This space is dedicated to the proposition that we need to know the history of the struggles on the left and of earlier progressive movements here and world-wide. If we can learn from the mistakes made in the past (as well as what went right) we can move forward in the future to create a more just and equitable society. We will be reviewing books, CDs, and movies we believe everyone needs to read, hear and look at as well as making commentary from time to time. Greg Green, site manager
The Junkies Were
Valiant-Crying Out For Repentance And God Save Us Sinners-The Junkies Have Always
Been With Us-The Fixer Man Too
By Fritz Taylor
The one thing I hate, and
maybe the biggest reason I only read police procedurals under duress or when
hot summer comes, is how fake the scenarios are, how so very competent the
coppers are, the public coppers in any case. (This will be blasphemy to guys
like Rav Wilson, Seth Garth and Sam Lowell but in my book the private dicks are
almost as unreal except they draw something of a pass since at least they are
willing to draw some fire their way, take a fist or a slug for the employer if
it comes to that wrapping it around their dailies and expense something the
coffee and cruller coppers would never do, not in real life anyway.) The reason
all this comes up is that after I read Rav Wilson’s review of a Lem Kane police
procedural Hotel New Yorker I got tired of his belly-aching about how
silly the stuff displayed was against his “heroic” private coppers like Phil
Larkin and Danny Collins and early hard-boiled detectives like Miles Archer and
Phil Marlowe. Like I said the private dicks aren’t anything to write home about,
but the public coppers portrayed are truly unreal.
What is real is what
happened every day down in Fulton County, down in Georgia where I grew up in
deeply segregated Mister James Crow country in the 1950s although that factor does
not really enter into my story. What does enter is the Fort Point Estates, yes,
that is really what they called them which were as many older readers will
almost automatically recognize were “the projects” the government subsidized housing
set up after World War II for mostly veterans, white veterans exclusively so
Mister James Crow does as always at
least make cameo appearance, and their young families as a spring board to better
housing later but necessary then after the housing crunch caused by the war.
The Fort Point Estates
were the southern version of what guys like fellow Vietnam veteran Seth Garth
were talking about in growing up in the north in North Adamsville and ditto the
veteran status Ralph Morris out on Tappan Street in Troy, New York. In short
places where the most vulnerable and desperate denizens of society found themselves
or else they would have been reduced to the really dreaded county farm or utter
homelessness (which according to family legend my family was in right after World
War II when we lived out of a car, a clunker car before hitting the Estates).
Desperates, desperadoes
probably are as good as any operative words to describe life in those conditions
(and Seth wrote about more eloquently than I ever could, and a guy named Pete
Markin who they all still venerate who had the pulse of that existence down pat
before his own early death partially attributed to the emotional ravages of growing
up in the projects). But to the point, the anti-belly-aching point about the public
coppers and what they did or did not do in real life. In a place like the Estates
which like many such projects were established on what amounted to wasteland and
isolated away from the good citizens public services were minimal and private services
depended on how much risk some private parties were willing to take to eke out
a massive profit from the misery of the poor denizens of such places. Enter
Jimmy Bob Carter, the Carter family name if you can believe it either somehow
related through marriage to the famed Carter classic country music family based
out of Clinch Mountain in Virginia or Judge Jacob “Death Penalty” Carter who
would go on to become some high state official in Georgia spawning a political
dynasty before he was through.
This Jimmy Bob had a few
bucks I guess and decided that since there no serious supermarket for several
miles around that he would open up what amounted to a Mom and Pop Variety Store.
Would provide the unwashed with small amounts of goods, this before food stamps
bailed people of few resources out of the worse of their situations, for too
much money. Except and who knows what drove him, or his wife Vivian who had
been some kind of degree daughter of the Confederacy in her maidenhood to some
small kindnesses there would always be very, very cheap candy to keep us coming
in (and probably mother in tow as well).
