The Hills And Hollas Of Home- In Honor Of The Late Hazel Dickens

The Hills And Hollas Of Home- In Honor Of The Late Hazel Dickens

By Lance Lawrence 

Kenny Jackman heard the late Hazel Dickens (d. 2011) for the very first time on her CD album It’s Hard To Tell The Singer From The Song some years back, maybe 2005, when he was in thrall to mountain music after being hit hard by Reese Witherspoon’s role as June Carter in the film Walk The Line. At that time he got into all things Carter Family unto the nth generation. A friend, a Vermont mountain boy, hipped him to Hazel during his frenzy and he picked up the CD second-hand in Harvard Square. (Really at Sandy’s located between Harvard and Central Squares, a folk institution around town where until recently Sandy had held forth since the early 1960s folk minute when everybody was desperately looking for roots music and that was the place to look first. Hazel’s You’ll Get No More Of Me, A Few Old Memories and the classic Hills of Home knocked him out. The latter, moreover, seemed kind of familiar and later, a couple of months later, he finally figured out why. He had really first heard Hazel back in 1970 when he was down in the those very hills and hollows that are a constant theme in her work, and that of the mountain mist winds music coming down the crevices. What was going on though? Was it 2005 when he first heard Hazel or that 1970 time? Let me go back and tell that 1970 story.

Kenny Jackman like many of his generation of ’68 was feeling foot loose and fancy free, especially after he had been mercifully declared 4-F by his friendly neighbors at the local draft board in old hometown North Adamsville (declared 4-F in those high draft days because he had a seriously abnormal foot problem which precluded walking very far, a skill that the army likes its soldiers to be able to do). So Kenny, every now and again, took to the hitchhike road, not like his mad man friend Peter Paul Markin with some heavy message purpose a la Jack Kerouac and his beat brothers (and a few sisters) but just to see the country while he, and it, were still in one piece no pun intended Kenny told me since the country was in about fifteen pieces then).

On one of these trips he found himself stranded just outside Norfolk, Virginia at a road-side campsite. Feeling kind of hungry one afternoon, and tired, tired unto death of camp-side gruel and stews he stopped at a diner, Billy Bob McGee’s, an old-time truck stop diner a few hundred yards up the road from his camp for some real food, maybe meatloaf or some pot roast like grandma used to make or that was how it was advertised. When he entered the mid-afternoon half-empty diner he sat down at one of the single stool counter seats that always accompany the vinyl-covered side booths in such places. But all of this was so much descriptive noise that could describe a million, maybe more, such eateries. What really caught his attention though was a waitress serving them “off the arm” that he knew immediately he had to “hit” on (although that is not the word used in those days but “hit on” conveys what he was up to in the universal boy meets girl world). As it turned out she, sweetly named Fiona Fay, and, well let’s just call her fetching, Kenny weary-eyed fetching, was young, footloose and fancy free herself and had drawn a bead on him as he entered the place, and, …well this story is about Hazel, so let us just leave it as one thing led to another and let it go at that.

Well, not quite let’s let it go at that because when Kenny left Norfolk a few days later one ex-waitress Fiona Fay was standing by his side on the road south. And the road south was leading nowhere, nowhere at all except to Podunk, really Prestonsburg, Kentucky, and really, really a dink town named Pottsville, just down the road from big town Prestonsburg, down in the hills and hollows of Appalachia, wind-swept green, green, mountain mist, time forgotten . And the reason two footloose and fancy free young people were heading to Podunk is that a close cousin of Fiona’s lived there with her husband and child and wanted Fiona to come visit (visit “for a spell” is how she put it but I will spare the reader the localisms). So they were on that hell-bend road but Kenny, Kenny was dreading this trip and only doing it because, well because Fiona was the kind of young woman, footloose and fancy free or not, that you followed, at least you followed if you were Kenny Jackson and hoped things would work out okay.

What Kenny dreaded that day was that he was afraid to confront his past. And that past just then entailed having to go to his father’s home territory just up the road in Hazard. See Kenny saw himself as strictly a Yankee, a hard “we fought to free the slaves and incidentally save the union” Yankee for one and all to see back in old North Adamsville. And denied, denied to the high heavens, that he had any connection with the south, especially the hillbilly south that everybody was making a fuse about trying to bring into the 20th century around that time. And here he was with a father with Hazard, Kentucky, the poorest of the poor hillbillies, right on his birth certificate although Kenny had never been there before. Yeah, Fiona had better be worth it.

Kenny had to admit, as they picked up one lonely truck driver ride after another (it did not hurt in those days to have a comely lass standing on the road with you in the back road South, or anywhere else, especially if you had longish hair and a wisp of a beard), that the country was beautiful. As they entered coal country though and the shacks got crummier and crummier he got caught up in that 1960s Michael Harrington Other America no running water, outhouse, open door, one window and a million kids and dogs running around half-naked, the kids that is vision. But they got to Pottsville okay and Fiona’s cousin and husband (Laura and Stu) turned out to be good hosts. So good that they made sure that Kenny and Fiona stayed in town long enough to attend the weekly dance at the old town barn (red of course, run down and in need of paint to keep red of course) that had seen such dances going back to the 1920s when the Carter Family had actually come through Pottsville on their way back to Clinch Mountain.

Kenny buckled at the thought, the mere thought, of going to some Podunk Saturday night “hoe-down” and tried to convince Fiona that they should leave before Saturday. Fiona would have none of it and so Kenny was stuck. Actually the dance started out pretty well, helped tremendously by some local “white lightning” that Stu provided and which he failed to mention should be sipped, sipped sparingly. Not only that but the several fiddles, mandolins, guitars, washboards and whatnot made pretty good music. Music like Anchored in Love and Come All You Fair And Tender Ladies, stuff that he had heard in the folk clubs in Harvard Square when he used to hang out there in the early 1960s. And music that even Kenny, old two left-feet, one way out of whack, draft-free out of whack, Kenny, could dance to with Fiona.

So Kenny was sipping, well more than sipping, and dancing and all until maybe about midnight when this woman, this local woman came out of nowhere and began to sing, sing like some quick, rushing wind sound coming down from the hills and hollas (hollows for Yankees, okay, please). Kenny began to toss and turn a little, not from the liquor but from some strange feeling, some strange womb-like feeling that this woman’s voice was a call from up on top of these deep green hills, now mist-filled awaiting day. And then she started into a long, mournful version of Hills of Home, and he sensed, sensed strongly if not anything he could articulate that he was home. Yes, Kenny Jackson, Yankee, city boy, corner boy-bred was “home,” hillbilly home. So Kenny did really hear Hazel Dickens for first time in 1970, see.

[As for Fiona Fay she stayed on the road with Kenny until they headed toward the Midwest where she veered off home to Valparaiso in Indiana, her hometown as Kenny headed west to California, to Big Sur and a different mountain ethos. They were supposed to meet out there a couple of months later after she finished up some family business. They never did, a not unusual occurrence of the time when people met and faded along the way, but Kenny thought about her and that wind-swept mountain dance night for a long time after that.]    

 

***The Old Man’s Old Sea- In Honor Of Our Homeland, The Ocean-With Phil Phillips’ Sea of Love In Mind

***The Old Man’s Old Sea- In Honor Of Our Homeland, The Ocean-With Phil Phillips’ Sea of Love In Mind 

By Josh Breslin-who lives for the fresh breath of sea air and who as a youth actually grew up in beloved coastal Olde Saco in Maine.   

"Sea Of Love" was written by Philip Baptiste, George Khoury.

Do you remember when we met?
That's the day I knew you were my pet
I wanna tell you how much I love you

Come with me, my love, to the sea
The sea of love
I wanna tell you just how much I love you
Come with me to the sea of love

Do you remember when we met?
Oh, that's the day I knew you were my pet
I wanna tell you, oh, how much I love you

Come with me to the sea of love
Come with me, my love, to the sea
The sea of love
I wanna tell you just how much I love you
I wanna tell you, oh, how much I love you

It is dawn, or maybe just those few minutes before the dawn, those dark light minutes when the sun’s battle for the day is set. The waves splash, today not so innocently, today not so tepidly like the past several days when the she sea sounds did not mercifully drown out traffics, construction hammers, or beach tractor clean-ups but swirling out from some hidden sea swells beyond the horizon against the defenseless waiting sand, sand beaten down since time immemorial. Or as long as anyone has been watching that feat, that seemingly endless feat.

