Grease Monkey’s Sonata-Mickey Rooney’s “Quicksand” (1950)-A Film Review

Grease Monkey’s Sonata-Mickey Rooney’s “Quicksand” (1950)-A Film Review

DVD Review 

By Film Critic Emeritus Sam Lowell

[This is a DVD that I found of all places in a “for sale” bin of discontinued material at the Cambridge Public Library several weeks ago. This while my transition to emeritus and the ending of the grind of film reviewing under deadlines and Sandy Salmon my replacement on the day to day work was in progress. I had offered the film for Sandy to review knowing (and hoping) from long friendship and competition (mostly friendly as among most film reviewers outside of New York City) that he didn’t give what we called in the old neighborhood where I grew up a “rat’s ass” about reviewing a 1950s film noir. So here I am again in the saddle for a minute.) 

Quicksand, starring Mickey Rooney, Jeanne Cagney, Peter Lorre, Barbara Bates, directed by Irving Pichel yet another Hollywood figure blacklisted in the red scare Cold War night when the powers- to-be in Tinsel-town and their cowardly hangers-on took a dive on funny little things like constitutional rights-and peoples’ livelihoods, 1950  

Forgot the film noir aspect of the film under review, Mickey Rooney’s Quicksand, although only now is this minor classic noir and probably Mickey’s best performance against type (he spent his early career as the “ah, shucks” cinematic version of Andy Hardy of that classic series of young adult books) being recognized as such. This plotline is strictly from Sister Cecelia’s, maybe Sister Mary Rose’s, or maybe Sister Delores’, hell, maybe all of them, lessons from Sunday school at old Saint Stephen’s Roman Catholic Church in mu old home town. The lesson: once you go down the slippery slope of sin (and probably crime as here was the same thing in their imaginations) then there is a serious rollover effect, serious consequences. Yeah, and obviously Mickey’s character Danny, the lowly grease monkey, you know, auto mechanic either didn’t pay attention or was absent those Sundays when whoever was running the Sunday school operation where he worshipped was holding forth about that very prospect. No question, he uncorked every possible evil as he went down the road to perdition.        

Funny from a first look at Danny he didn’t look like a guy who would wind up doing from one to ten in some California penal colony once the dust settled. But then you didn’t know then what steered him down the garden path. Of course then we didn’t know that he would run smack daub into a low rent femme fatale, Vera, played by Jeanne Cagney, who was serving them off the arm at a hash house where the local grease monkeys filled their lunch buckets and he made the fatal mistake of dating her up (a mistake as well since she was too tall for him, maybe too blond as well). Once you know all he was doing was trying to move might and main to get her down among the downy billows then all his fevered actions made a kind of off-hand sense as every guy, including this reviewer, has had first-hand experience with if he goes for the femmes. (Frankly this Vera didn’t have the look of steam-infested career waitress, looked more like a bar girl or a roper on a scam but you never know what has a gal serving them off the arm).

Okay here is what the slippery slope looked like if you follow along (and suspense disbelief as well). It seemed after making that hot date for that very night Danny was cash-shy, needed some dough to carry some weight with Vera. Everybody was tapped out so, and remember, this is where he falls down, gets ready to take the big step-off if he doesn’t catch a break, he grabbed a measly twenty buck from the skinflint larcenous auto boss’s till. Just an overnight loan. No problem because some guy who owned him more than twenty would cover him the next day and that hot date would be worth it he could tell. Problem: the boss’s accountant showed up early the next day for some other reason so he would need to cover the twenty bucks fast. He can’t get the dough to cover so naturally he gets the fever-driven bright idea that if he goes and buys an expensive watch on credit for a hundred bucks (remember this is before cash-back credit cards could have saved his butt even they were charging usurious rates) and then hocked it for thirty bucks.

That idea worked well enough for Danny in the short term, got him a reprieve from the boss’s accountant although just barely and with a very jaundiced eye but then the next hurdle showed up at the garage-the dreaded “repo” man. Seems that in California in those days you didn’t actually own, couldn’t own, an item on credit until it was fully paid for, now too if I am not mistaken. The repo man gave him twenty four hours to ante up the C-note or he was going to stir for grand larceny. What to do, desperately what to do since a hundred bucks was way out of his league on such short notice. Simple, our Danny boy bops a drunk carrying plenty of dough on the head in darkened parking lot (let’s call that one assault and battery in the night time and armed robbery, okay and you get an idea that Danny’s wheels have gotten well off the track). He is in the clear now, his miseries are over as he handed the repo man his piece. Of course Danny is just a misbegotten grease monkey and not some kind of career criminal so when he flashes fifty dollar bills Vera’s way she knows he is the guy who bopped the well-known drunk. Worse, the guy she used to work for at the local penny arcade who seemingly still has a thing for her, Nick, a seedy guy no question, played by the lovely Peter Lorre, knows he grabbed the dough. Has the handkerchief he used as a mask doing the robbery. Nick’s price for keeping quiet-a new car from the auto shop. Or else.                

  

There’s more, believe there is more in this Dante-like descend into hell. Danny grabs the car alright and thinks he is back on easy street and can now enjoy his new honey in quiet, maybe get under the sheets with her finally. Nope, that larcenous auto shop boss has his own scam. He accused Danny of stealing the car (he also accused others in the shop of the same crime in order to blackmail them). His price for keeping quiet three thou for a two thousand blue book car. Jesus. That is where the quick-thinking hustling Vera comes in to save his bacon, maybe. Seems that Nick besides running that seaside arcade does some business in cashing checks for guys-a low rent operation that is still with us unfortunately. She knows where Nick keeps the dough and it is not in a bank. So Danny goes and grabs the dough, hey who would have thought, thirty-six hundred. Now he is only easy street and can get back to the serious business of running around with that femme Vera.

Forget it. Vera, who was a drifter from hunger just like Danny, had her big eyes on a mink coat and while Danny was off doing something she bought the coat for the cash she was holding for him. Eighteen hundred bucks, her half of the heist according to her thinking, and not a bad price when you think about in the days when women craved mink and it wasn’t politically incorrect, very politically correct to wear fur. Danny went crazy and finally saw she was little more than a bent whore. But that left Danny short with his boss. He went to the boss with his eighteen hundred-take it or leave it. The boss took it naturally since he was a larcenous character. Except that was a stall-he was holding out for three thou and was calling the coppers when Danny freaked out and strangled him. Murder, one, the big step off at the Q no doubt. Grabbed his gun too on the way out knowing he was nothing but a desperado now, an outlaw. All for a twenty buck deal to go around with a floozy.            

