Saturday, August 19, 2017

The Truth About The Vietnam War From The Guys Who Fought It-Full Disclosure Volume 2 Newspaper Now Available!

Full Disclosure Volume 2 Newspaper Now Available!

The expanded to 28-pages Full Disclosure – Truth About America’s War in Vietnam Vol. 2 is now available!
The paper is especially important in relation to the upcoming Burns/Novick documentary about the Vietnam War, which will not present the war as the massive U.S. crime based on lies and betrayals that it was. This paper clearly, definitively and very articulately, does. It is a concise, very readable and important reference for anyone who wishes to present or speak about the truth. Thank you all. – Tarak Kauff, Veterans For Peace Board Member

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VFP Summer Newsletter Bundles Available

Submit this form​, if you would like to receive a bundle of 25 newsletters.
  • Masahide Ota, Presente!
  • Reflections on Memorial Day in D.C.
  • An Invitation from Your President
  • Peace at Home: Mourning Philando
  • Peace Abroad: VFP Delegation to Cuba
  • Poetry
  • Book Review: Failure to Quit:Reflections of an Optimistic Historian 
  • Veterans For Peace Chapter Reports
  • Q&A: How did you become a Veteran For Peace?

Letters Needed: Protect Freedom to Boycott

WRITE! for Justice, Human Rights, and International Law in Palestine.
The article speaks for itself with admirable clarity, describing the provisions and ramifications of a legislative proposal currently before the U.S. Senate that would impose stiff penalties on boycotters. American freedom is at stake.
 Here is the text of the proposed legislation (S. 720, the Israel Anti-Boycott Act).
Please WRITE! to The Washington Post using this address: letters@washpost.com
From the website of The Post:
Letters should be fewer than 200 words and take as their starting point an article or other item appearing in The Post. They may not have been submitted to, posted to or published by any other media. They must include the writer's full name -- anonymous letters and letters written under pseudonyms will not be considered. For verification purposes, they must also include the writer's home address, e-mail address and telephone numbers. Writers should disclose any personal or financial interest in the subject matter of their letters.

Save the Dates: Upcoming Events

Aug 20 - Women Gained Right to Vote in US (1920)

Aug 27 - Signing of Kellogg-Briand Pact (1928)
Sept 21 - International Day of Peace

Sept 22-24 No War 2017: War and the Environment Conference in Washington, D.C.

Sept 26 - Anniversary of 43 Ayotzinapa Students Disappearance


Veterans For Peace, 1404 N. Broadway, St. Louis, MO 63102

Veterans For Peace appreciates your tax-exempt donations.

Diplomacy, Not Bombs – An Emergency Appeal from Veterans For Peace


Diplomacy, Not Bombs – An Emergency Appeal from Veterans For Peace


The governments of the United States and the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea (DPRK) have recently escalated the threat of nuclear attacks.Especially this week, the danger has become still greater, to the point of threatening to trigger World War III.
Veterans For Peace pledges to do everything we can to prevent the beginning of this new conflict and strongly urges the U.S. government to open a dialogue with the DPRK without any preconditions, and call on all countries to promote the same.
Some Ways to Take Action:

From Socialist Alternative- Cornel West & Kshama Sawant: Build the Movement Against the Far Right

To  t  

Draft Bernie Town Hall 
& People’s Convergence Conference
September 8-10 in Washington D.C.

www.convergence2017.org


The vicious violence in Charlottesville and white supremacist actions around the country have acted as a collective wake up call, while Trump’s abhorrent response has only added further fuel to the growth of right wing bigotry.

A powerful left challenge and mass movement must be built against racist violence. Leaders like Bernie Sanders, alongside the unions, civil rights, immigrant, socialist, and other progressive organizations must step up to coordinate major national protests to drive back far-right forces. These protests should be linked to a clear anti-corporate, anti-racist, pro-worker program to unite the vast majority of working people against racism and bigotry.

But to push back against the rise of white nationalism, or to build an effective resistance, requires a conscious political strategy to isolate the far-right.

Join Cornel West, Kshama Sawant and others on September 8-10 in Washington D.C. for the People’s Convergence Conference and Draft Bernie Town Hall.  The conference will feature a strategy discussion for our movements on “How to Defeat the Right”.


Register for the Conference Today!

While we meet this immediate and vile threat from the far right, we also need to be laying the groundwork for an independent, left political challenge to the corporate politics of both the Democratic and Republican Party leaderships. Trump is a con man who convinced a section of middle- and working class people that he would bring back good jobs.