This beach, this northern clime beach, the far end of Olde Saco, Maine beach, is this day filled with empty clam shells from some timeless previous sea swirlings waiting sand-ification (is that right?), abandoned and mislaid lobster traps (and one up in lobster country had better know the difference, know the livelihood difference between the two conditions , just in case some irate craggy boat captain, aged liked the seas, decides to reclaim one over your head), occasional oil slicks spilled from the trawlers (and hopefully only small working  residues and not some monster slick by some tiny horizon tanker heading to oil depot ports further up the coast), working trawlers nearby, the flotsam and jetsam streamed here of a thousand ships, cargoes, careless throwaways and conscious, very conscious dumpings, like the sea was just another land-fill wanting filling.

Today though I, Frank Jackman I, am ready, ready for the hundredth hundredth time to walk the walk, the ocean walk that has defined more parts of me than heaven will ever know. As I button up my yellow slicker against the April winds that come here more often than not, and can come out of the blue against the Bay of Fundy confusions, one minute eighty degrees the next thirty five, I see, see faintly in the distance, a figure, a fellow traveler taking his, her or its (don’t laugh I have seen horses, unridden horses, trotting these beaches, although no sea monsters), maybe also hundredth hundredth walking along the ocean sidewalk, and maybe, just maybe, for the same reason.

Today, hundredth, hundredth walk or not, I am in a remembering mood, a high dudgeon remembering mood that always gets triggered by proximity, far away fifty mile proximity if the truth be known, to the ocean. I have just finished up a piece of work that reminded me of seas, sea-sides, sea walks, sea rocks, ocean-side carnival amusement parks placed as if to mock the intrinsic interest that one would have in the sea, our homeland the sea, and I need to sort this out, also for that now familiar ten-thousandth time. But I best begin at the beginning, or try to, so I will be finished in that hour or so that it will take me to walk this walk, this rambling ocean walk, and I will pass that solitary walker coming the other way and be obliged under some law of the sea to break my train of thought and remark on the nature of the day, the nature of the ocean, and the joys of ocean-ness brought forth by old King Neptune to that passing stranger.

Ah, memory, jesus, just the names, Taffrail Road, Yardarm Lane, Captain's Walk, Quarterdeck Road, Sextant Circle, and the Snug Harbor Elementary School tell a story all on their own. Yes, those names, those seemingly misplaced, misbegotten names and places from the old housing project down in Adamsville, down in my old hometown, and where I came of age, sea-worthy age as well, surely evoke imagines of the sea, of long ago sailing ships, mast-strewn ships, and of desperate, high stakes battles fought off shrouded, mist-covered coasts by those hearty enough to seek fame and fortune. And agile enough to keep it. Almost from my first wobbly, halting baby steps down at “the projects” I have been physically drawn to the sea, a seductive, foam-flecked siren call that has never left me.

Needless to say, ever since I was a toddler my imagination, my sense of imagery, my sense of the nature of the world has been driven by the sea as well. Not so much of pirates and prizes, although those drove my youth a bit but of the power of nature, for good or evil. And on those long ago days, just like now, I dressed against the impending inclement weather with my mustard yellow rain slicker(French’s mustard color not Guiden’s, okay) complete with Gloucester fisherman’s rain floppy rain hat of the same color and rubber boots, black, knee-length boots that go squish, squish and have done so since before time immemorial.



Of course, anybody with any sense knows that anyone who had even a passing attachment to a place like Adamsville, tucked in a bay, an Atlantic bay, had to have an almost instinctual love of the sea; and, a fear of its furies when old Mother Nature turns her back on us. Yes, the endless sea, our homeland the sea, the mother we never knew, the sea... But, enough of those imaginings. If being determines consciousness, and if you love the ocean, then it does not hurt to have been brought up in Adamsiville with its ready access to the bay and water on three sides. That said, the focal point for any experience with the ocean in Adamsville centered, naturally, around its longest stretch of beach, Adamsville Central Beach. Puny by Saco beach far-as-the-eye-can-see standards, and Saco puny by Carlsbad (California Carlsbad) farther-than-the-eye-can-see standards but a place to learn the ropes of how to deal with the sea, with its pitfalls, its mysteries, it lure, and its lore.

For many of us of a certain age brought forth by the sea, including this writer, one cannot discuss Adamsville Central Beach properly without reference to such spots such as Howard Johnson's famous landmark ice cream stand (now a woe-begotten clam shack of no repute). For those who are clueless as to what I speak of, or have only heard about it in mythological terms from older relatives, or worst, have written it off as just another ice cream joint you can only dream of such heavens although someone, not me, not me today as I remembrance with a broad stroke and have no time for pretty descriptions, for literary flourishes, should really do themselves proud and write the history, yah, the child’s view history of that establishment. And make the theme, make the theme if you will, the bond between New England love of ice cream and of the sea (yes, it is true, other parts of the country, other ocean parts of the country as well, are, well, nonplussed by the ice cream idea, and it shows in their product).

Know this for now though: many a hot, muggy, sultry, sweaty summer evening was spent in line impatiently, and perhaps, on occasion, beyond impatience, waiting for one of those 27 (or was it 28?) flavors to cool off with. In those days the prize went to cherry vanilla in a sugar cone (backup: frozen pudding). I will not bore the reader with superlative terms and “they don’t make them like they used to”, especially for those who only know “Ho Jo’s” from the later, pale imitation franchise days out on some forsaken turnpike highway, but at that moment I was in very heaven.


Nor can one forget those stumbling, fumbling, fierce childish efforts, bare-footed against all motherly caution against the dreaded jellyfish (or motherly cautions against everything, everything even the slightest bit harmful in this dangerous old world), pail and shovel in hand, to dig for seemingly non-existent clams down toward the South Adamsville end of the beach at the, in those days, just slightly oil-slicked, sulfuric low tide (the days before dinosaur lament fossils fuels exploded the oceans). Or the smell of charcoal-flavored hot dogs on those occasional family barbecues (when one in a series of old jalopies, Nash Ramblers come to mind and disappear, that my father drove worked well enough to get us there) at the then just recently constructed old Treasure Island (now named after some fallen Marine) that were some of the too few times when my family acted like a family. Or, more vivid, the memory of roasted, really burnt, sticky marshmallows sticking to the roof of my mouth (and maybe still ancient wound stuck there).



But those thoughts and smells are not the only ones that interest me today. No trip down memory lane would be complete without at least a passing reference to high school Adamsville Central Beach. The sea brings out many emotions: humankind's struggle against nature ( a fitful and uneven struggle at best as a few over the top wave crashes have demonstrated to keep us on our toes, and humble), some Zen notions of oneness with the universe (and if not Zen then Kali, Misha or some Zoroastrian flaming fire god mad monk), the calming effect of the thundering waves (rule: speak no louder than the angriest wave in its presence, children under twelve excepted), thoughts of mortality (endless seas bring that notion to the fore and not just ancient wounds and sorrows), and so on. But it also brings out the primordial longings for companionship. And no one longs for companionship more than teenagers. So the draw of the ocean is not just in its cosmic appeal but hormonal, as well. Mind you, however, we, you and I, just in case a stray naive child of about eight is around, are not discussing the nighttime Adamsville Beach, the time of "parking" and the "submarine races.” Our thoughts are now pure as the driven snow. We will confine ourselves to the day time beach.



Virtually from the day we got out of school for the summer vacation I headed for the beach. And not just any section of that beach but the section directly between the John Adams and John Quincy Adams Yacht Clubs (yes, it was that kind of city touting ancient wise men long gone and not missed, not missed after the obligatory sixth grade crypt visit in the Center, not missed, hell, not even on the radar for heady 1960s teenagers. Now, I ask you, was situating myself in that spot done so that I could watch all the fine boats at anchor? Or was this the best swimming location on the beach? Hell no, this is where we heard (and here I include my old running pal and classmate, Frankie, Francis Xavier Riley, the king of the North Adamsville corner boy night around Salducci’s Pizza Parlor of blessed memory and nothing but a flame-throwing lady-killer, uh, when his honey, Joanne Doyle was summering elsewhere) all the "babes" were. We were, apparently, under the influence of Beach Blanket Bingo or some such teenage beach film. (For those who are again clueless this was a grade B ‘boy meets girl’ saga the plot behind a thousand Hollywood films, except they exploded into song on the beach as well.)

