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Wednesday, April 30, 2014


***Out In The Be-Bop 1950s Night- Fragments Of A Treasure Island (Cady Park) Dream #1, Circa 1955

 
 
From The Pen Of  Frank Jackman

 

It’s funny how working on something now, some sketch, or on one thing or another, will bring back those childhood hurts, those feelings sealed, or is it seared, so deep in memory that one does not expect them to resurface for love or money, although this little piece did not start out that way and probably won’t finish up that way either. This “dream” started off from seeing, a few months ago, an unexpected and fairly unusual surname of a fellow female elementary school classmate innocently listed in an off-hand, indirect North Adamsville Internet connection. The very sight of that name triggered a full-blown elementary school “romantic” daydream, from my days down at the old Adamsville  “projects” where I came of age, that blossomed into a pining prose sonnet that would have made Shakespeare blush. I’ll tell you about that one sometime, but not now.

That flashback, in turn, got me into a fierce sea-faring dreaming, rolling-logged, oil-slicked, ocean water on three sides, stone-throwing “projects” mood that turned into a screed on the trials and tribulations of growing to manhood in the shadows of tepid old Adamsville Beach. And that, naturally enough, triggered a quick remembrance of too infrequent family barbecue outings as the old Treasure Island (now named after a fallen Marine, Cady, if I recall correctly). At least I think that Treasure Island was the name in those long ago days. That’s what we called it anyway, down at the Merrymount end of the beach (honoring the shades of Tommy Wollaston, his maypole, and his wild stockade-worthy boys and girls). If you were from the area you would know where I mean, and if you were you probably had your family memory barbecue outings there too, as least some of them. But enough of that background let me tell you what I really want to talk about, the tricks that parents used to use, and still do, to get their way. The story isn’t pretty or for the faint of heart.

I swear I knew, and I am pretty sure that I knew for certain early on when I was just a half-pint kid myself, that kids, especially younger kids, could be “bought off” by their parents and easily steered away from what they really wanted to do, or really wanted to have, by a mere trifle. Probably you got wise to the routine early too. Still, it’s ridiculous how easily we were “pieced off,” wise as we were, and I firmly believe that there should have been, and there should be now, something like the rules of engagement that govern civilized behavior in war time written out in the Geneva Conventions against that form of behavior by mothers and fathers. After all what is childhood, then or now, except one long, very long, battle between two very unevenly matched sides with kids, then and now, just trying to do the best they can in a world that they didn’t create, and that they didn’t get a say in creating.

I learned this little nugget of “wisdom” from battle-tested, many times losing, keep- in-there-swinging, never-say-die, first-hand experience, although I guess I might have been a little too thin-skinned and have been too quick to feel slighted about it at the time to really focus in on its meaning. I know that you learned this home truth this way as well whether you got onto the scam early on or no. Sure, I could be bought off, I am not any better than the rest of you on that score, but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t nurse many a grievance to right those wrongs(and, incidentally, plotted many a feverish revenge, in my head at least, some of them, if impractical, pretty exquisitely drawn).

Sometimes it was just a word, sometimes literally just one word, usually a curt, cutting, razor-edged one from Ma that sent you reeling for cover ready to put up the white flag, if you ever even got that chance. Sometimes it was a certain look, a look that said “don’t go there”. And, maybe, depending how you were feeling, you did and maybe you didn’t, go there that is. Hell, sometimes it could even be a mere inside-the family-meaningful side-long glance, a glance from Ma, a thing from her eye, her left one usually, brow slightly arched, that said "case closed," and forget about the pretense behind the “don’t go there” look, which at least gave you the dignity of having the opportunity to put up a little fight no manner the predetermined ending. Sometimes though, and this is hard to “confess” fifty years later and ten thousand, thousand other experiences later, that lady switched up on us and "pieced" us off with some honey-coated little thing. That damn honey-coated thing, that “good” thing standing right in front of full-blown evil, or what passed for that brand of evil in those days, is what this dream fragment is all about.