To defeat Trump and the Republicans we need to provide a clear, anti-corporate alternative with policies like Medicare for All and a major green infrastructure program to create union jobs that can undercut support for right populism. The pro-corporate policies of the neo-liberal leadership of the Democratic Party helped paved the way for Trump and the growth of right wing populism through their close links to Wall Street and Corporate America.

“In light of the barbarous violence of the neo-nazis and white nationalists in Charlottesville, it’s critical working people, youth, people of color, activists and progressive leaders come together to discuss the way forward for our movement and how we can build a political left alternative to isolate and defeat the right wing threat.  I think the People’s Convergence Conference is an important event to do just that.” said Kshama Sawant, Socialist Alternative Seattle City Councilmember.

This three-day event will cost over $20,000 to organize.  Socialist Alternative, Movement for the 99% and other endorsing organizations do not have the deep pockets of the billionaires, but we have a more potent weapon: the collective power of supporters like you. 


Please contribute $25 today.
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Organize Against Racism, Xenophobia, Hate, and Deportations!

Organize Against Racism, Xenophobia, Hate, and Deportations!

The government in Washington has launched a generalized assault on our lives, rights and living conditions. From the racist attacks on Muslims, Migrants, and African-Americans to attacks on healthcare, women, and LGBT folks, to attacks on our environment and education, to perpetual wars, working people are under fire. The leading edge of this assault is the criminalization and attacks on Migrants. Enough is enough! An injury to one is an injury to all.

Join with us to discuss next steps:
Boston May Day Coalition
Sunday, August 20, 3:00 PM
Encuentro 5
9A Hamilton Place, Boston, MA
(Park Street T Stop, next to Orpheum Theater)

                               


Please paste it into a document and make copies.

Thanks,
John

From: John [mailto:john.r.harris@verizon.net]
Sent: Friday, August 18, 2017 10:18 PM
To: 'bmdc@lists.riseup.net'; 'mayday@lists.riseup.net'
Subject: Flier for Sunday

Hi Folks,

Attached is the flier that was agreed to by myself and Chiuba. It was ready in the afternoon and I sent it to Matt but not to the list serve. Sorry for the lapse. Please check it out and make copies if you get a chance.

Thanks,
John

Stephen Kinzer: It's Far too Easy for Donald Trump to Start Nuclear War

Stephen Kinzer: It's Far too Easy for Donald Trump to Start Nuclear War

https://www.bostonglobe.com/opinion/2017/08/18/far-too-easy-for-donald-trump-start-nuclear-war/w6xhPtWuOidBtquVWujvJP/story.html

It’s far too easy for Donald Trump to start a nuclear war

By Stephen Kinzer AUGUST 18, 2017

Wherever the President of the United States travels, a military
aide-de-camp carrying “the football” is just a few steps away. It
isn’t the kind Tom Brady throws. In the laconic jargon that national
security officers use, “the football” is a briefcase that allows the
President to launch a nuclear attack.

These days “the football” seems closer to being used than at any time
in the last half-century. President Trump has issued thinly veiled
threats of a nuclear first strike against North Korea. His emotional
volatility makes those threats terrifying. Because of a deep flaw in
our legal order, this is an existential fear rather than a theoretical
one.

American law allows the President to launch a nuclear strike on the
basis of nothing more than his own impulse. He need not provide any
reason or consult anyone else. Vice President Dick Cheney seemed to
salivate when he described the breadth of a president’s authority to
incinerate nations.

“The president,” Cheney told an interviewer in 2008, “could launch a
kind of devastating attack the world’s never seen. He doesn’t have to
check with anybody. He doesn’t have to call the Congress. He doesn’t
have to check with the courts. He has that authority because of the
nature of the world we live in.”

Framers of our Constitution, acutely aware of how monarchs and tyrants
had misused their authority, took great pains to limit presidential
power. Thanks to their foresight, presidents may not declare war or
levy taxes. They may name cabinet secretaries and ambassadors only
with the consent of the Senate. The Supreme Court may reject laws they
sign. Their freedom to act is remarkably limited.

The framers could not have imagined the apocalyptic power of nuclear
weapons. Recent events make clear that this is the gaping hole in our
system of checks and balances. President Trump cannot remove a local
school board member, but if the impulse should strike him while he is
relaxing at Mar-a-Lago, or if he is seized by anger when awoken and
informed of some violent provocation in a distant land, he can call
for “the football.” Nuclear weapons would be in the air within
minutes.