Things looked grim, very grim as he was going on the lam to Mexico, or someplace very far away from California. This is where we get a little sneak redemption. See Danny had thrown over a nice girl, Helen, played by Barbara Bates, who would have been right up his alley if he was Andy Hardy but he had been in throes to that damn femme. The thing was this Helen was still carrying the torch for him, carrying that flame despite knowing that he was in a heck of a lot of trouble. Yeah, true love which he finally realizes he could have held onto for dear life. She would share his fate whatever happened. So people are like that, thankfully, thankfully for Danny. He tries to talk her out of going with hi but no use. As they try to blow town his damn automobile blows a gasket. So he is back in the bright idea business. He, they will, at gunpoint stop a car on the highway and force the driver to take them away to Mexico. So add on hijacking, kidnapping and who knows what else to the total. And who knows what Helen will get for being his sidekick on this part of the descent.

Then Danny, Helen draw a convenient little break. The guy they kidnapped was a non-plussed lawyer who asked for the whole story. Asked as well whether that auto shop boss was really dead which would have been a tough dollar to get around for what started out as a twenty dollar petty larceny case. As it turned out that auto shop boss was not dead but had just been unconscious. Free, free at last. Well not quite. There was too much of a mess to get him off scot free  so he would be doing that one to ten. Guess who will be waiting for him coming out stir? But wouldn’t Danny have been better off having listened to Sister Cecelia, Sister Mary Rose, Sister Delores, hell, maybe all three of them, about the slippery slope of sin. If you are a noir fan and can find this oen take a look.           

Happy, Happy 100th Birthday Poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti-Max Daddy Of Famed “City Lights Bookstore” In “Beat” San Francisco When It Counted And Muse Of His Generation’s Poets

Happy, Happy 100^th Birthday Poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti-Max Daddy Of Famed “City Lights Bookstore” In “Beat” San Francisco When It Counted And Muse Of His Generation’s Poets

In Honor Of Jean Bon Kerouac On The 60^th Anniversary Of “On The Road” (1957)

By Book Critic Zack James

To be honest I know about On The Road Jack Kerouac’s epic tale of his generation’s search for something, maybe the truth, maybe just for kicks, for stuff, important stuff that had happened down in the base of society where nobody in authority was looking or some such happening strictly second-hand. His generation’s search looking for a name, found what he, or someone associated with him, maybe the bandit poet Gregory Corso, king of the mean New York streets, mean, very mean indeed in a junkie-hang-out world around Times Square when that place was up to its neck in flea-bit hotels, all-night Joe and Nemo’s and the trail of the “fixer” man on every corner, con men coming out your ass too, called the “beat” generation. (Yes,  I know that the actual term “beat” was first used by Kerouac writer friend John Clemmon Holmes in an article in some arcane journal but the “feel” had to have come from a less academic source so I will crown the bandit prince Corso as genesis) Beat, beat of the jazzed up drum line backing some sax player searching for the high white note, what somebody told me, maybe my older brother Alex they called “blowing to the China seas” out in West Coast jazz and blues circles, that high white note he heard achieved one skinny night by famed sax man Sonny Johns, dead beat, run out on money, women, life, leaving, and this is important no forwarding address for the desolate repo man to hang onto, dread beat, nine to five, 24/7/365 that you will get caught back up in the spire wind up like your freaking staid, stay at home parents, beaten down, ground down like dust puffed away just for being, hell, let’s just call it being, beatified beat like saintly and all high holy Catholic incense and a story goes with it about a young man caught up in a dream, like there were not ten thousand other religions in the world to feast on- you can take your pick of the meanings, beat time meanings. Hell, join the club they all did, the guys, and it was mostly guys who hung out on the mean streets of New York, Chi town, North Beach in Frisco town cadging twenty-five cents a night flea-bag sleeps, half stirred left on corner diners’ coffees and cigarette stubs when the Bull Durham ran out).

I was too young to have had anything but a vague passing reference to the thing, to that “beat” thing since I was probably just pulling out of diapers then, maybe a shade bit older but not much. I got my fill, my brim fill later through my oldest brother Alex. Alex, and his crowd, more about that in a minute, but even he was only washed clean by the “beat” experiment at a very low level, mostly through reading the book (need I say the book was On The Road) and having his mandatory two years of living on the road around the time of the Summer of Love, 1967 an event whose 50^th anniversary is being commemorated this year as well and so very appropriate to mention since there were a million threads, fibers, connections between “beat” and “hippie” despite dour grandpa Jack’s attempts to trash those connection when they acolytes came calling looking for the “word.” So even Alex and his crowd were really too young to have been washed by the beat wave that crashed the continent toward the end of the 1950s on the wings of Allan Ginsburg’s Howl and Jack’s travel book of a different kind (not found on the AAA, Traveler’s Aid, Youth Hostel brochure circuit if you please although Jack and the crowd, my brother and his crowd later would use such services when up against it in let’s say a place like Winnemucca in the Nevadas or Neola in the heartlands). Literary stuff for sure but the kind of stuff that moves generations, or I like to think the best parts of those cohorts. These were the creation documents the latter of which would drive Alex west before he finally settled down to his career life as a high-road lawyer (and to my sorrow and anger never looked back).             

Of course anytime you talk about books and poetry and then add my brother’s Alex name into the mix that automatically brings up memories of another name, the name of the late Peter Paul Markin. Markin, for whom Alex and the rest of the North Adamsville corner boys, Frankie, Jack, Jimmy, Si, Josh (he a separate story from up in Olde Saco, Maine),   Bart, and a few others still alive recently had me put together a tribute book for in connection with that Summer of Love, 1967, their birthright event, just mentioned.  Markin was the vanguard guy, the volunteer odd-ball unkempt mad monk seeker who got several of them off their asses and out to the West Coast to see what there was to see. To see some stuff that Markin had been speaking of for a number of years before (and which nobody in the crowd paid any attention to, or dismissed out of hand what they called “could give a rat’s ass” about in the local jargon which I also inherited in those cold, hungry bleak 1950s cultural days in America) and which can be indirectly attributed to the activities of Jack, Allen Ginsburg, Gregory Corso, that aforementioned bandit poet who ran wild on the mean streets among the hustlers, conmen and whores of the major towns of the continent, William Burroughs, the Harvard-trained junkie  and a bunch of other guys who took a very different route for our parents who were of the same generation as them but of a very different world.

But it was above all Jack’s book, Jack’s book which had caused a big splash in 1957(after an incredible publishing travail since the story line actually related to events in the late 1940s and which would cause Jack no end of trauma when the kids showed up at his door looking to hitch a ride on the motherlode star, and had ripple effects into the early 1960s (and even now certain “hip” kids acknowledge the power of attraction that book had for their own developments, especially that living simple, fast and hard part). Made the young, some of them anyway, like I say I think the best part, have to spend some time thinking through the path of life ahead by hitting the vagrant dusty sweaty road. Maybe not hitchhiking, maybe not going high speed high through the ocean, plains, mountain desert night but staying unsettled for a while anyway.    