Of course, that was all so
much bull, so much eye wash. What Jimmy Bob and Lady Vivian (she picked that
moniker up somewhere along the line but don’t ask me how or why) really were up
to was using that funny little storefront at the entrance to the Estates
(everybody with or without an automobile had to pass the place on the way in or
out) to “make book,” illegal betting, to run a bunch of the neighborhood girls
(some young mothers under duress too with say a husband who spent the weekly
paycheck on liquor maybe some other woman having to put out to keep the bill
collector wolves from the door) out of the upstairs rooms, called the game
rooms, Vivian’s operation from what I later came to understand when I stopped
thinking candy was all that was sweet in the world. Worse of all in the long haul
I guess was Jimmy Bob proved to be the “fixer man,” the drug dealer of choice with
whatever drugs could heal some broken down spirits.
Like I said most of this
stuff I had no clue about until I was maybe ten, way too young to know about
the seamy side of life but we knew it, and in the end probably just assumed
that bookies, whores, pimps, fixers, and junkies were an ordinary part of every
town. Here is where the stuff gets sick though, the copper stuff. The guys who
ran and operated out of the police substation were “on the take” from Jimmy Bob
and nobody thought anything of it. I remember a few incidents. Once Jimmy Bob
had his “book” laying right out on the counter and Officers Hamilton and Dixon
came in saw the book and proceeded to write down their bets in that leather-bound book. Another
time Captain Dorian laughed when Vivian said she had a nice piece (of ass) for
him and to head upstairs. Naturally the coppers grabbed their fair share of
free drugs (then mainly opium and morphine, not heroin as far as I know) for
their little parties, or for their honeys. Yeah, so lay off me about coppers
and solving crimes and if anybody asks just point them to the still standing Fort
Point Estates filled to this day with junkies, whores, fixer men… and coppers
who look the other way.
Every leftist, hell,
everybody who stands on the democratic principle that each nation has the right
to self-determination should cautiously rejoice at the “defrosting” of the
long-time diplomatic relations between the American imperial behemoth and the
island of Cuba (and the freedom of the remaining Cuban Five in the bargain).
Every leftist militant should understand that each non-capitalist like Cuba
going back to the establishment of the now defunct Soviet Union has had the
right (maybe until we win our socialist future the duty) to make whatever
advantageous agreements they can with the capitalist world. That despite
whatever disagreements we have with the political regimes ruling those
non-capitalist states. That is a question for us to work out not the
imperialists.
For those who have
defended the Cuban Revolution since its victory in 1959 under whatever political
rationale (pro-socialist, right to self-determination, or some other hands off
policy) watching on black and white television the rebels entering Havana this
day which commemorates the heroic if unsuccessful efforts at Moncada we should
affirm our continued defense of the Cuban revolution. Oh yes, and tell the
American government to give back Guantanamo while we are at it.
Commentary
A recent news item out of Argentina concerning the dedication of a memorial to Che Guevara caught my eye. Apparently forty years after his death the legendary guerrilla fighter and hero of the Cuban Revolution is being honored with a statute in his hometown of Rosario. This event has not been without controversy, nor should it have been if one understood Che’s life at all, among residents there over the appropriateness of the gesture. That controversy is nevertheless neither here nor there for those of us still trying to make the revolution. Whatever political differences Che and this writer had over the questions of the right strategy for pushing the fight for socialism forward we would, I am sure, agree today that a fitting memorial for a revolutionary is not some slab of stone or metal in Argentina but to get out and organize the struggle. With that in mind a couple of comments about Che’s influence and about the real way to honor Che are in order.
Political activists of many persuasions including at that time this left liberal writer, not just radicals and revolutionaries, saw Che coming out of the Cuban Revolution as a figure larger than life. Trained as a doctor he could have pursued that career and carved a small niche for himself in the medical profession in the Argentine. He nevertheless rejected that path as too narrow for his huge appetites for life. Moreover the Argentine itself was eventually too narrow for his interests.
I have mentioned elsewhere in reviewing one of the of the many biographies about him that, in the end, he was that classic Latin revolutionary in the mold of the 19th century revolutionary Louis Auguste Blanqui- the man of the barricades (or rather one of its modern equivalents- the hills). And so a quick outline of the saga of Che’s life would indicate- the eye-opening travel chronicled in the Motorcycle Diaries, Guatemala during the CIA coup against the Arbenz government, on the lamb in Mexico, the decisive Cuban revolutionary experience by linking up with Fidel Castro in the mid-1950’s, the hard fought, if fruitless, efforts to push African liberation struggles forward and, finally, death in the god-forsaken hills of Bolivia- fighting to the end. A post- war American youth generation (the Generation of ’68) deeply influenced by Jack Kerouacs’s On The Road and ready to ‘storm heaven’ politically could relate to that resume. Combine that with Che’s deeply held moral sense of justice (although, obviously marred by that Stalinist voluntarist streak that he also exhibited) and you have a very appealing political role model.
