here they're virtually side by side.
The whooping crane has been driven to the edge of extinction...
...by an aggressive, brutal, patriarchal system
intent on subduing the earth
and establishing its dominion over all things
In the name of God the Father, law, order, and economic progress.
From men, the whooping crane has received neither love nor respect.
Men have drained the crane's marshes...
...stolen its eggs, invaded its privacy,
polluted its food, blown it apart with buckshot.
Obviously, a patriarchal society does not deserve
anything as grand and beautiful
and wild and free as the whooping crane.
You men have failed in your duty to the crane,
now it is women's turn.
The cranes are in our charge now.
We will protect them as long as they still require protection,
while working toward a day when the creatures of this earth
no longer have to suffer man's egoism, insensitivity, and greed.
We refuse your order. We say...
...take your order and shove it. - It's Jellybean!
This awesome bird's staying with us. Get lost, mac.
♪ I've pinned myself against the wall ♪
♪ Stationed like a horse in stall ♪
♪ Just wishin' they might call me art ♪
♪ There I hung in the hall ♪
♪ Collectin' dust, that's all ♪
♪ That's all I needed to do ♪
♪ While in the corner, quite a size ♪
♪ He sits talkin' whisky-wise ♪
♪ Hopin' to throw me off ♪
♪ But no matter how he tries ♪
♪ I'll just look him in the eyes ♪
♪ That's all that I need to do ♪
♪ That's all it took to see I was wasting time ♪
♪ That's all it took to see ♪
♪ I was walkin' the line ♪
♪ I'm gonna ride high as can be ♪
♪ I look behind and see them ♪
♪ Following me. ♪
♪ Yee-hoo! ♪
there came a point when Delores felt compelled
to get in her peyote wagon and leave the ranch.
She had a mission to perform.
The cowgirls protested that it was much too dangerous.
But they knew better than to try to interfere.
Unfortunately, there were federal agents who had no such qualms.
Yeah, yeah, right, right...
We heard on the radio
where they set Delores' bail at $50,000.
Man, right when we really needed her.
Whoo-hoo! Yeow!
Well, let's celebrate!
Ain't that just like women?
Looks like every time we get together,
- Things are in a mess. - So be it.
It's pretty serious this time, though, huh? All these guns?
You're actually prepared to kill and die for whooping cranes?
Hell, no! The cranes are wonderful
but I'm not in this for whooping cranes.
I'm in it for cowgirls.
If we cowgirls give in to authority on this crane issue,
then cowgirls become just another compromise.
I want a finer fate than that... for me and every other cowgirl.
Better no cowgirls at all than cowgirls compromised.
How did this business get started anyhow?
Why are the birds nesting here?
You were aware we were feeding them, weren't you?
We fed 'em brown rice. They stayed over a couple of extra days.
Then we decided to try something different.
We mixed our brown rice with fishmeal. Whoopers love seafood.
Then Delores suggested another ingredient.
We think that's what did the trick.
- You mean...? - Peyote!
They're drugged?
Oh come off it, Sissy. What do you mean, "drugged"?
Every living thing is a chemical composition
and anything that is added to it changes that composition.
If you eat a cheeseburger or a Three Musketeers bar...
it changes your body chemistry.
The kind of food you eat,
the kind of air you breathe can change your mental state.
- Does that mean you're drugged? - No, I guess not.
"Drugged" is a stupid word.
But the peyote is obviously affecting their brains.
It's made them break a migratory pattern
that goes back thousands of years.
The way I see it,
the peyote mellowed them out, made them less uptight.
They were afraid of humans and bad weather.
That's why they migrated and kept to themselves.
Peyote has enlightened them.
It's taught them there's nothing to fear but fear itself.
Now they're digging life and letting the bad vibes slide on.
"Don't worry, Be happy."
Be here now.
This here discussion is destined to become academic,
because we've got less than half a bag of peyote buttons left
and Delores' run ended up in the Sisters jail.
So any day now, we'll get a chance
to see how the whoopers behave when they come down.
But in the meantime, I'd like to say this about fear...
Judge Greenfield, at the request of the ACLU,
has granted a 48-hour extension of the deadline
by which the Rubber Rose cowgirls must comply with his orders.
Negotiations between the cowgirls and the government
are expected to follow.
Another "ride 'em in," the forewoman of the Rubber Rose Ranch,
a Delores del Ruby, is now free on bond...
...after having been arrested in Sisters
with more than 50 pounds of peyote buttons.
Her bail has been paid by the owner of the besieged ranch,
Countess Products, Inc.
Ms. del Ruby's bail having come from the tycoon's personal advisor,
- A Dr. Robbins of New York City. - Dr. Robbins?
It isn't for ourselves that we take this stand...
it isn't for cowgirls.
It's for all the daughters everywhere.
That ain't no lie!
This is an extremely important confrontation.
This is womankind's chance to prove to her enemy
that she is willing to fight and die!
And if we women don't show here and now
that we're willing to fight and die,
then our enemy will never take us seriously.