“I could leave this room, and in 25 minutes, 70 million people would
be dead,” President Richard Nixon told members of Congress in 1973.
Was he considering it? Was he joking? Was he drunk? None of that
matters. The key fact is that he was correct. Secretary of Defense
James Schlesinger, according to later reports, became so concerned
about Nixon’s mental health that he ordered officers in the nuclear
chain of command to check with him before following any “unusual
orders.” Trusting that today’s Pentagon is similarly engaged is a leap
of faith.

The Nixon experience might have led Congress to impose some limit on
the ability of presidents to set off nuclear war. It did not. Today
the challenge is more urgent than ever. President Trump has asserted
that he is prepared to set off horror “the likes of which the world
has never seen before.” That should focus attention on the reality
that under American law, this single individual has the right to
launch a nuclear war.

It would be a horror without precedent. The atomic bomb attacks on
Japan in 1945 were of an entirely different magnitude. Nuclear weapons
of that era were primitive by modern standards. More important, Japan
had no nuclear weapons with which to retaliate. Attacking North Korea
would likely set off a holocaust.

President Harry Truman, who ordered the bombing of Japan, was not
required to seek approval from anyone before doing so. Nonetheless he
did. Truman wanted to assure himself that others with more experience
and expertise shared his belief that a nuclear attack on Japan was
justified. He secretly created what he called the Interim Committee —
so named because it was established to make only a single
recommendation — and asked for its opinion. Secretary of War Henry
Stimson was the chairman. Its other members were the president of
Harvard, the president of MIT, and senior representatives of military
and security agencies. The Interim Committee reviewed intelligence and
interviewed physicists who had developed the nuclear bomb, including
Enrico Fermi and J. Robert Oppenheimer. After three weeks of
deliberation, it advised Truman that it agreed with his decision to
attack.

Some in Washington, shaken by President Trump’s rhetoric, are seeking
to restrict his power to launch a unilateral nuclear attack. Nine
members of the House of Representatives have filed a bill called the
Restricting First Use of Nuclear Weapons Act. Its principle is not
new, but in recent weeks it has taken on a new urgency. Under its
provisions, presidents would be allowed to launch a nuclear first
strike only after Congress has declared war and authorized such a
strike. One of the co-sponsors, Rep. Earl Blumenauer of Oregon,
asserted that since “Trump has already threatened nuclear war,”
Congress needs “tools to prevent him from stumbling into the
destruction and utter annihilation of millions of lives.”

Congress has not shown even the courage to limit a president’s power
to wage conventional war. Determined to avoid responsibility for major
national security decisions, it allowed wars in Vietnam, Iraq, and
Afghanistan to rage for years without fulfilling its constitutional
duty to declare or refuse to declare war. Congress is unlikely
suddenly to grow a spine and assert its right to play a role in making
what could be the most consequential war-or-peace decision in world
history.

Questioning the president’s power to launch a nuclear first strike can
be dangerous. During a training session in 1973 — when Nixon was at
his most volatile — an officer posted at Vandenberg Air Force Base in
California asked what may have seemed a reasonable question: “How can
I know that an order I receive to launch my missiles came from a sane
president?” The answer came quickly. The inquiring officer, Major
Harold Hering, was discharged from the Air Force for “failure to
demonstrate acceptable qualities of leadership.” He became a truck
driver.

Can there be any restraint if presidents refuse to consult something
like Truman’s Interim Committee, if Congress will not act, and if the
military considers it taboo to question how it should respond to an
order from a berserk president? During the 1980s Roger Fisher, a
pre-eminent expert on conflict resolution, offered a provocative
answer.

“Put that needed code number in a little capsule, and then implant
that capsule right next to the heart of a volunteer,” Fisher
suggested. “The volunteer would carry with him a big, heavy butcher
knife as he accompanied the President. If ever the President wanted to
fire nuclear weapons, the only way he could do so would be for him
first, with his own hands, to kill one human being. . . He has to look
at someone and realize what death is — what an innocent death is.
Blood on the White House carpet. It’s reality brought home.”