Well, for those who expected a movie-like happy ending to this section of the remembrance piece, you know, where I meet a youthful "Ms. Right" to the strains of the song Sea of Love, forget it. (That is the original Sea of Love, by the way, not the one used in the movie of the same name sung by Tom Waits at the end, and a cover that you should listen to on YouTube.) I will keep the gory details short, though. As fate would have it there may have been "babes" aplenty down there but not for this lad. I don't know about you but I was just too socially awkward (read, tongue-tied) to get up the nerve to talk to girls (female readers substitute boys here). And on reflection, if the truth were to be known, I would not have known what to do about such a situation in any case. No job, no money and, most importantly, no car for a date to watch one of those legendary "submarine races" that we, you and I, have agreed that we will not discuss here. But we can hardly fault the sea for that, right?



But visions of nearly one-half century ago hardly exhaust the lure of the sea. And, speaking of visions, that fellow sea-seeker I mentioned a while ago, coming from the other end of the beach is starting to take shape, it is a he, I can tell by the walk, by the sea walk that men put on when they are alone with their thoughts, although beyond that he is too far away for me to determine age, class (this is a very democratic beach, in most spots, with few vulgar and almost universally disregarded no-trespassing-private property-keep out-beware-of-dogs-police-take-notice signs on some Mayfair swell properties), or physical description, as the suppressed light from the cloudy morning day gets a little brighter



Funny, some people I have known, including some I grew up with, grew up with breathing ocean air embedded in their inner beings and who started with a love of the sea much as I did, moved to Kansas, Omaha, Peoria, Winnemucca or some such place, some such distinctly non-ocean place and never looked back. Christ, as is well known by one and all who know me I get very nervous even now when, as a city boy, I go to the country and do not have the feel of city lights to comfort me. Not as well- known is the fact, the hard fact that I get nervous, very nervous, when I am not within driving distance of some ocean, say that fifty miles mentioned above. So keep, please keep, your Kansas, your Omaha, your Peoria, and your damned Winnemucca (and that desolate bus station bench I slept on one night after giving up on the hitchhike road for the evening trying to head out of town to no avail, trying to head ocean west, and let me be, be in places like Bar Harbor, Maine, Peggy’s Cove, Nova Scotia, Sanibel Island, Florida, Carlsbad, California (hell no, not the New Mexico one ), Mendocino, ditto California, Seattle, Washington just to name a few places on this continent, and there are many others, and on other continents, or the edges of other continents, as well. And stories, plenty of stories, which I don’t have time to tell you now except for one that will stand in as an exemplar for what I mean. By the way that form, that mannish form, coming toward me is looking more like a young man by the speed of his walk, and he too seems to have on a the favored sea dog yellow rain jacket.

****

January 1970 visions of Angelica, Angelica of the homeland sea.

I waved good-bye to Angelica, once again, as she drove off from the ocean front campsite that we had been camping out on, the Leo Carrillo State Park near Point Magoo about fifty miles or so north of Los Angeles. She will now drive the road back in her green Ford Hertz unlimited mileage, mid-size rental (paid for, as she explained one night, by her parents whose golden age of the automobile-frenzied minds counted it as a strike against me, a very big strike, that when I had “kidnapped” their daughter on the 1969 blue-pink summer road west down in Steubenville, Ohio I didn’t even have a car). She planned (on my advice) to drive back mostly on the ocean-abutted, white-capped waves smashing against jagged ancient shore rocks, Pacific Coast Highway down through Malibu and Santa Monica to take one last look at the Pacific Ocean as the final point on her first look ocean trip, on the way to LAX to take a flight back to school days Muncie, Indiana.



She will also be driving back to the airport and getting on that miserable plane east knowing as I do since we talked about it incessantly during her stay, that some right things, or at least some maybe right things, like our being together last summer heading free west and for these two January weeks in front of the sea, our homeland the sea, before her classes started again, got caught up in the curious web of the human drama. For no understandable reason. Hey, you already knew this if you have ever had even that one teeny-weeny, tiny, minuscule love affair that just had no place to go, or no time to take root, or just got caught out there in the blue-pink night. Yah, you know that story. But let me take some minutes to tell you this one. If it seems very familiar and you “know” the plot line well then just move on.



To get you up to speed after Angelica and I had been on the heartland hitchhike road (and places like Moline, Neola, and Omaha are nothing but the heartland, good or bad), she, well, she just got tired of it, tired of the lacks, tired of the uncertainties of the road. Hell hell-on-wheels, I was getting tired of it myself except I was a man on a mission. The nature of that mission is contained in the words “search for the blue-pink great American West night” so the particulars of that mission need not detain us here. So in Neola, Iowa, Neola, Iowa of all places aided by “fairy grandmother” Aunt Betty, who ran the local diner where Angelica worked to help make us some dough to move on, and her own sense of dreams she called it quits back in September. Aunt Betty drove us to Omaha where Angelica took the bus back east, Indiana east from Nebraska, to hometown Muncie and I hit Interstate 80 West headed first to Denver before the snows, or so I hoped.

Honestly, although we exchanged addresses and telephone numbers where messages could be left, or where we could speak to each other (her parents’ house not being one of them), and made big plans to reunite in California in January during her school break, I didn’t really think that once we were off the road together that those plans would pan out.

Now I may not remember all my reasoning at the time this far removed, the now of my telling this story many years later, but I had had enough relationships with women to sense this one was good, very good, while it lasted but it could not survive the parting.

Not one of those overused “absence makes the heart grow fonder” things you hear about. And, truth to tell, because I thought that was the way things would play out, I started getting focused back on Boston Joyel more than a little as I walked a lot, stood at the shoulder of the hitchhike road a lot, and fitfully got my rides on the road west.



But see this is where you think you have something figured out just so and then it goes awry. Angelica called, left messages, sent letters, even a telegram, to Denver (to the commune where, Jack and Mattie, my traveling companions on the final leg west whom I had met earlier in the spring on a different trip down to D.C., were staying). She sent more communications in early December saying that she was still coming to Los Angeles as well where we three stayed with a few artistic friends of Jack and Mattie’s. Cinema-crazed artistic friends, including one budding film director who, moreover, had great dope connections right into the heart of Mexico. This is where they would stay while I planned to push the hitchhike road north heading to San Francisco.



I once, in running through one of the scenes in this hitchhike road show, oh yah, it was the Neola scene, mentioned that in Angelica what you saw was what you got, what she said was what she meant, and both those were good things indeed. And so if I had thought about it a minute of course she was coming to California in January and staying with me for her two week break, and maybe longer. So when January came she contacted me though John and Mattie, who like I said were now staying with this very interesting experimental film-maker, David, in the Hollywood hills and canyons. I started back south to L.A. in order to meet her at the airport. From there I had it planned that we would go to Point Magoo and camp out like in the “old days” at an ocean front state park.



Needless to say when I greeted her at LAX we both were all smiles, I was in more than all smiles mode, because I had been “stag” for a while and she was, well, fetching as always, or almost always. Here though is where I noticed that the road really is not for everyone. In Neola, and later getting on the bus back home in Omaha, poor Angelica looked pretty haggard but at the airport, well like I said, she was fetching.

And, guess what, she brought her sleeping bag that we had gotten for her in a Lexington, Kentucky Army-Navy Store when we first seriously started on the road west. The first thing she said about it was, referring to a little in-joke between us, “it fits two, in a pinch.” Be still my heart. So we gathered up her stuff, did the airport exit stuff (easier in those days) and picked up the outside shuttle to the Hertz car rental terminal. We were jabbering away like crazy, but best of all, we were like, a little, those first days last summer back in that old-time Steubenville truck stop diner and cabin when I first met her.



Of course, part of the trip for her, part of what she went as far as she could with me on the hitchhike road for, was to get to California and see what it was all about, and what the ocean was all about since she was a heartland girl who had never seen the ocean before. When we got to Point Magoo she flipped out, she flipped out mostly at the idea that we would stay, could stay right on the beach in front of the ocean. And just like a kid, just like I did when I was kid and saw the ocean, when she saw the Pacific, she jumped right in. Hell, she was so excited she almost got caught in a small riptide. I had to go drag her out. I won’t say we had fun every minute of those weeks acting out our ocean nomad existence, but most minutes, and I could see that she felt the same way.