Like I said above Alex was out on the road two years and other guys, other corner boys for whatever else you wanted to call them that was their niche back in those days and were recognized as such in the town not always to their benefit, from a few months to a few years. Markin started first back in the spring of 1967 but was interrupted by his fateful induction into the Army and service, if you can call it that, in Vietnam and then several more years upon his return before his untimely and semi-tragic end. With maybe this difference from today’s young who are seeking alternative roads away from what is frankly bourgeois society and was when Jack wrote although nobody except commies and pinkos called it that for fear of being tarred with those brushes. Alex, Frankie Riley the acknowledged leader, Jack Callahan and the rest, Markin included, were strictly “from hunger” working class kids who when they hung around Tonio Pizza Parlor were as likely to be thinking up ways to grab money fast any way they could or of getting into some   hot chick’s pants any way they could as anything else. Down at the base of society when you don’t have enough of life’s goods or have to struggle too much to get even that little bit “from hunger” takes a big toll on your life. I can testify to that part because Alex was not the only one in the James family to go toe to toe with the law, it was a close thing for all us boys as it had been with Jack when all is said and done. But back then dough and sex after all was what was what for corner boys, maybe now too although you don’t see many guys hanging on forlorn Friday night corners anymore.

What made this tribe different, the Tonio Pizza Parlor corner boys, was mad monk Markin. Markin called by Frankie Riley the “Scribe” from the time he came to North Adamsville from across town in junior high school and that stuck all through high school. The name stuck because although Markin was as larcenous and lovesick as the rest of them he was also crazy for books and poetry. Christ according to Alex, Markin was the guy who planned most of the “midnight creeps” they called then. Although nobody in their right minds would have the inept Markin actually execute the plan. That was for smooth as silk Frankie now also a high-road lawyer to lead. That operational sense was why Frankie was the leader then (and maybe why he was a locally famous lawyer later who you definitely did not want to be on the other side against him). Markin was also the guy who all the girls for some strange reason would confide in and thus was the source of intelligence about who was who in the social pecking order, in other words, who was available, sexually or otherwise. That sexually much more important than otherwise. See Markin always had about ten billion facts running around his head in case anybody, boy or girl, asked him about anything so he was ready to do battle, for or against take your pick.

The books and the poetry is where Jack Kerouac and On The Road come into the corner boy life of the Tonio’s Pizza Parlor life. Markin was something like an antennae for anything that seemed like it might help create a jailbreak, help them get out from under. Later he would be the guy who introduced some of the guys to folk music when that was a big thing. (Alex never bought into that genre, still doesn’t, despite Markin’s desperate pleas for him to check it out. Hated whinny Bob Dylan above all else) Others too like Kerouac’s friend Allen Ginsburg and his wooly homo poem Howl from 1956 which Markin would read sections out loud from on lowdown dough-less, girl-less Friday nights. And drive the strictly hetero guys crazy when he insisted that they read the poem, read what he called a new breeze was coming down the road. They could, using that term from the times again, have given a rat’s ass about some fucking homo faggot poem from some whacko Jewish guy who belonged in a mental hospital. (That is a direct quote from Frankie Riley at the time via my brother Alex’s memory bank.)

Markin flipped out when he found out that Kerouac had grown up in Lowell, a working class town very much like North Adamsville, and that he had broken out of the mold that had been set for him and gave the world some grand literature and something to spark the imagination of guys down at the base of society like his crowd with little chance of grabbing the brass ring. So Markin force-marched the crowd to read the book, especially putting pressure on my brother who was his closest friend then. Alex read it, read it several times and left the dog- eared copy around which I picked up one day when I was having one of my high school summertime blues. Read it through without stopping almost like Jack wrote the final version of the thing on a damn newspaper scroll in about three weeks. So it was through Markin via Alex that I got the Kerouac bug. And now on the 60^th anniversary I am passing on the bug to you.           

In Honor Of Jean Bon Kerouac On The 60th Anniversary Of “On The Road” (1957)-Poet's Corner – Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s  “Coney Island Of The Mind”

By Book Critic Zack James

To be honest I know about On The Road Jack Kerouac’s epic tale of his generation’s search for something, maybe the truth, maybe just kicks, stuff, important stuff has happened or some such happening strictly second-hand. His generation’s search looking for a name, found what he, or someone associated with him, maybe the bandit poet Gregory Corso, king of the mean New York streets, mean, very mean indeed in a junkie-hang-out world around Times Square when that place was up to its neck in flea-bit hotels, all night Joe and Nemo’s and the trail of the “fixer” man on every corner, con men coming out your ass too, called the “beat” generation.  Beat, beat of the jazzed up drum line backing some sax player searching for the high white note, what somebody told me, maybe my older brother Alex thy called “blowing to the China seas” out in West Coast jazz and blues circles, dead beat, run out on money, women, life, leaving, and this is important no forwarding address for the desolate repo man to hang onto, dread beat, nine to five, 24/7/365 that you will get caught back up in the spire wind up like your freaking staid, stay at home parents, beaten down, ground down like dust puffed away just for being, hell, let’s just call it being, beatified beat like saintly and all high holy Catholic incense and a story goes with it about a young man caught up in a dream, like there were not ten thousand other religions in the world to feast on- you can take your pick of the meanings, beat time meanings. Hell, join the club they all did, the guys, and it was mostly guys who hung out on the mean streets of New York, Chi town, North Beach in Frisco town cadging twenty-five cents a night flea-bag sleeps, half stirred left on corner coffees and cigarette stubs when the Bull Durham ran out).

I was too young to have had anything but a vague passing reference to the thing, to that “beat” thing since I was probably just pulling out of diapers then, maybe a shade bit older but not much. I got my fill, my brim fill later through my oldest brother Alex. Alex, and his crowd, more about that in a minute, but even he was only washed clean by the “beat” experiment at a very low level, mostly through reading the book (need I say the book was On The Road) and having his mandatory two years of living on the road around the time of the Summer of Love, 1967 an event whose 50^th anniversary is being commemorated this year as well. So even Alex and his crowd were really too young to have been washed by the beat wave that crashed the continent toward the end of the 1950s on the wings of Allan Ginsburg’s Howl and Jack’s travel book of a different kind. The kind that moves generations, or I like to think the best parts of those cohorts. These were the creation documents the latter which would drive Alex west before he finally settled down to his career life (and to my sorrow and anger never looked back).             

