Sissy Hankshaw had thumbs the size of sausages. Not just big, mind you, but "monstrous" appendages that could flag down a Cropduster in a thunderstorm or, more famously, hitchhike her across the psychedelic landscape of 1970s America. When Tom Robbins released Even Cowgirls Get the Blues in 1976, he wasn't just writing a book; he was capturing a specific, weird, counter-cultural lightning in a bottle. Most people today remember the ill-fated 1993 Gus Van Sant movie with Uma Thurman, which is a shame. The movie was a bit of a mess, honestly. But the book? The book is a masterpiece of philosophical whimsy that somehow manages to be about feminism, the nature of time, whooping cranes, and the inherent joy of a giant thumb, all at once.
It’s a strange beast.
If you haven't read it lately, or at all, you're missing out on a piece of literature that defines the "Pacific Northwest psychedelic" aesthetic. Robbins didn't follow the rules of the New York literary establishment. He lived in La Conner, Washington, watched the mist roll over the Skagit Valley, and wrote sentences that felt like they were doing gymnastics. Some critics at the time—and even now—find his style "indulgent." Maybe it is. But in a world of dry, minimalist prose, the maximalism of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues feels like a cold beer on a dusty highway.
The Rubber Rose Ranch and the Politics of Joy
At its heart, the story follows Sissy's journey to the Rubber Rose Ranch, the largest feminine hygiene empire in the world (yes, you read that right), owned by a character named the Countess. But the real action starts when the "cowgirls"—the ranch hands who are supposed to be modeling for commercials—revolt. They take over. They stop being corporate props and start being, well, cowgirls.
This wasn't just a wacky plot point. Robbins was tapping into the burgeoning feminist movement of the 70s but stripping away the academic dryness. He replaced it with the "Chink," a Japanese-American hermit living in a cave who laughs at the concept of clock time and preaches a philosophy of "selective consciousness." It’s easy to dismiss this as hippie-dippie nonsense, but if you look closer, Robbins is making a serious argument about personal liberty. He’s asking: Can you actually be free if you’re still following everyone else's schedule?
The Chink’s mantra—"Ha ha ho ho and hee hee"—is basically a middle finger to the self-seriousness of the era. It’s about finding the "it" in the middle of the "is." It sounds like nonsense until you’re three chapters deep and suddenly it makes perfect sense.
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Why Even Cowgirls Get the Blues Broke All the Rules
Most novels have a clear arc. Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl. Boy finds girl. In Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Sissy meets a revolutionary group of lesbian cowgirls, befriends a man who lives in a cave, and deals with a fragrance mogul who is obsessed with the smell of the "Yoni." It’s chaotic.
The prose is the real star here. Robbins uses metaphors that shouldn't work. He compares the sky to things you’ve never thought of. He pauses the narrative to give you a five-page lecture on the history of the thumb or the migratory patterns of birds.
- The Narrative Voice: It’s intrusive. Robbins talks to the reader. He breaks the fourth wall before it was trendy in prestige TV.
- The Structure: It’s episodic. It feels like a road trip because it is a road trip.
- The Theme: It's aggressively pro-weirdo.
The Chink is perhaps the most complex character, despite being a caricature on the surface. He represents the transition from the beatnik era to the psychedelic era. He’s the bridge between Kerouac and the Grateful Dead. When he interacts with Sissy, it’s not a traditional romance. It’s a collision of two people who have been rejected by "normal" society for their physical or mental differences.
The Gus Van Sant Movie: A Beautiful Failure?
We have to talk about the 1993 film. It’s unavoidable. Gus Van Sant was coming off My Own Private Idaho, and he had an incredible cast: Uma Thurman, Lorraine Bracco, Keanu Reeves, John Hurt, even Roseanne Barr. On paper, it should have been a cult classic.
But it bombed. Hard.