Naturally, as time drifted away toward her return flight date we talked more and more about what the future, if any, held in store for us. She was adamant about not going back on the road, she was adamant as well that she wanted to finish school and make something of herself. I had no serious defense against that practical wisdom. And, truthfully, I wasn’t, toward the end of her stay, pushing the issue, partially because even I could see that it made sense but also, we had had a “flare-up” over the Boston Joyel question (I am being polite here).



But it was more than that; the flat out, hungry truth was that I really didn’t know how to deal with a Midwestern what you see is what you get woman like Angelica. I was more used to virtuous Irish Catholic girls who drove me crazy as a kid getting me all twisted up about religion, about nice girls, and about duplicity when I found out what the real score was with this type of young girl/ woman later. I was also, and Joyel was the epitome of this type, totally in sync (well, as much as a man can be) with the Harvard Square folksy, intellectual, abstract idealist, let’s-look-at-everything-from-twenty-two different angles, what is the meaning of human relationships 24/7 kind of woman. And fatally attracted to them (and still am). This Angelica look at things only a couple of ways, let’s work things out easy-like, heavens, let’s not analyze everything to the nth degree flipped me out. Angelica was a breath of fresh air and, maybe, maybe, about ten years later, and two divorces later to boot, I would have had that enough sense god gave geese to hold onto her with both hands, tightly, very tightly. But I was in my blue-pink search phase and not to be detoured.



Of course all this hard work of trying to understand where we stood put a little crack in our reason for being together in the first place. The search for, search for something. Maybe, for her, it was just that life minute at the ocean and then on to regular life minutes out in the thickets of the white picket fences. She never said it then in so many words but that seemed to be the aim. And to be truthful, although I was only just barely thinking about it at the time, as the social turmoil of the times got weird, diffuse, and began to evaporate things started to lose steam. As we were, seemingly, endlessly taking our one-sided beatings as those in charge started a counter-offensive ( a counter-offensive still going on) people, good people, but people made of human clay nevertheless got tired of the this and that existence, even Joyel. Joyel of Harvard Square folksy, intellectual, abstract idealist, let’s-look-at-everything-from-twenty-two different angles, what is the meaning of relationships 24/7 was also weary and wary of what was next and where she fit into “square” society. Christ, enough of that, we know, or knew, that song too well.



A couple of days before Angelica was to leave, and on a day when the sun seemed especially bright, especially bright for then smog-filled Los Angeles January, and warm, not resident warm but Boston and Muncie warm, sat like two seals sunning ourselves in the glow of mother ocean she nudged me and asked me if I had a joint. Now Angelica liked a little vino now and then but I can’t recall her ever doing a joint (grass, marijuana, herb, ganja, whatever you call it in your neck of the woods). So this is new. The problem, although not a big one in ocean-side state park 1970 Southern California, was that I was not “holding.” No problem though, a few spots down the beach was an old well-traveled, kind of beat-up Volkswagen van that I knew, knew just as sure as I was standing on that white sand beach, was “holding.” I went over, asked around, and “bingo” two nice big joints came traveling with me back to our campsite. Oh, daddy, daddy out in the be-bop blue-pink night thank you brother van man. For just a minute, just that 1970 California minute, the righteous did inherit the earth.



Back at our camp site Angelica awaited the outcome of my quest, although she also wanted to wait until later, until the day’s sun started going down a bit more to go into that smoked-filled good night. When that later came Angelica was scared/ thrilled, as she tried to smoke the one I lit up for her and started coughing like crazy, but that was nothing then. Everybody, at least everybody I knew, went through that same baptism. But Jesus, did we get mellow, that stuff, as was most stuff then, was primo, not your ragweed bull stuff that ran the rounds later. And why should it have not been so as we were so close to the then sane Mexican border of those days to get the good stuff.



But all of this build-up over this dope scene is so much filler, filler in those days when if you didn’t at least take a pipe full (inhale or not, like it or not) you were a square “squared.” What the stuff did for Angelica, and through Angelica to me, got her to open up a little. No, not about family, or old boyfriends, or her this and that problems. No, but kind of deep, kind of deep somewhere that she maybe didn’t know existed. Deep as I had ever heard her before. She talked about her fate, the fate of the fates, about what was going on in the world, no, not politics; she was organically incapable of that. Mystics stuff, getting in touch with the sea homeland stuff, earth mother stuff too in a way. Dope-edged stuff sure but when she compared the splashing foam-flecked waves to some cosmic force that I forget how she put it (remember I was dope-addled as well) then for just that moment, just that moment when the old red-balled sun started to dip to the horizon on one of those fairly rare days when it met the ocean I swear that Angelica knew, knew in her heart, knew in her soul even, what the blue-pink American West dream stuff I had bombarded her with was all about. That was our moment, and we both knew it.



So when leaving came a couple of days later and we both knew, I think, as we packed up her things, including that well-used sleeping bag, we had come to a parting of the roads. As I put her stuff in the rental car she sweetly blurted out something I was also thinking, “I’ll always remember that night we made the earth under the cabin in Steubenville shake.” And I thought I bet she will, although she forgot the part about the making the roof of the cabin move too. And so there I was, waving as she drove off to her Angelica dreams. And I never saw her again.

*********

But enough of ancient thoughts, of ancient sea thoughts, and ancient sea loves because just now I see that previously distant figure is none other than a young boy, a young boy of maybe six or seven, not older I am sure. About fifty yards away he stops, as boys and girls will when confronted with the endless treasures of the sea, and is intently looking at some sea object although I cannot make it out from this distance. What I can make out, make out very plainly, is that he is wearing a mustard yellow rain slicker (French’s mustard color not Guiden’s) complete with a Gloucester fisherman’s floppy rain hat of the same color and knee-deep rubber boots, black, of course. As we approach each other I notice that he has that determined sea walk that I have carried with me since childhood. I look at him intensely, he looks at me intensely, and we nod as we pass each other. No words, no remarks on the nature of the day, the nature of the ocean, and the joys of ocean-ness brought forth by old King Neptune need be spoken between us. The nod, the ocean swell, and the ocean sound as the waves crashed almost to the sand beneath our feet, spoke for us. The torch had been passed.

Upon The 50th Anniversary Of The Death Of "King OF The Beats" Jack Kerouac-On The 60th Anniversary Of Allan Ginsberg’s “Howl”Beat Poet’s Corner- Out in the American Wilderness-Allen Ginsberg’s “America”

…he came out of the womb, came out roaring, came out roaring maybe already with those life-long tinkle bells already welded to his fingers, asking ten thousand questions (and only getting about eight thousand, give or take a few, answers), life questions, death questions, hi how are you what makes you tick questions, hi how are you, why this, why that, in a world he had not created, and had not, no way, been asked about creating, a common malady of the young, of those fresh from the womb. He came out of the Jersey night, the already crowded William Appleton Williams-Louis Ginsberg Jersey night, all jet black against the red brick factory rivers, against the short breeze floating in from brave Atlantic seas, and against up-shore big river cities. He came out of the hard brick world to sing that queer shoulder to the wheel plainsong after escaping hard toil Paterson, all used up (since about 1912 or 1913) and headed to the bright lights of New Jack City (jack literally please, Jack Kerouac, Jack of the dark-haired night, jack of the beat, the sullen heart beat), the 1940s middle of war New Jack City night, hard-pressed to conquer million words, not prose words, but beat words, words that would flow together in that juiced-up be-bop jazz infused world.

But there was more, that plainsong was a dime a dozen, maybe cheaper, as every literary flash hitched his or her star to some cooled out Birdland blast, some Monkish madness, some Dizzy swagger, and so he , restless, 1930s generation restless, hobo nation restless, back from Pacific atolls and Saar valley hide-outs restless, ready to take that first Packard and head west, head to the frontier, the closed frontier and sing his plainsong there, and he did, and the world turned on his dime for just that minute. And no rest, no rest for those who chant howl, howl, howl to a candid world, kindred, brethren, and so he was able to world-historic flourish, to work, despite the mad devil’s workers around him (who, if you can believe this, called him mad, called him fag, called him obscene, called him, Christ-killer as if that would do any good among the felon youth ready to listen).