As mentioned above the political gap between Che and this writer over time only got wider as I got closer to understanding the necessity of relying on the centrality of the working class in the struggle for socialism and he went in search of the “new” socialist man out in the foothills in some adventure seemingly driven by Jean Jacques Rousseau rather than Karl Marx. Yet this writer, and any thoughtful person could, and can, admire a man who out of an intense sense of the injustices of the world sees the need to pick up the gun in order to slay the dragons. Yes, this man Che deserves some honor but not that one that they have erected to him in Rosario. Here is how one can really honor Che. Fight to Free The Cuban Five. Fight to Defend the Cuban Revolution. Most importantly though, fight the struggle here in the “belly of the beast”. That would be more than enough to truly honor this subjective revolutionary.
She Came Out Of The Karoo-The Music Of Tony Bird-A Review
CD Review
By Zack James
Sorry Africa, Tony Bird, 1986
During the 1980s Seth Garth had been taking on more and more purely political assignments for the New Times Gazette, a successor newspaper to the old alternative The Eye for which he had gotten his first jumps in journalism as the film and music critic. It wasn’t that he had lost interest in covering the happenings in the world of independent cinema and the edges of popular music but that in that period there were political trends around the struggles for liberation in Central and South America and Southern Africa that for the first time since the slowdown of the Vietnam War back in the early 1970s required attention. And so Benny Gold, his editor from back in The Eye days who had moved on with the Gazette assigned him more and more of those political assignments with the idea that he would weave those in with some off-beat cultural pieces.
One night he had been in the Open Space, a new music club in the Village [Greenwich Village]that had previous been a coffeehouse, a popular one, the Unicorn, to hear a new guy out of Africa who Seth was told had an interesting beat, had combined the sounds of Mother Africa with more popular Western music. This was the kind of off-beat combination that he was sure Benny Gold would go for. As the MC for the evening announced the performer, Tony Bird, he was surprised that out came on the stage a young white man backed up by an all black group of sidemen. Seth had known that there were some, not enough, white youth who were supporting the various black liberation struggles in Southern Africa, particularly in South Africa but he was not prepared for a white musician to surface who supported those struggles although he should have known that fact going in.
Tony Bird let everybody in the place know where he was coming from when he started singing a very heartfelt and upbeat song, Sorry Africa, taking on the burden on his shoulders of expressing sorrow at the way the white man, the way his people had treated the ones they had conquered one way or another. Very moving.
What had gotten to Seth that night though and he was as surprised at this as he was that Tony Bird was a white African man was a song that he finished up with, She Came From The Karoo. The Karoo being the outback in the country he came from. What was strange about the song was that except that the locale was Africa it could have been a song of love and lost in America. More to the point was the vision that Seth had of the woman Tony was speaking of, a woman who came out of the mist with a red sundress on and effected all around her with her bright Botticelli smile and demeanor. Seth thought that little idea, the idea that a woman could spark such imagination out in the bush was the hook that he would use in his article. That and that Tony Bird, a black liberation struggle fighter in his own right had no apology to give to Africa.
On
The 81st Anniversary Of The Founding Of The Leon Trotsky- Fourth
International-We Need A Socialist International More Than Ever
By
Harry Sims
Usually
I am a behind the scenes guy dishing out anniversary dates and other facts and
figures to site manager Greg Green and/or the recently created Editorial Board
but I felt compelled to write a little something about the anniversary, the 80th
anniversary this month of September, of the Fourth International that will be
forever linked to the name of the great Russian Bolshevik revolutionary Leon
Trotsky. In accordance with the seemingly obligatory notice of transparency
that accompanies anything today greater that what you had for breakfast at one
time I was close to those who were carrying on the wilted tradition of the
Fourth International after Trotsky was assassinated by a Stalinist agent down
in Mexico in the summer of 1940. Aside from that though, as the headline to
this introduction telegraphs, we are still in need of an international that
will lead the way forward for humankind’s hopefully more equitable future. Such
progress as we are now painfully aware does not happen automatically but must
be planned and led by people committed to such aims. The same is true for those
who want to revive the night of the long knives that was the hallmark of the 20th
century and now the first couple of decades of the 21st century. So
the die is cast.