More than 200 years ago, James Madison wrote that consolidating power
in the hands of a single leader “may justly be pronounced the very
definition of tyranny.” Thomas Jefferson asserted that the only way to
avoid such tyranny was to elect a leader and then “bind him down from
mischief by the chains of the Constitution.” They and the other
Founders took pains to assure that no president would ever be able to
order arbitrary arrests, unfair trials, or suppression of public
liberty. If they could have imagined the power of nuclear weapons,
they certainly would have taken a comparable precaution. Giving one
individual the power to set off nuclear war would have been abhorrent
to the framers of our Constitution. Limiting that power would honor
their memory while increasing the odds for humanity’s survival.

Stephen Kinzer is a senior fellow at the Watson Institute for
International and Public Affairs at Brown University.
--
Cole Harrison
rozziecole@gmail.com
617-466-9274 (rings home & cell)
Facebook: facebook.com/rozziecole
Twitter: rozziecole
LinkedIn: http://www.linkedin.com/in/coleharrison

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An Encore -The Son Of Dharma-With Jack Kerouac’s On The Road In Mind


An Encore -The Son Of Dharma-With Jack Kerouac’s On The Road In Mind




Jack Callahan thought he was going crazy when he thought about the matter after he had awoken from his fitful dream. Thought he was crazy for “channeling” Jack Kerouac, or rather more specifically channeling Jack’s definitive book On The Road, definite in giving him and a goodly portion of his generation that last push to go, well, go search a new world, or at least get the dust of your old town growing up off of your shoes, that had much to do with his wanderings. Got him going in search of what his late corner boy, “the Scribe,” Peter Paul Markin called the search for the Great Blue-Pink American West Night (Markin always capitalized that concept so since I too was influenced by the mad man’s dreams I will do so here). Any way you cut it seeking that new world that gave Jack his fitful dream. That  “driving him crazy” stemmed from the fact that those wanderings, that search had begun, and finished shortly thereafter, about fifty years before when he left the road after a few months for the hand of Chrissie McNamara and a settled life. Decided that like many others who went that same route he was not build for the long haul road after all.  


But maybe it is best to go back to the beginning, not the fifty years beginning, Jesus, who could remember, maybe want to remember incidents that far back, but to the night several weeks before when Jack, Frankie Riley, who had been our acknowledged corner boy leader out in front of Jack Slack’s bowling alleys from about senior year in high school in 1966 and a couple of years after when for a whole assortment of reasons, including the wanderings, the crowd went its separate ways, Jimmy Jenkins, Allan Johnson, Bart Webber, Josh Breslin, Rich Rizzo, Sam Eaton and me got together for one of our periodic “remember back in the day” get-togethers over at “Jack’s” in Cambridge a few block down Massachusetts Avenue from where Jimmy lives. We have probably done this a dozen time over the past decade or so, more recently as most of us have more time to spent at a hard night’s drinking (drinking high-shelf liquors as we always laugh about since in the old days we collectively could not have afforded one high-shelf drink and were reduced to drinking rotgut wines and seemingly just mashed whiskeys, and draino Southern Comfort, and that draino designation no lie, especially the first time you took a slug, the only way to take it, before you acquired the taste for it).


The night I am talking about though as the liquor began to take effect someone, Bart I think, mentioned that he had read in the Globe that up in Lowell they were exhibiting the teletype roll of paper that Jack Kerouac had typed the most definitive draft of his classic youth nation travel book, On The Road in honor of the fiftieth anniversary of its publication in 1957. That information stopped everybody in the group’s tracks for a moment. Partly because everybody at the table, except Rich Rizzo, had taken some version of Kerouac’s book to heart as did thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of certified members of the generation of ’68 who went wandering in that good 1960s night. But most of all because etched in everybody’s memory were thoughts of the mad monk monster bastard saint who turned us all on to the book, and to the wanderings, the late Peter Paul Markin.


Yeah, we still moan for that sainted bastard all these years later whenever something from our youths come up. It might be an anniversary, it might be all too often the passing of some iconic figure from those times, or it might be passing some place that was associated with our crowd, and with Markin. See Markin was something like a “prophet” to us, not the old time biblical long-beard and ranting guys although maybe he did think he was in that line of work, but as the herald of what he called “a fresh breeze coming across the land” early in the 1960s. Something of a nomadic “hippie” slightly before his time (including wearing his hair-pre moppet Beatles too long for working class North Adamsville tastes, especially his mother’s, who insisted on boys’ regulars and so another round was fought out to something like a stand-still then in the Markin household saga). The time of Markin’s “prophesies,” the hard-bitten Friday or Saturday night times when nothing to do and nothing to do it with he would hold forth, was however a time when we could have given a rat’s ass about some new wave forming in Markin’s mind (and that “rat’s ass” was the term of art we used on such occasions).