Now don’t tell me you don’t know what I am talking about in the Ma wars, and don’t even try to tell me it wasn’t usually Ma who ran point on the “no” department when you went on the offensive for something you wanted to have, or some place you wanted to go, especially when “desperately” was attached to the "have" or to the "go" part. No, just don’t do it. Dad, Pa, Father, whatever you called him, was held in ready-reserve for when the action got hot and heavy. Maybe, in your family, your father was the point man but from what I have learned over the last couple of years about our parents from information that I have gathered from some of you that was a wasted strategy. We were that easy. No need for the big guns, because our ever-lovin’, hard-working, although maybe distant, fathers were doing what fathers do. Provide, or go to the depths in that struggle to provide. Ma was for mothering and running interference. That was that. Thems were the rules then, if not now. The main thing was the cards were stacked against us because what we really didn't know was they were really working as a team, one way or another. In any case, I don’t have time to dilly-dally over their strategies as I have got to move on here.

See, here is what you don’t know. Yet. Those family trips to old Treasure Island, whether they were taken from down in the projects or later, in North Adamsville, as they tapered off when we three boys (my two brothers, one a little younger one a little older, and me) got too big to pretend that we really wanted to go, were really the ‘booby prize’ for not going to places like Paragon Park down in Nantasket or down to Plymouth Rock or, Christ, any place that would be a change of scenery from claptrap projects. Of course, the excuse was always the same-dad was too tired to drive after working some killer hours at some dirty old dead-end job, or one of a succession of old, hand-me-down, barely running jalopies (and I am being kind here, believe me) wasn’t running, or running well enough to make the trip, or something else that meant we couldn’t go someplace.

Yah, that was all right for public consumption but here is the real reason; no dough, plain and simple. Why Ma and Dad just didn’t tell us that their circumstances were so tight that spending a couple of dollars on the roller coaster (which I didn’t care about anyway), or playing “Skees” (which I did care about), or getting cotton-candy stuck every which way (which I didn’t care about), or riding the Wild Mouse (cared about) would break the bank I will never know. Or the extra gas money. Or the extra expense of whatever. How do I know. All I knew is that we weren’t going. Period.

But, here, finally, is where the simple “bought off” comes in, although I really should have been more resolute in my anger at not going and held out for better terms. Such is the fate of young mortals, I guess. My mother, and this was strictly between me and my mother as most things were in those days, dangled the prospect of having some of Kennedy’s potato salad in front of my face. You remember Kennedy’s, right? If you don’t then the rest of this thing is going to come as less that the “Book of Revelation”. Or ask your parents, or grandparent. There was one in Adamsville Square about half way down Hancock Street on the old South Shore Bank side and there was one in Norfolk Downs almost to the corner of Hancock Street and Billings Road next to the old A&P. I am not sure, and someone can help me on this, whether it was called Kennedy’s Food Shop, or Deli, or whatever but it had the best potato salad around. And fresh ground peanut butter, and sweet fragrant coffee smells, and… But I will get to describing that that some other time. Right now I am deciding whether I can be bought off or not. Yes, shamefacedly, I can and here is the closer -I can even go to Kennedy's and get it myself. What do you think about that? From then on I became the “official” Kennedy’s boy of the family. Did I sell out too cheaply? No way.

 
***Those Oldies But Goodies…Out In The Be-Bop ‘60s Song Night- Betty Everett’s “It’s In His Kiss”

 

A YouTube film clip of Betty Everett performing her classic, It's In His Kiss.

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

I usually like to place song lyrics at the end of sketches as kind of a put paid to the thing but here you need to read the lyrics to get the mood that I am trying to convey.

 

It’s In His Kiss- Betty Everett

Does he love me?

I wanna know!

How can I tell if he loves me so?

(Is it in his eyes?)

Oh no! You need to see!

(Is it in his size?)

Oh no! You make believe!

If you wanna know

If he loves you so

Its in his kiss!

(That's where it is!)

(Oh yeah! Or is it in his face?)

no girls! It's just his charms!

(In his warm embrace?)

no girls! That's just his arms!

If you wanna know

If he loves you so

It's in his kiss!

(That's where it is!)

yeah!! Its in his kiss!

(That's where it is!)

Oh, oh, oh, honey !

Squeeze him tight!

Find out what you wanna know!

promise love, and if it really is,

It's there in his kiss!

(How 'bout the way he acts?)

no no no! That's not the way!

You're not listenin' to all I'm sayin'!

If you wanna know

If he loves you so

It's in his kiss!

(That's where it is!)

Oh, yeah! It’s in his kiss!

(That's where it is!)

Oh, oh, oh, hold him!

Squeeze him tight!