And then the music faded, the music of his be-bop youth (pictures still fresh in the mind’s eye of hard-edged Jack, golden all-American East boy, cigarette in his hand, golden west boy, all-American West boy, Neal, and Allen, the prophet, although not in prophet garb then, pulling the air out of the tires out of the New York City night) long gone to seed, long gone to souvenirs shops and literary hustles. The music of his manhood faded too (picture of Dylan and Allen up in Jack’s grave land a scene putting paid to two generations who tried to ride the curve, tried make that jail break before the deal went down, as the greed heads, the suit boys, the fruit salad boys, the spin doctors, the language thieves, pulled down the hammer on the last best hope). Pulled it down hard, hard enough to stick. He cried in the wilderness night, cried picking his spots, a cause here, an individual case there, and cried out over eleven hundred, count them, pages of collected non-stolen word s before doctor death who stalked him fiercely flitted the flame...

From The Veterans For Peace- The Twelve Days, Maybe More, Of ......The Struggle Against The Endless American Wars

From The Veterans For Peace- The Twelve Days, Maybe More, Of  ......The Struggle Against The Endless American Wars

Where Have The Girls Gone- When Young Women’s Voices Ruled the Airwaves Before The British Rock Invasion, Circa 1964- With Ruby And The Romantics Our Day Will Come In Mind

Where Have The Girls Gone- When Young Women’s Voices Ruled the Airwaves Before The British Rock Invasion, Circa 1964- With Ruby And The Romantics Our Day Will Come In Mind

A YouTube film clip of Ruby & The Romantics performing the classic, Our Day Will Come. 

Our day will come
And we'll have everything.
We'll share the joy
Falling in love can bring.

No one can tell me
That I'm too young to know (young to know)
I love you so (love you so)
And you love me.

Our day will come
If we just wait a while.
No tears for us -
Think love and wear a smile.

Our dreams have magic
Because we'll always stay
In love this way
Our day will come.
(Our day will come; our day will come.)

[Break]

Our dreams have magic
Because we'll always stay
In love this way.
Our day will come.
Our day will come.

[Several years ago under the old regime headed by the now mercifully departed Allan Jackson, known here under his moniker Peter Paul Markin, there was an atmosphere of a privileged there is no other way to put the matter “good old boys club” that pervaded this space. Almost consciously I believe on Allan’s part in looking over the archives from the past several years to see what happened and to see if there was anything salvageable from those times. My proof-almost every writer was some old time friend of Allan’s or of Allan’s friends. All had come of age during the raucous 1960s and their work hinged, for better or worse, on a working nostalgia for those times. The clincher-these by-line writers were without exception men. The few women writers were stringers, free-lancers who wrote, and wrote many times well certainly better than some of the good old boys especially as the guys hit sixty.

The series that Josh Breslin, from Olde Saco, Maine but a good old boy nevertheless since he had met the real Peter Paul Markin out in California in the Summer of Love, 1967 and thereafter met Allan and the others, did on “girl groups” on be-bop doo-wop girl groups when doo-wop swept through the teenage scene in the late 1950s is a case in point. Josh apparently did about ten pieces, all pretty well done. But that rather begs the question. In reading those reviews where is the female voice heard  by any of the female artists who struggled to make beautiful music for the young or by women writers from the time who could give their perhaps very different take on what doo-wop meant and how young women reacted to this craze.

To make a small historical amends I have asked a stringer from that time, Leslie Dumont, who now has a by-line here to give her take on Josh’s series. She is qualified to do this in two ways. First she in her youth lived for this music and secondly at the time the series was written she was Josh Breslin’s companion. Which makes it even more obvious about the good old boy network since it is apparent that he didn’t even ask her opinion about the music. Ask to give a few experiences like he readily asked his good old boys. Or, and one would hope this were the case, Allan Jackson cut out any such references on the red pencil editing for his own reasons, mostly flimsy. I want to think the latter. Josh, who still works here, can come forward with an explanation if he dares. Greg Green]                      

By Leslie Dumont

When Greg Green handed me this great assignment since I hadn’t listen to most of this music to be reviewed for a while, probably since Josh Breslin who was then my companion did the original series , I searched around the dwindling number of North Beach record stores but couldn’t find the expanded series he worked through. What I did find and have previously done a short piece on was a two volume set found at Diamond Jack’s Record Shop in San Mateo which had some of the classic girl doo-wop on it. Subsequently I went on Amazon and was able to grab the whole six volume set. (Greg remind me to give you the bill for that purchase.)   

As I mentioned in that review of the two-volume set of, for lack of a better term, girl doo wop some of the songs which overlapped in the recently purchased six volume series, I have, of late, been running back over some rock material that formed my coming of age listening music (on that ubiquitous, and very personal, iPod, oops, battery-driven transistor radio that kept those snooping parents out in the dark, clueless, and that was just fine, agreed), and that of my generation, the generation of ’68, a term the departed manager of this site Allan Jackson insisted everybody use when referring to the denizens of the 1960s. Naturally, and here I agree with the sentiments expressed by Josh at the time, one had to pay homage to the blues influences from the likes of Muddy Waters, Big Mama Thornton whose original version of Hound Dog put Elvis in the shade no matter that she never made much dough on her work, and Big Joe Turner whose Shake, Rattle and Roll, puts all the white boy versions from the likes of Bill Haley, Elvis and Jerry Lee to shame. And, of course, given the performers their just due the rockabilly influences from Elvis think Good Rockin’ Tonight, Carl Perkins think Blue Suede Shoes although Elvis made the money, Wanda Jackson think Let’s Have A Party, and Jerry Lee Lewis think High School Confidential which still gets my hormones jumping.

Josh had noted in his series that one of the reasons that he was doing it was a kind of evening up of the balance of what had turned him on as a kid. He said that he had spent some time on the male side of the doo wop be-bop Saturday night led by Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers on Why Do Fools Fall In Love? (good question, right) but that he had not done much with the female side of the doo wop night, the great ‘girl’ groups that had their heyday in the late 1950s and early 1960s before the British invasion, among other things, changed our tastes in popular music. I will not, don’t need to, expand on his male doo wop efforts but

I would expand his observation here to include girls’ voices generally. I make some amends for his omission here. Or really to give the female slant on female singers.

[Although as I said I will not dwell on the male doo wop stuff the mention of Frankie Lyman first seen on ancient now gone Dick Clark’s American Bandstand a Monday to Friday run home from school afternoon fixture. That was where you not only saw what group’s Mr. Clark thought were hot but to see what the latest dances moves were “in” so you could try them out with your girlfriends to avoid being embarrassed, embarrass yourself, on the dance floor when some dreamy guy came by and picked you out of the crowd (or more than one happily any guy just to avoid that deadly “wallflower” tag that boys and girls alike were furiously trying to avoid).  And of course to see what was the latest in teenage girl fashion to lure the boys in at the times when you had begun to see the male sex as not quite as nasty as a couple of years before and that maybe they had something interesting to say if you could corral them for a few minutes.

Why Do Fools Fall In Love had special meaning as well since that was the first time I either kissed a boy or a boy kissed me I kind of forget which way it was. I had been invited to Kay Kelly’s twelfth birthday party which was held in her family’s family room in the basement of their house on Ridge Avenue in Cambridge, Massachusetts across the street from where I grew up. This family room basement business was all the rage with kids having parties then because usually the space was darker and being downstairs it was away from snooping parent eyes. Perfect.