Here
is a short primer for those legions who do not have the foggiest notion of a
what an International, Fourth or otherwise, is or was. These institutions are
associated with various historical epochs of the socialist movement in all its
struggles-victories and defeats. The first short-lived International was
associated directly with the personages of the socialist revolutionaries Karl
Marx and Friedrich Engels, the founders of the Marxist wing of socialism back
in the middle of the 19th century. The two important events beyond
the fact of creating the first international devoted to the struggle for
socialism were the support for the Northern side led by Abraham Lincoln in the
American Civil War and the stalwart defense of the Paris Commune, the first
workers republic, of 1871 which was drowned in blood by Thiers and his
mercenaries. The Second International before it became a “mail drop,” before it
dropped the ball in not opposing World War I on any side, an event we are
commemorating the 100th anniversary of the Armistice this year as
well, was the first mass organization of international socialism toward the end
of the 19th century. With the rapid rise of industrialization under
late capitalism working people swarmed to this organization to defend them. In
1914 with the aforementioned failure to oppose the bloody war which decimated
the flower of the working classes of all European nations its historic
important as a serious force for social change much less socialism was finished
even if the shell lingered, still lingers on today.
The
Third International, Communist International, Comintern, and the Fourth share
not only the personage of Leon Trotsky but purported to have the same aims at
various points up to World War II. The Comintern was created as a direct result
of the Russian Bolshevik Revolution of October 1917 by leaders Vladimir Lenin
and Trotsky among others for the direct purpose of leading the world socialist
revolution. When that task was abandoned in practice under the Stalin regime in
Russia Trotsky in exile and with not enough resources called for and
established the Fourth International we are commemorating.
Traces
of that Fourth International like the Second still exist but unlike the first
three Internationals it was essentially still-born in a time of defeats,
serious defeats for the working classes especially with the rise of Hitler in
Germany. So why beside nostalgia for an old International associated with the
name of an honest revolutionary do I write this short piece today. Like I said
the headline has telegraphed what is needed, what I think is needed
today-another International, a fifth International if you like to lead the
fight against the one-sided class struggle that is being waged by the
international capitalist classes. While Trotsky’s organization for many reasons
including the decimation of its cadre in Europe during World War II never got
off the ground some of its programmatic points in the key document that came
out of the conference which established the organization-the Transitional
Program- read like they could have been written today.
Beyond
the program though cadre, new cadre are needed to continue the forlorn fight
against the greedy vultures who control the means of production and finance and
that is where Leon Trotsky’s desperate and usually lonely fight to bring the 4th
International to the light of day can still serve as a model going forward. He,
Trotsky, a man who has led the Russian Revolution of 1905, has subsequently been
exiled and escaped the Czarist prisons when that revolution was crushed, had
been central to the seizure of power in the October Revolution in Russia in
1917, had been Commissar of War during the bloody civil war against the
counter-revolutionary Whites and their international imperialist allies, and
had led the fight to save the revolution when the dark hand of Stalin and his
henchmen pulled the hammer down stated unequivocally at the time in 1938 that
establishing a new international to fight the dark clouds coming over Europe
was the most important task he had done in his life. In our own epoch we are
looking for such men and women to continue the task. They will have to read
about and look at these 1938 documents and that very uneven struggle along the
way.
Workers Vanguard No. 1139
7 September 2018
TROTSKY
LENIN
Reforge the Fourth International!
(Quote of the Week)
Eighty years ago, on 3 September 1938, the Fourth International was established under the leadership of Leon Trotsky. In opposition to the reformism of the social-democratic Second International and the Stalinized Communist International (Comintern), its founding document, excerpted below, provided the framework for building a new world party of socialist revolution. It is the task of the International Communist League to reforge the Fourth International, which was destroyed by a revisionist current under Michel Pablo in the early 1950s that renounced the need to build Trotskyist parties.