Of course anytime you talk about books and poetry and then add my brother Alex’s name into the mix that automatically brings up memories of another name, the name of the late Peter Paul Markin. Markin, for whom Alex and the rest of the North Adamsville corner boys, Jack, Jimmy, Si, Josh, and a few others still alive recently had me put together a tribute book for in connection with that Summer of Love, 1967 just mentioned.  Markin was the vanguard guy, the volunteer odd-ball unkempt mad monk seeker who got several of them off their asses and out to the West Coast to see what there was to see. To see some stuff that Markin had been speaking of for a number of years before (and which nobody in the crowd paid attention to, or dismissed out of hand what they called “could give a rat’s ass” about in the local jargon which I also inherited in those cold, hungry bleak 1950s cultural days in America) and which can be indirectly attributed to the activities of Jack, Allen Ginsburg, Gregory Corso, that aforementioned bandit poet who ran wild on the mean streets among the hustlers, conmen and whores of the major towns of the continent, William Burroughs, the Harvard-trained junkie  and a bunch of other guys who took a very different route for our parents who were of the same generation as them but of a very different world.

But it was above all Jack’s book, Jack’s book which had caused a big splash in 1957, and had ripple effects into the early 1960s (and even now certain “hip” kids acknowledge the power of attraction that book had for their own developments, especially that living simple, fast and hard part). Made the young, some of them anyway have to spend some time thinking through the path of life ahead by hitting the vagrant dusty sweaty road. Maybe not hitchhiking, maybe not going high speed high through the ocean, plains, mountain desert night but staying unsettled for a while anyway.    

Like I said above Alex was out two years and other guys, other corner boys for whatever else you wanted to call them that was their niche back in those days and were recognized as such in the town not always to their benefit, from a few months to a few years. Markin started first back in the spring of 1967 but was interrupted by his fateful induction into the Army and service, if you can call it that, in Vietnam and then several more years upon his return before his untimely end. With maybe this difference from today’s young who are seeking alternative roads away from what is frankly bourgeois society and was when Jack wrote although nobody except commies and pinkos called it that. Alex, Frankie Riley the acknowledged leader, Jack Callahan and the rest, Markin included, were strictly from hunger working class kids who when they hung around Tonio Pizza Parlor were as likely to be thinking up ways to grab money fast any way they could or of getting into some   hot chick’s pants as anything else. Down at the base of society when you don’t have enough of life’s goods or have to struggle too much to get even that little “from hunger” takes a big toll on your life. I can testify to that part because Alex was not the only one in the James family to go toe to toe with the law, it was a close thing for all us boys as it had been with Jack when all is said and done. But back then dough and sex after all was what was what for corner boys, maybe now too although you don’t see many guys hanging on forlorn Friday night corners anymore.

What made this tribe different, the Tonio Pizza Parlor corner boys, was mad monk Markin. Markin called by Frankie Riley the “Scribe” from the time he came to North Adamsville from across town in junior high school and that stuck all through high school. The name stuck because although Markin was as larcenous and lovesick as the rest of them he was also crazy for books and poetry. Christ according to Alex, Markin was the guy who planned most of the “midnight creeps” they called then. Although nobody in their right minds would have the inept Markin actually execute the plan that was for smooth as silk Frankie to lead. That operational sense was why Frankie was the leader then (and maybe why he was a locally famous lawyer later who you definitely did not want to be on the other side against him). Markin was also the guy who all the girls for some strange reason would confide in and thus was the source of intelligence about who was who in the social pecking order, in other words, who was available, sexually or otherwise. That sexually much more important than otherwise. See Markin always had about ten billion facts running around his head in case anybody, boy or girl, asked him about anything so he was ready to do battle, for or against take your pick.

The books and the poetry is where Jack Kerouac and On The Road come into the corner boy life of the Tonio’s Pizza Parlor life. Markin was something like an antennae for anything that seemed like it might help create a jailbreak, help them get out from under. Later he would be the guy who introduced some of the guys to folk music when that was a big thing. (Alex never bought into that genre, still doesn’t, despite Markin’s desperate pleas for him to check it out. Hated whinny Dylan above all else) Others too like Kerouac’s friend Allen Ginsburg and his wooly homo poem Howl from 1956 which Markin would read sections out loud from on lowdown dough-less, girl-less Friday nights. And drive the strictly hetero guys crazy when he insisted that they read the poem, read what he called a new breeze was coming down the road. They could, using that term from the times again, have given a rat’s ass about some fucking homo faggot poem from some whacko Jewish guy who belonged in a mental hospital. (That is a direct quote from Frankie Riley at the time via my brother Alex’s memory bank.)

Markin flipped out when he found out that Kerouac had grown up in Lowell, a working class town very much like North Adamsville, and that he had broken out of the mold that had been set for him and gave the world some grand literature and something to spark the imagination of guys down at the base of society like his crowd with little chance of grabbing the brass ring. So Markin force-marched the crowd to read the book, especially putting pressure on my brother who was his closest friend then. Alex read it, read it several times and left the dog- eared copy around which I picked up one day when I was having one of my high school summertime blues. Read it through without stopping almost like he wrote the final version of the thing on a damn newspaper scroll. So it was through Markin via Alex that I got the Kerouac bug. And now on the 60^th anniversary I am passing on the bug to you.           

Markin comment

When I think of Lowell, Massachusetts, and I do as I have some ancient connections with that old mill town, I think of mad man wordsmith Jack Kerouac and his “beat” buddies, Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs. And when I think of “drugstore cowboy” William Burroughs I think of his hometown, the gateway to Middle America, St. Louis. And when I think of “Om Man” Allen Ginsberg I think of San Francisco Howl (Yes, I know I should think New Jersey but that doesn’t jibe with my “travelogue” West.) And when I think of San Francisco I think of “poet dream” City Lights Bookstore. And when I think of City Lights Bookstore I think of “keeping the dim light burning” Lawrence Ferlinghetti. And so should you.

********

Coney Island Of The Mind-Number 20


The pennycandystore beyond the El
is where I first
fell in love
with unreality
Jellybeans glowed in the semi-gloom
of that september afternoon
A cat upon the counter moved among
the licorice sticks
and tootsie rolls
and Oh Boy Gum

Outside the leaves were falling as they died

A wind had blown away the sun

A girl ran in
Her hair was rainy
Her breasts were breathless in the little room

Outside the leaves were falling
and they cried
Too soon! too soon!

Lawrence Ferlinghetti


Number 8


It was a face which darkness could kill
in an instant
a face as easily hurt
by laughter or light

'We think differently at night'
she told me once
lying back languidly

And she would quote Cocteau

'I feel there is an angel in me' she'd say
'whom I am constantly shocking'

Then she would smile and look away
light a cigarette for me
sigh and rise

and stretch
her sweet anatomy

let fall a stocking

Trotskyist Defense of the Workers States (Quote of the Week) Writing at the outbreak of World War II, Bolshevik leader Leon Trotsky underlined how revolutionary Marxists must strive to win the international proletariat to defense of the Soviet degenerated workers state.