Find out what you wanna know!

promise love, and if it really is,

well It's there in his kiss!

(How 'bout the way he acts?)

no no no! That's not the way!

You're not listenin' to all I'm sayin'!

If you wanna know

If he loves you so

It's in his kiss!

(That's where it is!)

Oh, yeah ! Its in his kiss!

(That's where it is!)

mmmm ! Its in his kiss!

(that's where it is)

mmmm is in his kiss


This sketch started out life when I was thinking about the good old days, the be-bop good old high school days in the early 1960s in my old working-class neighborhood in North Adamsville and remembered back to a certain very foxy chick (yeah, I know attractive woman, or just woman, but in those pre-correct guy testosterone days that was the term of art so let’s go with the “correct” term of the time, okay) named Chrissie McNamara was mooning over some guy. Some guy not me, okay. And Chrissie was mooning over that guy in the time when her favorite record (and everybody’s favorite on Doc’s Drugstore’s jukebox over on Newbury Street) blasting Bette Everett’s Its In His Kiss was all the rage. So I made it my business, my lordly-inspired business to find out why Chrissie was mooning and to try to find some solution to that problem, and if possible to my benefit. Now I was not doing this “service” just to satisfy some morbid curiosity but under orders from the Frankie Riley, the king hell king of the corner boy night around our way in those days and a guy that I as his right-hand man who could order me to do such tasks. Frankie was in a frenzy over the issue because he was trying to figure out why such a foxy chick (let it go, please) like Chrissie was moping around, and not moping around after him. So here is what I found out.             

The story all started like a lot of “intelligence” work that I did then trying to line everybody’s angles up, what they had to do, or not do, with the search for the truth. It all hung, or at least initially hung on a fact that everybody (except me since I had not kept in touch with the “married” couples around our high school) everyone knew by then that Jenny Dolan and John, John O’Connor, the running back gridiron hero of the North Adamsville football team, the one who almost single-handedly won them their state class championship were postponing their plans to be married since John had been given a football scholarship to Boston College. See the love-bugs wanted to wait to see how that panned out, and besides they had each other through thick and thin so to wait was no big deal. But just in case that was not to be in the cards they were together, were freaking inseparable, more in those days and so John was not to be seen around Salducci’s Pizza Parlor as much as he had been in his old single days, or even as much as in his newfound “married” days, the days since he and Jennie had become an item a couple of years previously. See also Jennie and one Chrissie McNamara were best friends, and had been for a while so I had to draw a bee-line to the source at some point, and Jennie, who never gave me a tumble, or a look as far as I know was the source.

[This John O’Connor, a guy I knew in junior high and hung out with before he became a football monster and the girls flocked to him, was one of the sweetest running backs that ever came out of North Adamsville, a gazelle of a runner, but shy, shy of girls, shy of one Jenny Dolan until one day she flopped herself on his lap in Salducci’s and practically dared him to kick her off. As you know, or can figure out he did no such thing. In fact I heard that it would have taken the whole freaking football team, and maybe throw in the junior varsity to try to take Jenny off his lap that afternoon. Yeah, it was like that.]     

For that matter Frankie Riley, the leader of the pack, the king hell king of the corner boy night, had not been seen for a few days either, had been seen even by me his loyal scribe ever since his 247th “break-up" with his flame, his ball and chain Joanne, Joanne Doyle. That could only mean one thing, old Frankie was out “catting around” before Joanne reined him in, again. And this is what I gathered indirectly from my “intelligence” provided by Jennie. Chrissie knew, Chrissie McNamara knew damn well that Frankie was on the prowl because about twenty minutes after he got his “walking papers” from Joanne that time he was on the phone to Chrissie seeing if she was ‘available.’ “No dice,” said Chrissie and not because she wasn’t interested in Frankie. A lot of girls were, a little. Except “ball and chain” Joanne history, those 247 break-ups (and 248 reconciliations), meant that the call was made just in Frankie “lark time.” Besides Chrissie and Joanne (and Jennie too going back to junior high days or something like that I heard) had been friends longer than Joanne had known Frankie and Chrissie liked Joanne, which is not what you could say about most girls who knew Joanne (or me). But this sketch is not about Joanne and so the various feuds, fights, cut-throat competition need not be gotten into here.