It is necessary to help the masses in the process of the daily struggle to find the bridge between present demands and the socialist program of the revolution. This bridge should include a system of transitional demands, stemming from today’s conditions and from today’s consciousness of wide layers of the working class and unalterably leading to one final conclusion: the conquest of power by the proletariat.
Classical Social Democracy, functioning in an epoch of progressive capitalism, divided its program into two parts independent of each other: the minimum program, which limited itself to reforms within the framework of bourgeois society, and the maximum program, which promised substitution of socialism for capitalism in the indefinite future. Between the minimum and the maximum program no bridge existed. And indeed Social Democracy has no need of such a bridge, since the word socialism is used only for holiday speechifying. The Comintern has set out to follow the path of Social Democracy in an epoch of decaying capitalism: when, in general, there can be no discussion of systematic social reforms and the raising of the masses’ living standards; when every serious demand of the proletariat and even every serious demand of the petty bourgeoisie inevitably reaches beyond the limits of capitalist property relations and of the bourgeois state.
The strategical task of the Fourth International lies not in reforming capitalism but in its overthrow. Its political aim is the conquest of power by the proletariat for the purpose of expropriating the bourgeoisie.
—Leon Trotsky, “The Death Agony of Capitalism and the Tasks of the
Fourth International,” commonly known as the Transitional Program (1938)
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 Upon The 50th Anniversary Of The Death Of The "King Of The Beats" Jack Kerouac-
“Advertisements for Myself”-Introduction by Allan Jackson, a founding member of the American Left History publication back in 1974 when it was a hard copy journal and until 2017 site manager of the on-line edition.
[He’s back. Jack Kerouac, as described in the headline, “the king of the beats” and maybe the last true beat standing. That is the basis of this introduction by me as we commemorate the 50th anniversary of his untimely death at 47. But before we go down and dirty with the legendary writer I stand before you, the regular reader, and those who have not been around for a while to know that I was relieved of my site manage duties in 2017 in what amounted to a coup by the younger writers who resented the direction I was taking the publication in and replaced me with Greg Green who I had brought on board from American Film Gazette to run the day to day operations while I oversaw the whole operation and planned my retirement. Over the past year or so a million rumors have, had mostly now, swirled around this publication and the industry in general about what had happened and I will get to that in a minute before dealing with Jack Kerouac’s role in the whole mess.
What you need to know first, if you don’t know already is that Greg Green took me back to do the introductions to an encore presentation of a long-term history of rock and roll series that I edited and essentially created after an unnamed older writer who had not been part of the project balled it all up, got catch flat-footed talking bullshit and other assorted nonsense since he knew nada, nada nunca and, about the subject having been apparently asleep when the late Peter Markin “took us to school” that history. Since then Greg and I have had an “armed truce,” meaning I could contribute as here to introductions of some encore and some origin material as long as I didn’t go crazy, his term, for what he called so-called nostalgia stuff from the 1950s and 1960s and meaning as well that Greg will not go crazy, my term, and will refrain from his ill-advised attempt to reach a younger audience by “dumbing down” the publication with odd-ball comic book character reviews of films, graphic novels and strange musical interludes. Fair is fair.
What I need to mention, alluded to above, is those rumors that ran amok while I was on the ropes, when I had lost that decisive vote of no confidence by one sullen vote. People here, and my enemies in the industry as well, seeing a wounded Allan Jackson went for the kill, went for the jugular that the seedy always thrive on and began a raggedy-ass trail on noise you would not believe. In the interest of elementary hygiene, and to frankly clear the air, a little, since there will always be those who have evil, and worse in their hearts when “the mighty have fallen.” Kick when somebody is down their main interest in life.