Workers Vanguard No. 1160 6 September 2019 TROTSKY LENIN Trotskyist Defense of the Workers States (Quote of the Week) Writing at the outbreak of World War II, Bolshevik leader Leon Trotsky underlined how revolutionary Marxists must strive to win the international proletariat to defense of the Soviet degenerated workers state. Such defense, based on the collectivized property forms in the Soviet Union, did not constitute political support to the ruling Stalinist bureaucracy, which had renounced the struggle for workers revolution internationally. The Trotskyist program of unconditional military defense against imperialism and counterrevolution and for proletarian political revolution to oust the bureaucracy today applies to China and the other remaining deformed workers states of Cuba, North Korea, Laos and Vietnam. Mistakes on the question of defense of the USSR most frequently flow from an incorrect understanding of the methods of “defense.” Defense of the USSR does not at all mean rapprochement with the Kremlin bureaucracy, the acceptance of its politics, or a conciliation with the politics of her allies. In this question, as in all others, we remain completely on the ground of the international class struggle.... We are not a government party; we are the party of irreconcilable opposition, not only in capitalist countries but also in the USSR. Our tasks, among them the “defense of the USSR,” we realize not through the medium of bourgeois governments and not even through the government of the USSR, but exclusively through the education of the masses through agitation, through explaining to the workers what they should defend and what they should overthrow. Such a “defense” cannot give immediate miraculous results. But we do not even pretend to be miracle workers. As things stand, we are a revolutionary minority. Our work must be directed so that the workers on whom we have influence should correctly appraise events, not permit themselves to be caught unawares, and prepare the general sentiment of their own class for the revolutionary solution of the tasks confronting us. The defense of the USSR coincides for us with the preparation of world revolution. Only those methods are permissible which do not conflict with the interests of the revolution. The defense of the USSR is related to the world socialist revolution as a tactical task is related to a strategic one. A tactic is subordinated to a strategic goal and in no case can be in contradiction to the latter. —Leon Trotsky, “The USSR in War” (September 1939), published in In Defense of Marxism (1942)

In Crime As In Politics Follow The Money, Follow Very Closely And If You See Your Spot Grab And Grab Hard-Modern Crime Novelist (Meaning Not Chandler Or Hammett) Lem Kane’s Latest Thriller- “Cup Runneth Over” (2019)

In Crime As In Politics Follow The Money, Follow Very Closely And If You See Your Spot Grab And Grab Hard-Modern Crime Novelist (Meaning Not Chandler Or Hammett) Lem Kane’s Latest Thriller- “Cup Runneth Over” (2019)

By Rav Wilson

[These days the fetish for transparency is almost overwhelming as if you couldn’t make a statement about anything in the public prints unless you gave a detailed description about your relationship, or lack or relationship to the subject of your work. Here goes. I went to graduate school with Lem Kane the author under review back in the early 1990s and have stayed in regular contact with him since then although this will be the first review by me of one of his works.

I should also mention that one of the writers here, Seth Garth, has done many such book reviews on Lem’s work. Moreover Seth draws a small royalty on every book Lem sells since he is the one who gave Lem his signature statement in the mouth of his main protagonist, John David Nicolas -“ come on and play ball with the law or you will find your ass in stir” which finds its way somewhere in every Kane crime novel.

The odd thing is that the statement is not original with Seth but is an old saying, according to another old-timer who grew up with him, Sam Lowell, from when they were what they called themselves, corner boys, where they grew up as a negative sign. Some copper, some coffee and cakes copper once said to one of their number, one tough corner boy, that very statement and the guy laughed at him since he had already done a few nights in the hoosegow and said “what are you going to do throw me in jail, been there done that.” That became the gold standard for corner boy responses to coppers reflecting the very tight honor bound tradition in the neighborhood that you don’t snitch to the coppers from nothing, no way. RW]           

Lem Kane was quite a character, a holy goof in old Jack of Lowell speak, a guy who would have been  prophet back in the day when the world needed such to succor the day, looking for new types to fit a post-World War II world, a then modernist world, under the Merrimac parlance, when I knew him back in graduate school in in New York City in the 1990s. Shaggy hair, ruffled shirt not always the fashionable color of the day but maybe off purple or crimson stuff my mother used to grab at the local Bargain Center nothing but a precursor to Walmart’s, jeans or maybe chinos with freaking cuffs for God’s sake (a no-no even in the desperately poor neighborhood I grew up in), some kind of sneaker usually not a name brand who loved to hang out at Matty’s in the Village to get what he called “ a feel for the meshing masses, a feel for what makes them tick.” That part I understood although the clientele at Matty’s ran to suburban brats out on a haul or hot almost virgin chicks from the Long Island high schools slumming for a while at NYU waiting to go elsewhere to graduate school to get their own “meshing masses” gaff, since except maybe the garb tricks I was running that same gambit. But in those days I was confounded more than once when Lem told a group of us, more than once, that his fervent desire was to create a memorable private detective in the manner of Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, Chester Burns, Lester Delray, maybe Dust MacDonald or Kenny Millar before Kenny’s shocking expose as nothing but a second-rate third rate repo man fucking up Lew Archer big time along the way. Although, as he too liked to point out, point out endlessly, given the new sensibilities not the hard-boiled fists flailing first let god sort it out later, slugs burping the air stuff cutting into god’s play that animated those classics.        

The “confounded” part by me was that Lem never wrote or presented in workshops, at least as far as I knew, any material that even closely related to the detective fiction that he has now become a best-seller author of and a subject of envy in some quarters by those who went the more plebian routes of journalism or traditional novelistic treatments. (Read” me, Jack Devine, Hoagy Lewis and Liam Leahy, all fellow grad students). Enter John David Nicolas, private detective out in the inevitable Southern California sweat holes of greed, avarice, maybe sloth too while we are on the trail of earthly sins but you will have to fill in the other four sin I have been too wasted of late to remember such stuff and with deadline hours away I am just writing as fast as I can and am willing on my own hook to let god sort the stuff later. Enter Nicolas in the seventeenth novel of which he is the main protagonist sparring with felonious, evil folk who need to be taken down a peg or two. (Jesus seventeen crime books since the 1990s and I haven’t even gotten pass the galleys of my first book, not a crime novel but a piece on what makes America tick these days which Lardner Press has paid me good advance money to produce.

This private dick John David (the name used most often although there are stretches where the three-name moniker gets a full workout which somebody should have red-penciled big time) lately, the last six crime novels as far as I can see, assisted on the psychological profile side by Doctor Alexis Newcome and while there is thus far no budding romance between the pair of singularly driven personalities, churning up evil and evil-doing they work well together even though most of their collective work is shifting and sifting through whatever archival data any given case throws at them. (By the way am I the only person old enough to be shocked to discover that this Alexis of no fixed sex through the first five books turned out to be a male found out only when somebody mentioned boxer shorts as his undergarment, opening up a whole different kind of era from the guys and dolls of my youthful reading where guys had a fistful of women and the women had a fistful of men and no cross-over stuff, not for public consumption anyway although everybody knows that deep in Hollywood and its environs whole gay and lesbian subcultures thrives with blinked eyes, especially if Lem goes all out and has them get married).     