What needs to be gotten into though is why Chrissie was ambling into Salducci’s Pizza Parlor at ten o’clock one night, a Thursday school night ten o’clock all by herself. Well, it would not have been for the pizza, although the way Tonio, the zen master pizza maker and owner of the parlor, made those pizzas slather and slither was worth coming in for almost any time. And it was not for Frank Jackman’s company, no way, and had not been for a long time (around twelve or so when we kissed at a party one night, quickly and she decided I was not her kind of kisser although she did not put it quite so kindly. I was “holding down the fort” just now then while my “boss” Frankie was, as I already told you, was out catting around or something, no, just catting around. I had probably already made a note, a mental note, that Frankie for the 27th time has “struck out” with Chrissie and so maybe she did want my company as I spied her enter the front glass door. No way, no way that way, anyway. As it turned out. Chrissie and I had gotten friendlier, or Chrissie had, ever since I started getting into the be-bop folk music scene that was then growing by leaps and bounds in Boston. We actually had gone to some coffeehouse over on Joy Street in Boston one night with Frankie and Joanne. The latter pair couldn’t wait to leave (probably because Frankie’s calling card, flannel shirt, jeans, work boots, and yah, midnight sunglasses didn’t raise an eyebrow. Half the guys in the place looked just like him, except maybe the sunglasses). But Chrissie and I thought it was fantastic. Just no romance, no way, got it.

As it turned out, what did have Chrissie’s attention, why she was there that night, was one James Joseph Kelly, “Fingers” Kelly, who was sitting right next to me at that moment. Now my corner boy Fingers Kelly used to have the moniker of "Five Fingers" Kelly and for the squares out there that meant he was a clip artist and for the real squarey squares that meant he took things from stores…without paying. In other words he swiped things. But a couple of juvenile court appearances and some manhandling by James Joseph Kelly, Sr. shorten his moniker to Fingers, fast. Now what Chrissie wanted to talk to Fingers about was why, why just a couple of hours ago, did Fingers state to the best of my recollection that he did not want to see one Christine Anne McNamara on the next Saturday night. And on that night take her to the annual North Adamsville High School “Hi-Jinx” dance.

Now Fingers, Fingers Kelly, was wise enough to the ways of the world to know that if he didn’t grab Christine Anne McNamara with both arms when she was “after” him then some other guy (or guys) would be more than happy to do so. See Chrissie, besides being the head cheerleader at North like I said before was nothing but a fox. And Frankie, Fingers, me and half the non-blind guys in the school knew this fact. Tall, brownish blonde hair, a few freckles, nice legs, and a very nice personality (had to be if I thought so) to go with that physical description. And she was interested in lots of things besides corn-ball cheer- leading like that folk music stuff that I just mentioned. But Fingers had the freeze on for her for some reason.

Fingers was not bad looking, kind of tall, somewhat athletic (you had to be in his former “clip-artist” career), not bad to talk to, but was nothing if not just an okay guy. So the number one question, well, really the number two question after how many days would it be before Joanne reined her lover boy, Frankie, in, is why Chrissie was after Fingers so bad. And why Fingers, knowing what he knows about North Adamsville high school guys, was not waiting with bells on to take Chrissie to the dance. Well, you have not been paying attention on that Finger’s part (Chrissie we will get to in a minute). Finger, when he was Five Fingers, always had kale (cash, money, dollars, okay) and was not afraid to spent it. But in his new life as just Fingers he was always more broke more than not. And see, he could not go back to the five fingers way of life as much as he would have liked to because one Senior Kelly would bop him good. And old Senior, while we are at it, was not lending sonny boy any dough (kale, okay) after forking put a ton of money to keep one James Joseph Kelly, Junior out of reform school. So that is the skinny, pure and simple.

Now Chrissie was another matter. As already mentioned Fingers was okay but just okay so it has to be something else. And it wasn’t dough (although she does not know that Fingers is broke, totally broke). And it wasn’t the no car for a Saturday night date. She said that she would borrow her father’s car. Even I was puzzled by this situation and usually I am usually clueless about such “high” romance. The only thing anybody had come up as a reason for her continued interest in Fingers was something that people noticed after Chrissie first’s heavy “parking” date (you know what that is right, nobody is that square, kissing and more than kissing) with Fingers (a double date because of Finger’s car-deprivation so it was not what you would think). For a couple of days after that she was all dreamy-faced, all glowy and stuff. Humm.