That's right!
And men know that no matter how strong our words,
or determined our deeds,
there is a point where we'll back down and give them their dinner.
No way!
I love you.
Every time I tell you I love you, you flinch.
That's your problem.
If I flinch when you say you love me, it's both our problems.
My confusion becomes your confusion.
Students confuse teachers.
Patients confuse psychiatrists.
Lovers with confused hearts
confuse lovers with clear ones.
I'm prepared to win!
Victory for every female living or dead...
who has suffered under the temporary defeat
of masculine insensitivity to their inner lives.
I'll fight the bastards!
I'll fight them with bean gas if necessary.
Sun's gone down.
So those of you who are not standing watch,
get a good night's sleep.
Tomorrow morning, we'll plan our fight.
Tomorrow afternoon, those of you who would like to join me...
in the reeds...
the cranes and I will be sharing the last crumbs in the peyote sack.
I love you, Jelly.
Lost in a psychedelic trance,
Delores, queen of the whooping crane rustlers,
wandered among the nests of those great birds
who would rather go extinct than change their lives to suit the ways of men.
Peyote buttons sang in Delores' brain like a choir,
and above that ancient chorus,
there eventually rose the voice of Niwetúkame,
the divine mother, calling her daughter to her muddy throne.
There the promise of the third vision was fulfilled.
But what was said, and what was shown?
It is woman's mission
to destroy as well as it is to give birth.
We will destroy the tyranny of the dull,
but we cannot do it with guns...
or with whips...
oh no, we will destroy our enemy in other ways.
The peyote mother has promised a fourth vision.
But it won't come to me alone.
It'll come to each of you...
every cowgirl in the land!
But first we have to end all this business
with the government and the cranes.
It's been positive and fruitful, but it's gone on far enough.
Playfulness ceases to have a serious purpose...
when it takes itself too seriously.
Well, what we got to do
is one of us has got to go up that hill
and tell them boys that America can have its whooping cranes back.
Now since I'm the boss here, and
since I'm responsible for a lot of you
choosing to be cowgirls in the first place,
it's gonna be me that goes.
No buts about it. It's getting lighter by the second.
You partners keep your heads down, all right?
I'll see you soon. Ta-ta.
Yep, better get rid of these.
Might give those greenhorn dudes a fright.
She's gonna fire.
Shit! Shit!
Hey, no, no, no...
You've got two minutes to come out with your hands up!
No! No, no, no!
No! Stop it!
Take that, you bastard!
Stop! Stop! Stop!
Rotten scar. I fell on a wooden horse when I was 12.
I wasn't really shot with a silver bullet.
Or was I?
You know, partners,
you can tune a guitar, but you can't tuna fish.
God, but it's good to be a cowgirl!
♪ Happy trails to you ♪
♪ Until we meet again ♪
♪ Happy trails to you ♪
♪ Dearly parted friend ♪
♪ When we meet out there ♪
♪ Where pastures never end ♪
♪ Happy trails to you ♪
♪ Until we meet again. ♪
Everything getting worse?
Yeah.
Everything's getting worse.
But it's also getting better.
- Yeah. - Hm.
The Countess has come to our aid.
The Rubber Rose Ranch has been officially deeded over to the cowgirls.
I've been asked to oversee the ranch
- For $300 a week. - All right, huh?
And the Countess... he's not going to be the vegetable doctors thought he was.
Here's a picture.
There he is.
Hmm... I'm splitting the ranch.
Help me up.
Look, the westbound choo-choo's out of here at 1:40. I'm on it.
Will you drive me to the station, hmm?
Agh, don't ever bet against paradox, ladies!
If complexity doesn't get you, paradox will!
Ha-ha!
Ho-ho!
Hee-hee!
The brown paper bag
is the only thing civilized man has produced
that does not seem out of place in nature.
Crumpled into a wad of wrinkles
like the fossilized brain of a dryad,
blending with rock and vegetation
as if it were a burrowing owl's doormat
or a jackrabbit's underwear,
a number eight kraft paper bag
lay discarded in the Oregon hills
and appeared to live where it lay.
Once long ago, it had borne a package of buns
and a jar of mustard
to a kitchenette rendezvous with a fried hamburger.
Most recently, the bag had held love letters.
As a hole in an oak hides a squirrel's family jewels,
the bag had hidden love letters
in the bottom of a bunkhouse trunk.
Then one day after work,
the lanky filly to whom the letters were addressed,
gathered bag and contents under her arm,
slipped down to the corral
past ranch hands pitchin' horseshoes,
and ranch hands flyin' Tibetan kites,
saddled up and trotted into the hills.
A mile or so from the bunkhouse,
she dismounted and built a small fire.
She fed the fire letters, one by one,
the way her girlfriend had once fed her french fries.
As words such as "sweetheart" and "honey britches"
and "forever" and "always" burned away,
the cowgirl squirted a few fat tears.
Her eyes were so misty, she forgot to burn the bag.