I won’t go through the horrible rumors like I was panhandling down in Washington, D.C., I was homeless in Olde Saco, Maine (how could that be when old friend and writer here Josh Breslin lives there and would have provided alms to me so at least get an approximation of the facts before spinning the wild woolly tale), I had become a male prostitute in New York City (presumably after forces here and in that city hostile to me put in the fatal “hard to work with” tag on me ruining any chances on the East Coast of getting work, getting enough dough to keep the wolves from my door, my three ex-wives and that bevy of kids, nice kids, who nevertheless were sucking me dry with alimony and college tuitions), writing press releases under the name Leonard Bloom for a Madison Avenue ad agency. On a lesser scale of disbelief I had taken a job as a ticket-taker in a multi-plex in Nashua, New Hampshire, had been a line dishwasher at the Ritz in Philadelphia when they needed day labor for parties and convention banquets, had been kicking kids out of their newspaper routes and taking that task on myself, and to finish off although I have not given a complete rundown rummaging through trash barrels looking for bottles with deposits. Christ.
Needless to say, how does one actually answer such idiocies, and why. A couple of others stick out about me and some surfer girl out in Carlsbad in California who I was pimping while getting my sack time with her and this one hurt because it hurt a dear friend and former “hippie girl” lover of mine, Madame La Rue, back in the day that I was running a whorehouse with her in Luna Bay for rich Asian businessmen with a taste for kinky stuff. I did stop off there and Madame does run a high-end brothel in Luna Bay but I had nothing to do with it. The reason Madame was hurt was because I had lent her the money to buy the place when it was a rundown hotel and built it up from there with periodic additional funds from me so she could not understand why my act of kindness would create such degenerate noise from my enemies who were clueless about the relationship between us.
I will, must deal with two big lies which also center of my reluctant journey west (caused remember by that smear campaign which ruined by job opportunities in the East, particularly New York City. The first which is really unbelievable on its face is that I hightailed it directly to Utah, to Salt Lake City, when I busted out in NYC looking for one Mitt Romney, “Mr. Flip-Flop,” former Governor of Massachusetts, Presidential candidate against Barack Obama then planning on running for U.S. Senator from Utah (now successful ready to take office in January) to “get well.” The premise for this big lie was supposedly that since I have skewered the guy while he was governor and running for president with stuff like the Mormon fetish for white underwear and the old time polygamy of his great-grand-father who had five wives (and who showed great executive skill I think in keeping the peace in that extended family situation. The unbelievable part is that those Mormon folk, who have long memories and have pitchforks at the ready to rumble with the damned, would let a sinner like me, a non-Mormon for one thing anywhere the Romney press operation. Christ, I must be some part latter day saint since I barely got out of that damn state alive if the real truth were known after I applied for a job with the Salt Lake Sentinel not knowing the rag was totally linked to the Mormons. Pitchforks, indeed.
The biggest lie though is the one that had me as the M.C. in complete “drag” as Elsa Maxwell at the “notorious” KitKat Club in San Francisco which has been run for about the past thirty years or so by Miss Judy Garland, at one time and maybe still is in some quarters the “drag queen” Queen of that city. This will show you how ignorant, or blinded by hate, some people are. Miss Judy Garland is none other that one of our old corner boys from the Acre section of North Adamsville, Timmy Riley. Timmy who like the rest of us on the corner used to “fag bait” and beat up anybody, any guy who seemed effeminate, at what cost to Timmy’s real feelings we will never really know although he was always the leader in the gay-bashing orgy. Finally between his own feeling and Stonewall in New York in 1969 which did a great deal to make gays, with or with the drag queen orientation, a little less timid Timmy fled the Acre (and his hateful family and friends) to go to friendlier Frisco. He was in deep personal financial trouble before I was able to arrange some loans from myself and some of his other old corner boys (a few still hate Timmy for what he has become, his true self) to buy the El Lobo Club, his first drag queen club, and when that went under, the now thriving tourist trap KitKat Club. So yes, yes, indeed, I stayed with my old friend at his place and that was that. Nothing more than I had done many times before while I ran the publication.