This gun moll case, this gangsters from the past case really highlights that John David-Alexis collective work since this nail-biter beyond the expected horrendous crimes, and bang-bang quick murder is the least of them here, calls for many insights that a normal case would not require. Remember, or if you have not read a Kane crime novel, John David only takes cases that the public coppers, usually the Bay City or Long Branch cops but occasionally the LAPD when he is pissed off after they went on another rampage against some master-less black kid in a white neighborhood, have thrown their hands up at, have put into deep freeze cold storage. Best forgotten. This, let’s stick with the facts of the gun moll case, is a classic of the type the public coppers drop like a lead balloon after about two days work. Maybe three but that is just to file the paperwork and put the ice cubes on the damn thing.

This old dame, called Tammy by the staff but as usual in La La Land, Hollywood names are a dime a dozen, maybe cheaper so don’t get too hung up on that score, the gun moll of some forgotten second-rate gangster, second behind Bugsy, Meyer, Jimmy The Turd, and the Viper from the 1930s is found dead in her swank Bel-Air hotel. (For the rubes the difference between a hotel and another gaga condo in seven figures is that staff services and meals figure in the bill). The public coppers, scratching their heads figured it simple, figured from her fragile body for her just falling down with old age and left it at that even though the name Theda Barrows was a well-known gun moll for Zeke Fallon back in the 1930s when LA really was the Wild West. Guy like Zeke who even second rate third rate P.I.s like Kenny Millar before the fall and Lew too knew as part of knowing the links to the past and what was still out there for the pickings if times got tough, were planning a heist a week, maybe more depending on available manpower and enough guys smart enough to jimmy doors and cut some wires. Good stuff too, jewels, art, whatever the market would bear, remember this was flashy Hollywood not the later Wharton School play. Guys like Zeke, what the hell half the time they grew up on the same abandoned city blocks sometimes cutting the coppers in, sometimes no. Here is the very smartest part every once in a while letting the owners, mainly Hollywood directors, producers, their wives, more likely their mistresses and concubines after being robbed in on the grab by splitting the insurance money to keep things quiet. Nice play.

Jenny Dale, something of a handmaiden, servant girl to this Theda (who knew her as Tammy) although actually employed by the hotel thought something was wrong even though Theda could have easily been just a regular fall down case of old age. After the cold storage play by the public coppers this Jenny who figured in Theda’s will and distributions contacted John David (who would bring in Doc Alexis later once he had enough evidence to see which ways the wind blew), signed a contract, gave him a nice retainer for his dailies and expenses and off he went. (I had to laugh one fifty a day, three day minimum and one hundred per for expenses or no go when I though about poor Phil Larkin toward the end back in the late 1940s trying to squeeze a Jackson and some car fare, maybe gas money, out of some frail looking for her lost sugar daddy, never found). Off he went after Jenny lured him in with two pieces of information, one some bruises on Theda’s neck and two, a few things were missing from Theda’s digs that Jenny had seen recently. Enough to put hound dog Nicolas in the trail.                         

Your usual cold case is maybe some unsolved murder of mayhem which nobody gave a fuck about except maybe the family after a few years. Maybe they grabbed some dough, enough to pursue the case a little, maybe that loss of kin gnawed at their souls when all they had was the monthly trip to Mount Calvary to shed some salty tears. Christ this Theda deal was going back almost three quarters of a century with the added weight on the shoulders that nobody would be around to give any serious info about why a kindly old lady who was some gangsters’ frill in her day was murdered, murdered most foul. Nicolas with a three-day retainer to start and what looked like plenty of dough coming darling Jenny’s way figured to milk this one dry, very dry and maybe he could get around to asking Alexis the big question if he played his cards right.  

But enough of side play because as it turned out between them, between John David and Alexis working very slowly they finally saw a pattern to where this thing was going. Finally saw that kindly Theda had a very checkered past almost as bad as Zeke’s who would wind up dying in prison but not before taking care of his sweetie. Digging that “taking care of his sweetie” card by Zeke made everything else almost fall into place by itself. See if a big-time crook, even a second-tier big time crook, wanted to take care of his sweetie (or whoever) then given the nature of the profession somebody else had to take the fall, somebody did not get their cut. Normally one would think that that just the cost of doing crooked business, a little sideways overhead and move on if the big guy had enough guns to keep things at the steady. Not this time. A guy, a Bay City copper as twisted and corrupt as any you find in the LAPD say which back in Wild West days was saying a lot, was the inside man on a serious jewelry heist back in the later 1930s where one of the items taken was something like the Hope diamond to give you an idea of what Zeke meant when he wanted to take care of Theda even though he was heading to the Q for silly tax evasion and would wind up very dead not long afterward.      

This inside man, Chester Davis had a serious grudge against Zeke when he came up on the short end of the stick and got no dough for his efforts, no dough and a couple of well-placed slugs to finish that branch of the story. Well, not quite, see old Chester had kids, and when nothing happened to aid in some revenge in that generation they turned over their unresolved hatreds to their kids, nice DNA right,  who almost by accident found out Theda had a ton of dough and more importantly that fat diamond worth a ton of dough. With very little planning except grabbing a dinky suite a few doors down to keep an eye on her movements Theda fell down, took the gaff and quickly if you think about it. But Chester’s grandkids, actually one sullen granddaughter had big dreams, had a very common big dream that the fewer ways the stash needed to be cut up the better, to have the whole thing for herself just like Zeke had set up Theda. One by one her confederates, a couple of lifers, or wannbe lifers who got caught in her sexual lair, what did Allan Jackson call it one time- “went to sleep the fishes,” then anybody like the hotel manager looking to get out from under a mountain of debt who was on the second layer and finally naturally Jenny had to fall although she was not part of the caper, she was going to have the whole deal, dough, stocks, bonds, jewelry the way Theda had worked things out. That granddaughter would fall down to a John David hard case bullet, fall down hard leaving Jenny in the clear as to title though.

Here is the funny thing Theda had lived too long and had about three or four dollars in hard cash to her name. The stocks and bonds were lightweight stuff that should have sold many moons before but to top things all off though that so-called Hope diamond gag was just that, glass which some smart financier or hedge fund operator had placed in public display back in the 1930s leaving the real stuff elsewhere (and probably grabbing the insurance dough with no questions asked when Walter Neff came to call about the account). So Jenny got a few thou, maybe a little more but not enough to pay John David more than that three days retainer and some gas money. Needless to say, smitten John David never asked Alexis for his hand. Lem went way out on  the edge on this one.   