We would change our collective tunes later in the decade but then, and on Markin’s more sober days he would be clamoring over the same things, all we cared about was girls (or rather “getting into their pants”), getting dough for dates and walking around money (and planning small larcenies to obtain the filthy lucre), and getting a “boss” car, like a ’57 Chevy or at least a friend that had one in order to “do the do” with said girls and spend some dough at places like drive-in theaters and drive-in restaurants (mandatory if you wanted to get past square one with girls, the girls we knew, or were attracted to, in those days).           


Markin was whistling in the dark for a long time, past high school and maybe a couple of years after. He wore us down though pushing us to go up to Harvard Square in Cambridge to see guys with long hair and faded clothes and girls with long hair which looked like they had used an iron to iron it out sing, read poetry, and just hang-out. Hang out waiting for that same “fresh breeze” that Markin spent many a girl-less, dough-less, car-less Friday or Saturday night serenading us heathens about. I don’t know how many times he dragged me, and usually Bart Webber, in his trail on the late night subway to hear some latest thing in the early 1960s folk minute which I could barely stand then, and which I still grind my teeth over when I hear some associates going on and on about guys like Bob Dylan, Tom Rush and Dave Von Ronk and gals like Joan Baez, the one I heard later started the whole iron your long hair craze among seemingly rationale girls. Of course I did tolerate the music better once a couple of Cambridge girls asked me if I liked folk music one time in a coffeehouse and I said of course I did and took Markin aside to give me some names to throw at them. One girl, Lorna, I actually dated off and on for several months.


But enough of me and my youthful antics, and enough too of Markin and his wiggy ideas because this screed is about Jack Kerouac, about the effect of his major book, and why Jack Callahan of all people who among those of us corner boys from Jack Slack’s who followed Markin on the roads west left it the earliest. Left to go back to Chrissie, and eventually a car dealership, Toyota, that had him Mr. Toyota around Eastern Massachusetts (and of course Chrissie as Mrs. Toyota).


In a lot of ways Markin was only the messenger, the prodder, because when he eventually convinced us all to read the damn book at different points when we were all, all in our own ways getting wrapped up in the 1960s counter-cultural movement (and some of us the alternative political part too) we were in thrall to what adventures Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty were up to. That is why I think Jack had his dreams after the all-night discussions we had. Of course Markin came in for his fair share of comment, good and bad. But what we talked about mostly was how improbable on the face of it a poor working-class kid from the textile mill town of Lowell, Massachusetts, from a staunch Roman Catholic French-Canadian heritage of those who came south to “see if the streets of America really were paved with gold” would seem an unlikely person to be involved in a movement that in many ways was the opposite of what his generation, the parents of our generation of ’68 to put the matter in perspective, born in the 1920s, coming of age in the Great Depression and slogging through World War II was searching for in the post-World War II “golden age of America.”  Add in that he also was a “jock” (no slur intended as we spent more than our fair share of time talking about sports on those girl-less, dough-less, car-less weekend nights, including Markin who had this complicated way that he figured out the top ten college football teams since they didn’t a play-off system to figure it out. Of course he was like the rest of us a Notre Dame “subway” fan), a guy who played hooky to go read books and who hung out with a bunch of corner boys just like us would be-bop part of his own generation and influence our generation enough to get some of us on the roads too. Go figure.       


So we, even Markin when he was in high flower, did not “invent” the era whole, especially in the cultural, personal ethos part, the part about skipping for a while anyway the nine to five work routine, the white house and picket fence family routine, the hold your breath nose to the grindstone routine and discovering the lure of the road and of discovering ourselves, and of the limits of our capacity to wonder. No question that elements of the generation before us, Jack Kerouac’s, the sullen West Coast hot-rodders, the perfect wave surfers, the teen-alienated rebel James Dean and wild one Marlon Brando we saw on Saturday afternoon matinee Strand Theater movie screens and above all his “beats” helped push the can down the road, especially the “beats” who along with Jack wrote to the high heavens about what they did, how they did it and what the hell it was they were running from. Yeah, gave us a road map to seek that “newer world” Markin got some of us wrapped up in later in the decade and the early part of the next.