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The problem is that Robbins’ magic is in the narration. His voice is the glue. When you put those bizarre events on screen without the linguistic acrobatics that justify them, they just look... weird. Not "good" weird. Just "why is Keanu Reeves wearing that hat" weird. The movie currently sits at a dismal 21% on Rotten Tomatoes. If you want to experience the story, honestly, just stick to the page. The movie is a fascinating artifact of early 90s indie cinema, but it fails to capture the soul of the Rubber Rose Ranch.
The book, however, remains a staple in the "Western Counter-culture" canon. It sits on the shelf next to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. But unlike Thompson or Wolfe, Robbins isn't cynical. He’s a romantic. He actually likes his characters. He wants Sissy to find a place where her thumbs aren't a deformity, but a superpower.
Deconstructing the "Even Cowgirls" Philosophy
People often ask what the title means. Does it mean cowgirls get depressed? Sorta. But it’s more about the universality of the human condition. Even the most rugged, independent, free-spirited people—the cowgirls of the mind—have moments of profound melancholy.
Robbins explores the idea that "freedom" isn't a destination. It's a practice.
Sissy spends her whole life running away. She hitches rides because she can't stand to stay still. But at the Rubber Rose, she realizes that running away is just another form of being trapped. You’re trapped by the thing you’re running from. To be truly free, she has to stop hitching and start planting roots, even if those roots are in a place as chaotic as a cowgirl revolution.
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The Whooping Crane Connection
The subplot about the endangered whooping cranes is one of the most poignant parts of the book. The cowgirls essentially hold the cranes hostage to protect them. It’s a metaphor for how we try to "save" the things we love by cageing them. Robbins argues that if you love something—be it a bird or a person—you have to let it be wild, even if being wild means it might die out. It’s a heavy concept wrapped in a story about a ranch that makes douche. That’s the Robbins brand: the profound hidden in the profane.
How to Read Tom Robbins Today
Reading Even Cowgirls Get the Blues in the mid-2020s is a different experience than it was in the 70s. We’re more cynical now. We’re more attuned to problematic tropes. Yes, some of the Chink’s dialogue feels a bit "orientalist" by modern standards. Yes, the depiction of the cowgirls can feel a bit like a male fantasy at times.
But if you discard the book because it’s a product of its time, you miss the heart of it. It’s an anti-authoritarian manifesto. It’s a celebration of the body, in all its weird, lumpy, oversized glory.
If you're looking for a way to engage with the text, start with these steps:
- Don't Rush: This isn't a thriller. You don't read it for the plot. You read it for the sentences. If a paragraph looks particularly dense, slow down. Taste the words.
- Look Up the References: Robbins drops names of philosophers, obscure biological facts, and 70s pop culture icons. Having a search engine handy makes the "lecture" parts of the book much more rewarding.
- Ignore the Movie (Initially): Read the book first. Let your brain cast the characters. Uma Thurman is great, but she might not be your Sissy Hankshaw.
- Listen to the Audio: If you struggle with the prose, find a good audiobook version. Robbins' writing has a rhythmic, oral quality that works well when spoken aloud.
The Lasting Legacy of Sissy Hankshaw
Ultimately, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues survives because it celebrates the outsider. In a digital age where everyone is trying to fit into an algorithm, Sissy’s giant thumbs are a reminder that our glitches are our best features. Robbins tells us that it’s okay to be a "misfit" among the misfits.
The ranch might be fictional, and the Chink might just be a figment of a Washington novelist's overactive imagination, but the feeling the book evokes is very real. It’s the feeling of being on a highway at 3:00 AM, knowing you have nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there.
To get the most out of your journey with Tom Robbins, track down a vintage paperback copy—the ones with the bright, psychedelic covers. There's something about the tactile feel of those old mass-market paperbacks that fits the story better than an e-reader ever could. Once you've finished, look into Robbins' other heavy hitter, Jitterbug Perfume, which tackles immortality and beets with the same frantic energy. The goal isn't just to read a story; it's to shift your perspective enough that the world looks a little bit more colorful when you put the book down.