  

The Day The Son Of Man, Jesus, Saved A Wretch Like Me-I Once Was Lost But Now Am Found, Once Was Blind But Now I See- The “Fallen” Speaks-A Rebuttal

The Day The Son Of Man, Jesus, Saved A Wretch Like Me-I Once Was Lost But Now Am Found, Once Was Blind But Now I See- The “Fallen” Speaks-A Rebuttal

By Allan Jackson

     

I had a strange dream last night that my dear old friend whom I have spent many an hour planning some mischief although that mainly in the distant past, Bart Webber, a guy from the old neighborhood, the Acre down in North Adamsville south of Boston found himself in Neptune’s ditch, found himself sucking salty air searching for Davey Jones” locker, found himself like a million other tars, sailors you know gung ho sea guys, dreaming about voluminous rescuing mermaids coming to wipe away their sins as they lose all senses, about going home to our mother the sea. Yeah, I was dreaming the dream about old Bart going to sleep with the fishes. A strange dream granted under usual circumstances but even stranger since Bart had the ill-disposed idea that he would, what did he call it, oh yeah, snitch on me about the time that I almost drowned when I was eight, nine years old down at Nollie Point, the beach nearest the Acre. Decided to snitch, what the hell were the words we actually used, yes, drop a dime on me after I had sworn him to never tell of the incident, especially not to my mother who would have still had me grounded. And who knows what other hells.  

Bart forgetting for a minute the Code of Omerta (yes, in capitals) attached to all selected information deemed to be kept from the public, including coppers and “the authorities.” No, especially coppers and that ilk. Decided, perhaps unwisely given that dream and how vivid it was, to bleed all over the place about a very small incident. Decided to risk some feckless fate and all for, well, all for some momentarily inside track with some female classmate whom he (or I) hadn’t seen for some fifty years but who struck his fancy, especially at my expense. Under the norms of the ancient brotherhood feeding gossip, bullshit mostly if we gave it a real name, to interesting women would be a yawner, wouldn’t draw an hard breathe never mind strange portentous dreams but under the seal of the code something very different.                   

[Let’s use this bracketed space to get some “housekeeping” chores out of the way. First when I say “last night” it does not literally mean last night but merely serves as a frame of reference after I saw the scandalous and maybe libelous article by one Bartlett Webber, that Bartlett some kind of poor as church mice affectation from his people, people from the North, the North of Ireland for the geographically clueless so you know what awful things that brethren are capable of, concerning privileged information he had about a long ago incident at Nollie Point when we were mere kids.

Moreover since Bart decided in that same piece the world needed to know that I am no longer the editor at this publication, and have not been for years, he had to go on and on about how I am now a contributing editor meaning I can write whatever I want, whenever I want without worry about nervous Nellie editors redlining every other sentence and such. The gist of the sentiment being that in the old days I would take forever on my own for publication assignments and this dagger at wayward Bartlett’s heart I have done in super-speed time of a couple of days. But back to the transgression]    

The attentive reader here may already know the outline of the tale Bartlett Webber thought he had to tell but let me go through a quick summary and a couple of necessary corrections. Yes, Bart had been at the beach that day with me as I faced my first uncertain confrontation with Father Death (see singsong Allan Ginsberg). He is also correct, and admits as much, that he was sworn to secrecy around the facts of the event under the long-held Code of Omerta standard. What he has failed to tell the candid world, the unsuspecting reader, is that while he was physically present at the beach that day he was busy with another more pressing task, more pressing to his mind which he freely admitted to me later.

Bart is what we today would be called an early bloomer in the boy-girl universe. Meaning for one thing I think we were closer to ten, eleven than his silly eight-year old bullshit that I truly believe he used just to deflect his real motives that hot as hell in Hades day. Meaning for another that he had seen a classmate, had seen a girl named Ginny Garland from our class whom he had a serious crush on and whom even before I hit the tepid waters with my newfound “canoe” (read: tree log) he was chatting with intensely. More about that later but for now any good lawyer like Frankie Riley our mutual corner boy from high school who did pretty well for his larcenous self would have Bart hanging by his thumbs as any kind of witness to the day’s events, to my dire situation.         

Of course, sixty years later old Bart claims some razor- sharp memory somewhat akin to his presidential favorite Sleepy Joe Biden. To set the scenario up, to set me up he has declared on the basis of no evidence that since that time I have been deathly afraid of the seas, have gone well beyond the rational fear than anybody, maybe even more so today when Mother seas are furious for some reason to do with climate change, to avoid contact beyond the beach with our dear homeland. Like a lot of corner boys over the years before we started losing them to sickness and that dreaded Father Death (you really should check Allan Ginsberg on that) Bart and I lost some contact as he went to his family life and I to my families lives so he did not know of my California island surf times. Had not seen the ten thousand photographs my first and second wives had taken in sunnier days (and less expensive in several ways). Now seen all young, long-bearded, long brown haired with some swimsuit deep in surf, deep in towed boats filled with collective wives and broods of children. Photos on request for the curious and family-dwelling.      

Then Bart compounded his error but stating that he could not vouch for whether before this incident I was much of a swimmer. That part was actually right although he seemed to think that reducing me to some life raft suck ass, to some lifesaver float bullshit hanger-on or no was a real state. Again time and elsewhere would have shown him with a very vivid photograph of me in college, NYU, swimming competitively against Hobart for glory and love. No question I would not have been an individual candidate for an Olympic berth unless like with the rowing eights, say that fantastic Yale club that blew them all away in Melbourne in 1956, in those days if the whole team would be represented in some relay and I would get tagged in.  

I will merely quote what Bart thinks happened because what he actually knew was what I reported to him later and what he has blabbed all over the Internet-“ Somehow he (me) got in his eight-year old mind that he would “ride the waves” on an old washed-up log as the tide was coming in to see how fast he could come ashore. I had seen the log and frankly to this day thought nothing of it, although I should have.  Should have realized that I would not have attempted such a feat and I was a pretty fair swimmer.

“To the plot though. Allan rolled the log into the wash and hung on for a while until the log was heading across the point to a place where he would be over his head. That decision is the key because somehow during that period when he was over his head he decided that he would let go of the log, would try to swim to shore. Fatal, or almost fatal. Somehow the surf started coming up, the water got green and edgy meaning that it would be serious work to get to shore. Allan (as he told me later) went down once, then he yelled out to me, told me to get somebody because he was drowning, couldn’t make it to shore. Fortunately in the height of summer there was a lifeguard there. Not some muscle-bound college guy or slinky college girl with connections to get some summer dough but a young mother who had her daughter in tow. In any case after I screamed bloody murder she swam out to Allan (who said he went down twice and did not think he was coming up the third time.) He did since she saved him.”  