But enough of this tiresome business because I want to introduce this series dedicated to the memory of Jack Kerouac who had a lot of influence on me for a long time, mostly after he died in 1969
******
All roads about Jack Kerouac, about who was the king of the beats, about what were the “beats” lead back to the late Pete Markin who, one way or another, taught the working poor Acre neighborhood of North Adamsville corner boys what was up with that movement. Funny, because we young guys were a serious generation removed from that scene, really our fathers’ contemporaries and you know how far removed fathers were from kids in those days especially among the working poor trying to avoid going “under water” and not just about mortgages but food on tables and clothing on backs, were children of rock and roll, not jazz, the beat musical medium, and later the core of the “Generation of ‘68” which took off, at least partially, with the “hippie” scene, where the dying embers of the beat scene left off. Those dying embers exactly the way to put it since most of our knowledge or interest came from the stereotypes-beards before beards were cool and before grandfather times -for guys, okay, berets, black and beaten down looks. Ditto on black for the gals, including black nylons which no Acre girl would have dreamed of wearing, not in the early 1960s anyway. Our “model” beatnik really came, as we were also children of television, from sitcom stories like Dobie Gillis with stick character Maynard G. Krebs standing in for all be-bop-dom.
So it is easy to see where except to ostracize, meaning harass, maybe beat up if that was our wont that day, we would have passed by the “beat” scene, passed by Jack Kerouac too without the good offices, not a term we would have used then, if not for nerdish, goof, wild and woolly in the idea world Markin (always called Scribe for obvious reasons but we will keep with Markin here). He was the guy who always looked for some secret meaning to the universe, that certain breezes, winds, metaphorical breezes and winds, were going to turn things around, were going to make the world a place where Markin could thrive. Markin was the one who first read Kerouac’s breakthrough travelogue of a different sort novel On The Road.
Now Markin was the kind of guy, and sometimes we let him go on and sometimes stopped him in his tracks, who when he was on to something would bear down on us to pay attention. Christ some weekend nights he would read passages from the book like it was the Bible (which it turned out to be in a way later) when all we basically cared about is which girls were going to show up at our hang-out spot, the well-known Tonio’s Pizza Parlor and play the jukebox and we would go from there. Most of us, including me, kind of yawned at the whole thing even when Markin made a big deal that Kerouac was a working-class guy like us from up in Lowell cut right along the Merrimac River. The whole thing seemed way too exotic and moreover there was too much homosexual stuff implied which in our strict Irish-Italian Catholic neighborhood did not go down well at all -made us dismiss the whole thing and want to if I recall correctly “beat up” that Allan Ginsberg character. Even Dean Moriarty, the Neal Cassidy character, didn’t move us since although we were as larcenous and “clip” crazy as any character in that book we kind of took Dean as a tough car crazy guide like Sonny Jones from our neighborhood who was nothing but a hood in Red Riley’s bad ass motorcycle gang which hung out at Harry’s Variety Store. We avoided him and more so Red like the plague. Both wound up dead, very dead, in separate attempted armed robberies in broad daylight if you can believe that.
Let’s fast forward to see where Kerouac really affected us in a way that when Markin was spouting forth early on we could not appreciate. As Markin sensed in his own otherworldly way a new breeze was coming down the cultural highway, a breeze push forward by the beats I will confess, by the folk music scene, by the search for roots which the previous generation, our parents’ generation, spent their adulthoods attempting to banish and become part of the great American vanilla melt, and by a struggling desire to question everything that had come before, had been part of what we had had no say in creating, weren’t even asked about. Heady stuff and Markin before he made a very bad decision to quit college in his sophomore years and “find himself,” my expression not his, spent many of his waking hours figuring out how to make his world a place where he could thrive.