Kay had invited a bunch of boys which made me, her, all our girlfriends nervous although not nervous enough not to invite them. When the big day came, big evening if I recall, although early like maybe six or since no tweens in those days would be partying later than say nine except for the over-chaperoned weekly Saint Peter’s dances when parents would pick up their charges at eleven. But like I said that dance was chaperoned so really didn’t count against the exotic basement fling. As usual the boy (and did the girls when invited to a boy’s party) arrived en masse including Kevin Murphy who I talked to in class (and daydreamed about at other times). The boys hugged one couch area, the girls around Kay’s father’s build-in bar where the refreshments including Kay’s mother-made birthday cake sat on the counter (no liquor, no way, present although we could have all probably used a drink to shake the nervousness even at twelve)    

 
Then Kay put on a 45 on her record player, Elvis’ Jailhouse Rock and as usual a bunch of girls although not I started dancing in pairs together. Nobody solo danced in those days for fear of looking uncool and maybe mentally unstable certainly no guys paired up, not in our crowd, just like nobody went to the senior prom as a single which nowadays is no big deal according to what my granddaughters tell me. Then dreamy Kevin Murphy broke into the crowd of girls and started to dance with Lucy Lavin. Lucy Lavin nothing but a plain jane at best who was also recognized as the smartest girl, maybe smartest person but don’t quote me on that in the whole sixth grade class. I was crushed, crushed enough since if Kevin was dancing with a plain jane like Lucy Lavin then maybe he wasn’t so dreamy after all and so had better begin looking elsewhere. (Dreamy or not later during the 1960s Kevin would be the first young man from our neighborhood to be killed in Vietnam and his name is etched on a memorial stone in front of City Hall with the too many others who laid down their beautiful young heads in that godforsaken  war. Probably etched down in Washington black granite too but I have never been brave enough to go near that memorial as many times as I have in that city since high school.)      

Kevin, embers forgotten in a flash as befits the young and movable, I got up and danced with Brenda Sullivan the next dance which I thing was Bill Haley’s Rock Around The Clock when Larry Kiley cut in and started to dance with me. Goof, holy goof I would have called him later after reading Kerouac like we all did when we were getting antsy in the 1960s, Larry who I could barely stand and who was always saying something silly or pornographic around girls in class or in the lunchroom danced very well. Knew the stroll, the fug, stuff like that. So I let him talk to me for a while in between dances. Still a goof mostly but also mentioned how pretty I looked as against the other “homely” girls hanging out in that basement so maybe he wasn’t as bad as everybody thought.

Then it came slow dance time, time to put on Ruby and the Romantics doing Our Day Will Come. Most of the guys were too bashful to ask a girl to slow dance (as opposed to fast dance where you didn’t have to hold hands and could fake stuff as long as you moved fast enough) so things started slowly with the exception of Larry who asked me to dance right away and while I hesitated he had said I was pretty so that was something in his favor. On these slow dance things, at least in our neighborhood, that would be a very good time to put out the light, and see if anybody wanted to kiss anybody. As it turned out Larry did, or tried to. I was so excited about the prospect of being kissed, kissed even by a goof like Larry since I could chalk it up to experience, that when he tighten his grip around my waist and moved his head forward I moved my face quickly as well and I too this day don’t know if I kissed him first or he kissed me. All I know is that I liked it, liked Larry’s kiss, like it enough that we went “steady” the rest of the school year when we moved to the other side of town. And get this about not succumbing to teen bean peer pressure all my girlfriends still thought he was a goof, and not a holy one either. ]                  

Josh noted in his series and something I spoke to in that earlier review but bears repeating here one problem with the girl groups, and with these broader generic girl vocals for a guy like him, a serious rock guy like him was that the lyrics for many of the girl group songs did not as he said “speak to me.” He explained after all how much empathy could a young ragamuffin of boy brought up on the wrong side of the tracks like him have for a girl who breaks a guy’s heart after leading him on just because her big bruiser of a boyfriend is coming back and she needs some excuse to brush the heartbroken guy off in the Angels' My Boyfriend’s Back. Or, he continued, some lucky guy, some lucky Sunday guy, maybe, who breathlessly catches the eye of the singer in the Shirelles' I Met Him On Sunday from a guy who, dateless Saturday night, was hunched over some misbegotten book, some study book, on Sunday feeling all dejected. And finished up his examples asking about some two, or maybe, three-timing gal who berated her ever-loving boyfriend because she needs a good talking to, or worst, a now socially incorrect, very incorrect and rightly so, "beating" in Joanie Sommers’ Johnny Get Angry.

But see for girls, girls in my rat-pack, girls who endlessly called each other on the phone talking about all manner of things, who endlessly spent lunch time as well and obviously in the girl’s lavatory talking, talk mostly about boys and what to do about them-or not do about them these songs were coded messages of how to deal with guys from girls who we thought had been around, who knew stuff about guys that we were clueless about. So yes we would change boyfriends like changing socks (and made sure nobody in the group latched on to those “damaged” goods after we were done with them). Would meet a guy Monday and throw him over Tuesday for some met Tuesday guy. Would go head over heels for a guy for a while and then sent him packing if he made us wait by the midnight telephone and he didn’t call. Would have temper tantrum by the minute if a guy looked even skyward at another girl. All of this and more we “learned” from the girls whose lyrics told us we were not alone in the turbulent teenage hormonal night.

After reviewing the material in these volumes I got the same flash-back feeling I felt listening to the girl doo wop sounds. I won’t even go into such novelty silly songs as the title self-explanatory My Boy Lollipop by Barbie Gaye; the teen angst hidden behind the lyrics to Bobby's Girl by Marcie Blane; or, the dreamy, wistful blandness of A Thousand Stars by Kathy Young & The Innocents that would have set any self-respecting boy’s, or girl’s, teeth on edge. And prayed, prayed out loud and to heaven that the batteries in that transcendent transistor would burn to hell before having to continue sustained listening to such, well, such… and I will leave it at that. I will rather concentrate on serious stuff like the admittedly great harmonics on Our Day Will Come by Ruby & The Romantics that I actually, secretly, liked but I had no one to relate it to, no our to worry about that day, or any day until Larry came into my screen the night of Kay Kelly’s birthday party  or Tonight You Belong To Me by Patience & Prudence that I didn’t like secretly or openly but gave me that same teen angst feeling of having no one, no boy one, belonging to, me.

And while today it might be regarded as something of a pre-feminist feminist anthem for younger women, You Don't Own Me by Lesley Gore, was meaningful to me when a lot of time in high school I didn’t have a boy to own, or not own, to fret over his independent streak, or not. Moreover, since I was never, at least I never heard otherwise, that I was some damsel in distress’ pining away for the boy next store The Boy Next Door by The Secrets was wrapped with seven seals. And while I had many a silent, lonely, midnight waiting by the phone night when Cry Baby by The Bonnie Sisters, Lonely Blue Nights by Rosie & The Originals, and Lonely Nights by The Hearts gave me comfort when Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry hard-rockin’ the night away could not console me, and take away that blue heart I carried like a badge, a badge of almost monastic honor. Almost.

So you get the idea, this stuff did “speak to me.” Now you understand, right? Except, surprise, surprise foolish, behind the eight- ball, know-nothing youthful girl had it right but should have been listening, and listening like crazy, to these lyrics because, brothers and sisters, they held the key to what was what about what was on girls minds back in the day, and maybe now a little too, and if I could have decoded better this I would have had, well, the beginning of knowledge, girl knowledge. Damn. This, fellow baby-boomers, was our teen angst, teen alienation, teen love youth and now you know this stuff still sounds great.

And from girls even.

When The Big Boys From The East Got Their Wanting Habits On-A Saga From The Files of Ace Private Detective Phil Larkin

When The Big Boys From The East Got Their Wanting Habits On-A Saga From The Files of Ace Private Detective Phil Larkin 

By Lawrence Parker

The popular best-selling private detective writer Max Bloom says that Ray Chandler mostly got it all wrong back in the 1930s when Private Detective Phil Larkin landed the Sternwood case which made his nut for a long time. Maybe too long as it turned out because after some early successes he fell under the bus, wound up doing repo and key-hole peeping work for some sleazy Post Street agency and then as go-fer for the rising star Sheila Graham over on Bay Street when his star got pulled down in San Francisco. But that was later, later when the shades got pulled down tight. What Max, what Max told me okay, was from the days when Phil was the rough justice windmill guy ready to churn up bad guys and sweep the ladies off their feet and into some silky sheets.

A generation ago if I said the Sternwood case all ears would be listening since that was the one where the rich and famous of early Hollywood mixed freely with the gangster element out in California in the days before the boys from the East decided to crash the party and get some sun as well. Phil Larkin who had worked in the Los Angeles D.A.s office before getting the boot for not being able to look the other way when the graft came around for the office still had some friends there. One of them had some kind of connection to the Sternwoods, maybe had done the old man, a retired general among other things, a favor or two and was he was saying thank you. This Sternwood family by the way is yes the same family or at least the old man was who along with silent partners John D, Rockefeller and Jay Gatsby cornered the La Brea tar pits and the rest is history.      