Now the truth of the matter is that most generation of ‘68ers, us, only caught the tail-end of the “beat” scene, the end where mainstream culture and commerce made it into just another “bummer” like they have done with any movement that threatened to get out of hand. So most of us who were affected by the be-bop sound and feel of the “beats” got what we knew from reading about them. And above all, above even Allen Ginsberg’s seminal poem, Howl which was a clarion call for rebellion, was Jack Kerouac who thrilled even those who did not go out in the search the great blue-pink American West night.              


Here the odd thing, Kerouac except for that short burst in the late 1940s and a couple of vagrant road trips in the 1950s before fame struck him down was almost the antithesis of what we of the generation of ’68 were striving to accomplish. As is fairly well known, or was by those who lived through the 1960s, he would eventually disown his “step-children.” Be that as it may his role, earned or not, wanted or not, as media-anointed “king of the beats” was decisive.           


But enough of the quasi-literary treatment that I have drifted into when I really wanted to tell you about what Bart Webber told me about his dream. He dreamed that he, after about sixty-five kinds of hell with his mother who wanted him to stay home and start that printing business that he had dreamed of since about third grade when he read about how his hero Benjamin Franklin had started in the business, get married to Betsy Binstock, buy a white picket fence house (a step up from the triple decker tenement where he grew up) have children, really grandchildren and have a happy if stilted life. But his mother advise fell off him like a dripping rain, hell, after-all he was caught in that 1960s moment when everything kind of got off-center and so he under the constant prodding of Markin decided to hit the road. Of course the Kerouac part came in from reading the book after about seven million drum-fire assaults by Markin pressing him to read the thing.


So there he was by himself. Markin and I were already in San Francisco so that was the story he gave his mother for going and also did not tell her that he was going  to hitchhike to save money and hell just to do it. It sounded easy in the book. So he went south little to hit Route 6 (a more easterly part of that road in upstate New York which Sal unsuccessfully started his trip on). There he met a young guy, kind of short, black hair, built like a football player who called himself Ti Jean, claimed he was French- Canadian and hailed from Nashua up in New Hampshire but had been living in Barnstable for the summer and was now heading west to see what that summer of love was all about.


Bart was ecstatic to have somebody to kind of show him the ropes, what to do and don’t do on the road to keep moving along. So they travelled together for a while, a long while first hitting New York City where Ti Jean knew a bunch of older guys, gypsy poets, sullen hipsters, con men, drifters and grifters, guys who looked like they had just come out some “beat” movie. Guys who knew what was what about Times Square, about dope, about saying adieu to the American dream of their parents to be free to do as they pleased. Good guys though who taught him a few things about the road since they said they had been on that road since the 1940s.


Ti Jean whose did not look that old said he was there with them, had blown out of Brockton after graduating high school where he had been an outstanding sprinter who could have had a scholarship if his grades had been better. Had gone to prep school in Providence to up his marks, had then been given a track scholarship to Brown, kind of blew that off when Providence seemed too provincial to him, had fled to New York one fine day where he sailed out for a while in the merchant marines to do his bit for the war effort. Hanging around New York in between sailings he met guys who were serious about reading, serious about talking about what they read, and serious about not being caught in anything but what pleased them for the moment. Some of this was self-taught, some picked up from the hipsters and hustlers.


After the war was over, still off-center about what to do about this writing bug that kept gnawing at him despite everybody, his minute wife, his love mother, his carping father telling him to get a profession writing wasn’t where any dough was, any dough for him he met this guy, a hard knocks guys who was something like a plebeian philosopher king, Ned Connelly, who was crazy to fix up cars and drive them, drive them anyway. Which was great since Ti Jean didn’t have a license, didn’t know step one about how to shift gears and hated driving although he loved riding shot-gun getting all blasted on the dope in the glove compartment and the be-bop jazz on the radio. So they tagged along together for a couple of years, zigged and zagged across the continent, hell, went to Mexico too to get that primo dope that he/they craved, got drunk as skunks more times than you could shake a stick, got laid more times than you would think by girls who you would not suspect were horny but were, worked a few short jobs picking produce in the California fields, stole when there was no work, pimped a couple of girls for a while to get a stake and had a hell of time while the “squares” were doing whatever squares do. And then he wrote some book about it, a book that was never published because there were too many squares who could not relate to what he and Ned were about. He was hoping that the kids he saw on the road, kids like Bart would keep the thing moving along as he left Bart at the entrance to the Golden Gate Bridge on their last ride together.


Then Bart woke up, woke up to the fact that he stayed on the road too short a time now looking back on it. That guy Ti Jean had it right though, live fast, drink hard and let the rest of it take care of itself. Thanks Markin.