A sad little childhood in America story mostly bullshit and filler if I had been the editor even today. Finally, Bart gets to the real point, what he called irony- “Here is a bit of irony, a bit of why I am spilling the beans, snitching as old as I am and as dedicated to the code of silence as anybody.  A few weeks ago I was at a class reunion and started talking to one of the fellow classmates whom I had not known in high school except she was a Squaw Rock girl and hence out of reach for Acre boys. I mentioned Allan Jackson’s name whom she remembered not for whatever publishing skills he possessed but because she had been on the beach that day when Allan almost drowned. Apparently Allan had given his name to the worthy young mother lifeguard in her hearing. She confessed to me that she had known all about Allan’s situation for as long as I had. See she was the little girl in tow while her mother did lifeguard duty on Nollie’s Point that day.”

What whistle-blower, truth-teller Bartlett Webber has failed to tell the candid world is that the girl whose mother had dragged her to the beach was one Ginny Garland, the same young thing he had had a crush on in elementary school and somehow had amnesia about that high school stuff which was true enough about hands off Squaw Rock girls for lots of reasons but which did not preclude him a few times from making some play for her. Finally, fifty years later at my expense he connects with a more chastised Ginny Garland with me as the bait. And you wonder why I had strange dreams about one Bartlett Webber sleeping with the fishes.      

  

Happy, Happy 100th Birthday Poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti-Max Daddy Of Famed “City Lights Bookstore” In “Beat” San Francisco When It Counted And Muse Of His Generation’s Poets-Redux

Happy, Happy 100^th Birthday Poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti-Max Daddy Of Famed “City Lights Bookstore” In “Beat” San Francisco When It Counted And Muse Of His Generation’s Poets-Redux

By Liam Leahy

When the deal went down the hell with street ruffian and gangster of words and thefts Gregory Corso spinning tall tales to Times Square hipsters willing to sell junkie dreams to Hoboken, New Jersey (where else would Hoboken be) runaways who wind up bed-sheeted in piss-wet rooming house flops, cold water flops; the hell when you think about it too with high Marin County guest house sandal-strewn Golden Gate golden boy Zen Buddha lotus flowers sulks of Portland pines and crater mountain fire ways Gary Snyder; and while we are at it the hell with bright lights in the headlights like some virgin Bambi up high on Sugar Mountain with max daddy Carol, yeah, Neal’s wife tugging her desire away from hopeless homosexual desire phase with college clean including sparkling white shirt and penny loafers Mike McClure; while I am on a roll  double the hell with clear the coffeehouses out (so some get rich junkie owners can fill the floor with those Hoboken, no need to say New Jersey, right, runaways caught out on Friday night banishments playing fucking folk music when the be-bop bad boy poets were asunder and jazz bars cried out to the new dispensation with his primal wailing to Keil, devil servant down in ancient Zoroastrian times along with simply homages to the whore of Babylon (small “w” before she got into the history book), Phil Larkin; ditto double the hell with trying to hit that high white note, that silky note even the Duke had trouble blasting and Charlie almost lost his junkie soul to that only jazz boys and girls can aspire to Billie’s hustling Dan man, the fixer, MaJohn Dupree; back to single hells (watch for the semi-colons)for Dante boys wishing they knew what the seven circles were all about before they were deflowered all choir practice glow bum-tucked like Kenneth Rexforth (and don’t forget Rexforth’s daughter who everybody took a run at and why not even gay boys like Ginsberg, maybe especially gay boys trying to figure out why they were different when different was except in havens like Frisco town not cool, subjected devotees to racks and faggots); and, I don’t care if I used this lead-in before to hell as well the flaming drag queen hiding out in Nantasket drag queen boats (who knew) artless (then) except strong knuckles and a quick jab Tim Riley before he fanned the flames of Miss Judy Garland’s hem in North Beach cellars and made bluegrass green in ocean spray to the China seas bays filled with oil tankers and sodomites sing his naughty boy praises. Close out, and note separation and no fucking semi-colon so something new in the world, in the end, the bookend when the town, no, let’s go back to New Jack town, three Howard Johnson hot dog fucks, with relish and mustard if you must know, like Miss Julie Johnson one of the few female beat hipsters although not one of the quick lays in some Joe and Nemo alley.

More retrospective, more circumspect after down-loading trash on lesser sinners comes the big boys time starting with a rumbling fullback out of some Merrimack estuary looking hot dog hungry (already knowing that Miss Julie awaits him in some Ho Jo hot spot a few years down the lane he was that good looking and hip too even if never getting that mill town dust off his boots. Looking cigarette in hand, hobo’s bindle sliding off his back like some holy goof displaced out of European DP camps and he only Icelandic run bound dropping to the titanic seas (after serious German encounters doing some Murmansk run).  Name him brother name him now or forever how your peace. So Jack, Jack, say it Kerouac, the fuck with that Jack stuff Ti Jean of ten million Allan Ginsberg homosexual dreams and Neal Cassidy, Adonis of the West found in some Larimer Street gin mill, lost father’s gets some play out in that fucking Jersey shore, okay  

Very much more circumspect now that we have entered the poetic pantheon leaving the Garys, Phils and Michaels behind to waterfront sailor joints headingout to China seas with small be-bop patter to seet hem on their ways, by speaking names beyond Kaddish ceremonials. There is no way around it this time Moloch destroyer of modern times stripping poor Tom Eliot (St. Lou’s Tommy boy okay) of everything but his shoddy bedding and his lost in the hills and trenches of Eastern France cursive language as wave after wave fell to complete one square yard Carl Solomon’s dear friend and his mother howler in the dust for all the good it did him, or her, Allan Ginsberg. Yeah, the beat down, beat around, beat sound, beatitude beat to hear holy goof Jack tell it in his Tanqueray, no, Tokay, even cheaper when times were tighter and the panhandling fell flat  funks, crowd that took up plenty of air come 1950s in the states come desolation row time. Spoke truth about the great nos, homosexuality, communism the Moloch, rationality in deep freeze Cold War America without blushing all in one massive half hour singsong (I have said plainsong elsewhere but let me amend that)

Hell all those guys were so light they couldn’t hold feathers without flying into spinoff Bay streams on some outbound freighter. Would have sold their zillion fucking books (if some editor could rein them in) and spoke their damn half hour half understood poems (although everybody in the room even underage high school students on the slum knew this was not their high school Tom and Robert noise). Then there was the glue, a sideman to the pretty boys although he could do Coney Island of the mind, or was it mine, Ferlinghetti, Lawrence some stray cat who had glue aplenty, the guy who kept the torch bright, the guy who had enough knowledge of business which almost to a man (or woman for that matter), beats heating squares up like toast, scorned except come poetry reading time some foggy and rainy nights, book signing when Random House said piss off, putting money in the bucket for the Thunderbird struck nights(Tokay as always a backup in case the day’s take was short), back room shacking up to keep from the coldest days in August world. Yeah, Happy Birthday Baby, Buddha in cowboy boots and tepid wrangler jeans Lawrence Ferlinghetti on the magic 100 years. Connection, you always had the connection brother.