That part Ray Chandler got right but what he got wrong, wrong as rain was what the General wanted Phil for, what chore needed tidying up. Ray tried to chalk it up to the old man needing help trying to figure out what to do about Carmen, his youngest and wildest daughter’s gambling debts-pay and be bled or throw some rough stuff and be done with it. Even Ray admitted that the job if as described was one for a lawyer rather than a brute-like private eye. What the deal really was, and in the end it turned out to be not the General’s play but his equally wild and oldest daughter Vivian’s was to find her husband, a rough trade guy named Rusty Regan out of the IRA and Irish freedom fight so rough trade is right. It looked like she had tried to do the right thing when she decided to divorce him and take up with the legendary gangster Eddie Mars, the guy who ran every racket legal and illegal in Southern California by stepping over everybody else either with his good-looking charms or guns.  Sure it made for a better story if it looked like some old half dead General was looking for salvation, looking for his boon companion Rusty but there you have the skinny.    

Of course Phil took the case, he needed the dough, needed to work the case for twenty-five and expenses a day. Figured to ride the carousel for a month or two, come up empty and make a mint for little heavy lifting. Phil, an old-school street-smart guy knew he had to kick around the jams a little so he headed first to see what was what with that gambling debt stuff, see if there were any leads there. The General, or rather the General’s man-servant had given Phil the card demanding the gambling debt repayment with the name of a guy fronting a rare books operation out of Sunset Boulevard. An operation which had to have had plenty of protection from cops and gangsters alike since even a schoolboy knew back then that “rare books” were a fancy name for pornography, for smut. In this case for the high-end trade, the perverts with dough and no last names.         

That is where Max says Ray got it wrong although how knowing Phil and his thing for the ladies he didn’t know that Phil was not chasing after elderly male perverts and pedophiles to see what they were buying Max did not know. For no known reason once Phil figured the operation out (helped along by a female clerk who was clueless about rare books or anything else for that matter) he decided to confirm what was going on by following some dandy with a book in his arm grabbed from the bookstore. Bingo-smut. And good citizen Phil keeping such stuff off the streets. Reality. Phil went to another bookstore nearby to see if anybody knew what the owner looked like. Bingo-he found a curvy, vivacious bookworm who did and they whiled away the afternoon drinking brandy and whatever waiting for the owner to show. That owner would show but faced a tough night as Phil would find out after following him and his boyfriend to a secluded cottage where the smut was photographed. Photographs which included young Carmen in the buff. Somebody did not like that idea and shot our smut-peddler very dead. It turned out later that this Nancy and his boyfriend were cooking the books against the real boss-one Eddie Mars and found himself in front of a few slugs. So much for cleaning the streets of garbage.    

Max Bloom after reading and reviewing Phil Larkin’s manuscript about the Sternwood case realized exactly what Ray Chandler had done wrong. Not wrong in a literary sense but wrong as to the actual case and its solution which under his guidance the reader was left up in the air with more questions than answers about what was happening. Of course Chandler was writing his lurid detective novels in the 1930s at a time when every crime detection novel had to have some sexual hook into the case if for no other reason than to justify those saucy and sexy front covers with half-naked women in stressful situations to lure the mainly male readers in. In the usual run of the mill story that was the highlight of the event since about sixteen different codes were in play and everything was done by inference and suggestion.

This situation is where Chandler got played false. He, after setting up Phil on the case to find Rusty Regan via some queen rare books dealer named Geiger plays the scene as revenge for broken romance. According to Ray this young stud chauffer named Owen Wilson was all heated up over this hot pants Carmen Sternwood not knowing just how kinky she was and susceptible to any suggestion especially when she was high as the sky on drugs. One night this Owen followed the play to Geiger’s secluded house where Carmen was in the midst of a photo shoot. Bang, bang one stately queen of a Hollywood naughty book seller bites the dust.

Meanwhile a third party, a grifter named Brody connected to the Geiger operation vis his hard as nails girlfriend of the moment, having seen Geiger killed (and been accused of doing the deed himself) having grabbed some photos of Carmen as blackmail bait decided that he could live on easy street by grabbing the load of books and setting up shop for himself. And he almost succeeded, no, the whole set-up was too many moving parts for a small-time hood, a guy who couldn’t put two nickels together at most times. Ray got this part right. Phil caught up with this Brody looking for those Carmen photos which needed to be squashed. After some chatter and a guest appearance by Carmen to claim the photos (and screw things up) Brody saw Phil’s reasoning, gun in hand. Then Brody winds up making his last fatal move by answering his door. Bang, bang one less grifter is around town.

Along the way the reader finds out that young Owen, you remember Owen, got mysteriously washed up to shore after speeding over a guardrail in one of the Sternwood fleet of automobiles. Along the way Phil trailed the guy who he thinks shot Brophy who turned out to be the stately queen of Hollywood’s boyfriend Carl who thought Brody had done his lover (and meal ticket) in. When everybody put their heads together the whole thing looked like nothing but a classic murder revenge cycle with the dip that it involved homosexuals in the big love mix. That is what the coppers spread anyway.

All bullshit, or almost all although Owen was sexually crazy for Carmen and Carl and Geiger were not so closeted lovers.  What Ray missed, maybe others too was that the big boys from the East, the guys with the funny accents and plenty of muscle and firepower had played out the cities on the coast what with their white slave, prostitution, dope, gambling, protection rackets fully developed and needed to expand their operations. California and sun beckoned, wide open territory at least from the scouting reports. The big player in Southern California, the good-looking guy who could handle a gun and starlet at the same time was one Eddie Mars. Eddie who not so coincidentally was Geiger ‘s protection against coppers and interlopers alike. Let Geiger run the smut and rake in the dough while he provided some of the “models.”     

                     

When the big boys headed west, when they sent guys like Owen Wilson also known as the Boogie Kid which if Mars had known earlier might have saves some grief, their first target was the soft underbelly of the illegal trade-smut. This is why whatever feelings Owen developed for Carmen on the job he was sent West and found out that she was connected with Geiger who was the max daddy of the smut operations right out on Sunset Boulevard. Geiger had to go, and he went leaving for a short enough time room for a classic grifter like Joe Brody to get his fingers on the goods. Thinking he would run the easy street racket. Not knowing that the big boys were in town to start their work. Bang, bang Joe Brody farewell. What Joe didn’t know, and what his killer, Geiger’s boyfriend, Carl who actually wasted Joe had been sent out by those same big boys to soften up Geiger with his predilection for the odd and kinky stuff. They had originally thought they could use Geiger as their front, for a while but no go. With this description you know a soft shoe like Eddie Mars is going to find himself in the Pacific Basin in the not distance future. A lot different story than that romance noise Chandler bought into.  

       

Of course Phil Larkin had his own axe to grind, was protecting himself and that Vivian Sternowood he got tied up with for a while. They might have been married but at least they shacked up together for a while so there is that. Then there is the shadowy role, the not quite legal role Phil played in covering for Carmen around the Rusty Regan matter we all found out (via Phil’s memoir or the police files) was so much noise once it was clear that Regan was some kind of emissary from the big boys in the East. Letting Carmen take the slight fall for the death satisfied everybody. With all that, even the murk, everything falls into place better. It is easier to understand that this was nothing but a death knell for one Edward Mars late of Santa Monica shores. Why although everybody knows Bugsy, Lucky, Woody in the criminal pantheon out west Mars has disappeared from that history.     

The toughest thing Phil had to do once he figured the big move from the East was gaining an ally to find Rusty for the old man. Hot pants Carmen was out of the question so the logical choice was Vivian, after all she had been married to the renegade IRA commando. That was not as easy as it seemed since Eddie had for his own reasons mostly to get in with the old-line Sternwood crowd, let Vivian run up some serious gambling debts on her own and it was only after Eddie did a slow-burn double-cross letting her win one night on his off-limits casinos and then had one of his henchmen try to rob her outside the joint. Which would have happened if it wasn’t for Phil eagle-eyed intervention. So Vivian sees the light, or begins to.   

The main drag from there between Phil and Vivian is to keep Carmen out of the clutches of the coppers over what seemed to be Carmen’s murder of Rusty. That dog bone is what kept Vivian deep-tied to Eddie for so long not knowing that the big boys had Eddie earmarked for the Pacific Basin when they thought (correctly as it turned out) that Eddie had his big fingers in that death. Nobody in New York City, Brooklyn, Hoboken or Newark was going to shed tear number one if Eddie went down for the Rusty killing or because he got in the way of what the big boys were trying to muscle into. In short Eddie was one doomed mother.    