That is when one night, this is when we were well out of high school, some of us corner boys had gone our separate ways and those who remained in contact with the brethren spent less time hanging out at Tonio’s, Markin once again pulled out On The Road, pulled out Jack’s exotic travelogue. The difference is we were all ears then and some of us after that night brought our own copies or went to the Thomas Murphy Public Library and took out the book. This was the spring of the historic year 1967 when the first buds of the Summer of Love which wracked San Francisco and the Bay Area to its core and once Markin started working on us, started to make us see his vision of what he would later called, culling from Tennyson if I am not mistaken a “newer world.” Pulling us all in his train, even as with Bart Webber and if I recall Si Lannon a little, he had to pull out all the stops to have them, us, join him in the Summer of Love experience. Maybe the whole thing with Jack Kerouac was a pipe dream I remember reading about him in the Literary Gazette when he was down in Florida living with his ancient mother and he was seriously critical of the “hippies,” kind of banged on his own beat roots explaining that he was talking about something almost Catholic beatitude spiritual and not personal freedom, of the road or anything else. A lot of guys and not just writing junkies looking for some way to alleviate their inner pains have repudiated their pasts but all I know is that when Jack was king of the hill, when he spoke to us those were the days all roads to Kerouac were led by Markin. Got it. Allan Jackson
On The 60th Anniversary Of Jack Kerouac's "On The Road" (1957) -Beat Poets' Corner- Lawrence Ferlinghetti's "Populist Manifesto No.1"
In Honor Of Jean Bon Kerouac On The 60th 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 50th 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 60th anniversary I am passing on the bug to you.
Populist Manifesto No. 1 Poets, come out of your closets, Open your windows, open your doors, You have been holed-up too long in your closed worlds. Come down, come down from your Russian Hills and Telegraph Hills, your Beacon Hills and your Chapel Hills, your Mount Analogues and Montparnasses, down from your foothills and mountains, out of your teepees and domes. The trees are still falling and we’ll to the woods no more. No time now for sitting in them As man burns down his own house to roast his pig No more chanting Hare Krishna while Rome burns. San Francisco’s burning, Mayakovsky’s Moscow’s burning the fossil-fuels of life. Night & the Horse approaches eating light, heat & power, and the clouds have trousers. No time now for the artist to hide above, beyond, behind the scenes, indifferent, paring his fingernails, refining himself out of existence. No time now for our little literary games, no time now for our paranoias & hypochondrias, no time now for fear & loathing, time now only for light & love. We have seen the best minds of our generation destroyed by boredom at poetry readings. Poetry isn’t a secret society, It isn’t a temple either. Secret words & chants won’t do any longer. The hour of oming is over, the time of keening come, a time for keening & rejoicing over the coming end of industrial civilization which is bad for earth & Man. Time now to face outward in the full lotus position with eyes wide open, Time now to open your mouths with a new open speech, time now to communicate with all sentient beings, All you ‘Poets of the Cities’ hung in museums including myself, All you poet’s poets writing poetry about poetry, All you poetry workshop poets in the boondock heart of America, All you housebroken Ezra Pounds, All you far-out freaked-out cut-up poets, All you pre-stressed Concrete poets, All you cunnilingual poets, All you pay-toilet poets groaning with graffiti, All you A-train swingers who never swing on birches, All you masters of the sawmill haiku in the Siberias of America, All you eyeless unrealists, All you self-occulting supersurrealists, All you bedroom visionaries and closet agitpropagators, All you Groucho Marxist poets and leisure-class Comrades who lie around all day and talk about the workingclass proletariat, All you Catholic anarchists of poetry, All you Black Mountaineers of poetry, All you Boston Brahims and Bolinas bucolics, All you den mothers of poetry, All you zen brothers of poetry, All you suicide lovers of poetry, All you hairy professors of poesie, All you poetry reviewers drinking the blood of the poet, All you Poetry Police - Where are Whitman’s wild children, where the great voices speaking out with a sense of sweetness and sublimity, where the great’new vision, the great world-view, the high prophetic song of the immense earth and all that sings in it And our relations to it - Poets, descend to the street of the world once more And open your minds & eyes with the old visual delight, Clear your throat and speak up, Poetry is dead, long live poetry with terrible eyes and buffalo strength. Don’t wait for the Revolution or it’ll happen without you, Stop mumbling and speak out with a new wide-open poetry with a new commonsensual ‘public surface’ with other subjective levels or other subversive levels, a tuning fork in the inner ear to strike below the surface. Of your own sweet Self still sing yet utter ‘the word en-masse - Poetry the common carrier for the transportation of the public to higher places than other wheels can carry it. Poetry still falls from the skies into our streets still open. They haven’t put up the barricades, yet, the streets still alive with faces, lovely men & women still walking there, still lovely creatures everywhere, in the eyes of all the secret of all still buried there, Whitman’s wild children still sleeping there, Awake and walk in the open air.