Here's the play on how Eddie went down in the end. Somehow that female clerk at Geiger’s storefront, the one who played footsies with the late Joe Brody found another daddy, a small time second-rate private eye with fewer brains than desires. That two-bit punk played emissary from the witch because she knew exactly where Eddie Mars’ wife was holed up. Eddie had the bright idea to cover tracks by putting his wife in cold storage and letting everybody think she had run off with Rusty. That two-bit private eye wasn’t as brittle in the end as one would have thought, as Phil thought. In any case Phil got the address. Although maybe he should not have wanted it since by the time he had gotten there the big boys’ agents had rubbed out Eddie’s small army. Eddie’s wife got away in the cross-fire with Vivian’s help.  The big boys got to Eddie and his two-so-called bodyguards and Eddie Mars left no trace of his small time Southern California criminal operations. (From Eddie’s perch new-found boss of bosses Bugsy branched out to very lucrative Vegas).

Upon The 50th Anniversary Of The Death Of "King OF The Beats" Jack Kerouac-From The Pen Of Frank Jackman- When Allen Ginsberg Put His Queer Shoulder To The Wheel- A Poetic Biography

Book Review

The Poetry And Life Of Allen Ginsberg: A Narrative Poem, Edward Sanders, The Overlook Press, 2000

…he came out of the womb, came out roaring, came out roaring maybe already with those life-long tinkle bells already welded to his fingers, asking ten thousand questions (and only getting about eight thousand, give or take a few, answers), life questions, death questions, hi how are you what makes you tick questions, hi how are you, why this, why that, in a world he had not created, and had not, no way, been asked about creating, a common malady of the young, of those fresh from the womb. He came out of the Jersey night, the already crowded William Appleton Williams-Louis Ginsberg Jersey night, all jet black against the red brick factory rivers, against the short breeze floating in from brave Atlantic seas, and against up-shore big river cities. He came out of the hard brick world to sing that queer shoulder to the wheel plainsong after escaping hard toil Paterson, all used up (since about 1912 or 1913) and headed to the bright lights of New Jack City (jack literally please, Jack Kerouac, Jack of the dark-haired night, jack of the beat, the sullen heart beat), the 1940s middle of war New Jack City night, hard-pressed to conquer million words, not prose words, but beat words, words that would flow together in that juiced-up be-bop jazz infused world.

But there was more, that plainsong was a dime a dozen, maybe cheaper, as every literary flash hitched his or her star to some cooled out Birdland blast, some Monkish madness, some Dizzy swagger, and so he , restless, 1930s generation restless, hobo nation restless, back from Pacific atolls and Saar valley hide-outs restless, ready to take that first Packard and head west, head to the frontier, the closed frontier and sing his plainsong there, and he did, and the world turned on his dime for just that minute. And no rest, no rest for those who chant howl, howl, howl to a candid world, kindred, brethren, and so he was able to world-historic flourish, to work, despite the mad devil’s workers around him (who, if you can believe this, called him mad, called him fag, called him obscene, called him, Christ-killer as if that would do any good among the felon youth ready to listen).

And then the music faded, the music of his be-bop youth (pictures still fresh in the mind’s eye of hard-edged Jack, golden all-American East boy, cigarette in his hand, golden west boy, all-American West boy, Neal, and Allen, the prophet, although not in prophet garb then, pulling the air out of the tires out of the New York City night) long gone to seed, long gone to souvenirs shops and literary hustles. The music of his manhood faded too (picture of Dylan and Allen up in Jack’s grave land a scene putting paid to two generations who tried to ride the curve, tried make that jail break before the deal went down, as the greed heads, the suit boys, the fruit salad boys, the spin doctors, the language thieves, pulled down the hammer on the last best hope). Pulled it down hard, hard enough to stick. He cried in the wilderness night, cried picking his spots, a cause here, an individual case there, and cried out over eleven hundred, count them, pages of collected non-stolen word s before doctor death who stalked him fiercely flitted the flame.

…and hence this song, this life song, the only real way the max daddy wordsmith of the beats, the max daddy wordsmith of the hippies could be remembered, remembered by one who lived the air of the break-out times, and they were the times.

If You Want The Stuff Senator Bernie Sanders Has Been Talking About For A Million Years Including Out In The Wilderness When It Was Not Fashionable About Medicare For All, Eliminating Student Debt, The Fight For $15 (Hell Now More Than That) To Happen Accept No Substitutes-Fight For Bernie 2020 Not Come Lately Elizabeth Warren

If You Want The Stuff Senator Bernie Sanders Has Been Talking About For A Million Years Including Out In The Wilderness When It Was Not Fashionable About Medicare For All, Eliminating Student Debt, The Fight For $15 (Hell Now More Than That) To Happen Accept No Substitutes-Fight For Bernie 2020 Not Come Lately Elizabeth Warren  

On This Good Green Universe Finally A Knight, Knights Too,  In Shining Armor Worth Of The Title-Hal Jordan’s “The Green Lantern” (2011)-A Film Review

DVD Review

By Will Bradley

Green Lantern, Ryan Reynolds, Blake Lively, 2011 

Finally, finally I can tout a legend worthy of the name-the Green Lantern (both in the individual assigned to protect section 2410, Earth and its environs, Hal Jordan, yes that Hal Jordan of Air Force fighter pilot fame and the 3600 members of the Corps protecting the big bang boogie universe from chaos and fear-provoking characters). As the constant reader well knows by now, I have skewered more than my fair share of dead-beat legends. Guys like Robin Hood, Captain Blood, Don Juan who collectively have via granted good press agents and cultist followings had over-blown, over-rated, fake, lying to beat the band reputations which have been hammered by me with facts and figures. A recent UCal poll (in conjunction with the well-regarded Harrison Foundation) has shown a righteous decline in believe in these popular braggards and blowhards. Now I can rightly play a real pilot, the legendary Jordan against the continuing legacy of one supposed  early aviator Johnny Cielo who has been exposed as having flown a freaking Piper Club, Jesus a Piper Club in his last years ferrying well-heeled playboys and their mistresses from Key West to Naples down in Florida. Hopefully, by comparison, Johnny’s fake legend, nothing but press agent blather will tumble like Larry Lawrence’s (real name of Sherlock Holmes), a guy named Casanova, a bunch of mutants from organizations calling themselves avengers and justice leaguers.       

The nice thing about doing a good public relations job for our protectors, for the Greens is that I can lay off the venom for while and sing the praises of our blessed defenders against, well, against fear (and sloth but let’s grab one at a time and fear has created more deaths that a little overeating-right). That guardianship turns out to have been a very tough and time-consuming job with only a small reprieve for an off- hand snuggling with one Carol Ferris, a little fox, no, a match for our boy’s wits.    

Here’s the play as my antagonist Seth Garth likes to say. The universe was, is in some chaos, engendered by that fear I was just talking about. Yeah, we all know fear is an emotion but what the average citizen does not know, what Hal Jordan before he got hipped, before in the days when all he cared about what wine and women, maybe a little dope to go off track a little, especially while flying those supersonic jets, did not know what that it had a material presence. Something like the worst serpent nightmare, worse that the Garden of Eden serpent who caused all the trouble thereafter. Something like a hundred tsunamis rolled into one with no reverse. This “fear” was relentless and had the old Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, Hitler and pals dream, nightmare for us, desire to rule the whole known universe and maybe some black hole stuff too. A tough, tough adversary.  

That is where Hal comes in. He was not originally a Green but had been recruited by a Green who in battle with that dreaded “fear” came out on the short end, had been mortally wounded despite his bravery. Landed, seemingly by chance, on Earth, near Gotham, Metropolis, you know it as New Jack City and plucked Hal out for one very strong reason-he wasn’t afraid, had no fear when the deal went down as everybody knew it would. Once Hal bought in though he was, like his hero-worshipped by him father, in all the way. So despite the trials and travails and a little flare up or too with that honey of his he banished fear -for now. Without fanfare, with having to be bedecked with medals, and without some desperate press agent spinning lying weaves to gin up what Hal had done. Nice, thanks brother for saving our bacon.