 

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

***Those Oldies But Goodies…Out In The Be-Bop ‘60s Song Night- Betty Everett’s “It’s In His Kiss”

 

A YouTube film clip of Betty Everett performing her classic, It's In His Kiss.

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

I usually like to place song lyrics at the end of sketches as kind of a put paid to the thing but here you need to read the lyrics to get the mood that I am trying to convey.

 

It’s In His Kiss- Betty Everett

Does he love me?

I wanna know!

How can I tell if he loves me so?

(Is it in his eyes?)

Oh no! You need to see!

(Is it in his size?)

Oh no! You make believe!

If you wanna know

If he loves you so

Its in his kiss!

(That's where it is!)

(Oh yeah! Or is it in his face?)

no girls! It's just his charms!

(In his warm embrace?)

no girls! That's just his arms!

If you wanna know

If he loves you so

It's in his kiss!

(That's where it is!)

yeah!! Its in his kiss!

(That's where it is!)

Oh, oh, oh, honey !

Squeeze him tight!

Find out what you wanna know!

promise love, and if it really is,

It's there in his kiss!

(How 'bout the way he acts?)

no no no! That's not the way!

You're not listenin' to all I'm sayin'!

If you wanna know

If he loves you so

It's in his kiss!

(That's where it is!)

Oh, yeah! It’s in his kiss!

(That's where it is!)

Oh, oh, oh, hold him!

Squeeze him tight!

Find out what you wanna know!

promise love, and if it really is,

well It's there in his kiss!

(How 'bout the way he acts?)

no no no! That's not the way!

You're not listenin' to all I'm sayin'!

If you wanna know

If he loves you so

It's in his kiss!

(That's where it is!)

Oh, yeah ! Its in his kiss!

(That's where it is!)

mmmm ! Its in his kiss!

(that's where it is)

mmmm is in his kiss

 

Well everyone knows by now that Jenny Dolan and John, John O’Connor, the running back gridiron hero of the North Adamsville football team, the one who almost single-handedly won them their state class championship are postponing their plans to be married now that John has been given a football scholarship to Boston College. See the love-bugs want to wait to see how that pans out, and besides they have each other through thick and thin so to wait is no big deal. But just in case that is not in the cards they are together more these days and so John is not to be seen around Salducci’s Pizza Parlor as much as in his old single days, or even as much as in his “married” days, the days since he and Jennie became an item a couple of years back.

For that matter Frankie Riley, the leader of the pack, hasn’t been seen lately either, ever since his 247th “break-up" with flame, Joanne, Joanne Doyle. That can only mean one thing, old Frankie is out catting around before Joanne reins him in again. And Chrissie knows, Chrissie McNamara knows damn well that Frankie is on the prowl because about twenty minutes after he got his “walking papers” from Joanne this time he was on the phone to Chrissie seeing if she was ‘available.’ “No dice,” said Chrissie and not because she wasn’t interested in Frankie. A lot of girls were, a little. Except “ball and chain” Joanne history meant that this was just Frankie lark time. Besides Chrissie and Joanne had been friends longer than Joanne had known Frankie and Chrissie liked Joanne, which is not what you could say about most girls who knew Joanne. But this is not about Joanne and so it need not be gotten into here.

What needs to be gotten into though is why Chrissie is ambling into Salducci’s Pizza Parlor at ten o’clock at night, a Thursday school night ten o’clock all by herself. Well, it ain’t for the pizza, although the way Tonio, the zen master pizza maker and owner of the parlor, makes those pizza slather and slither is worth coming in for almost any time. And it ain’t for Peter Paul Markin’s company, no way, not for a long time. Peter Paul is “holding down the fort” just now while his “boss” Frankie is, as is already known, out catting around. He probably already has made a note, a mental note, that Frankie for the 27th time has “struck out” with Chrissie and so maybe she wants his company. No way, no way that way, anyway. Peter Paul and Chrissie have gotten friendlier, or Chrissie has, every since Peter Paul started getting into the be-bop folk music scene now growing by leaps and bounds in Boston. They actually went to some coffeehouse over on Joy Street in Boston one night with Frankie and Joanne. The latter pair couldn’t wait to leave (probably because Frankie’s calling card, flannel shirt, jeans, work boots, and yah, midnight sunglasses didn’t raise an eyebrow. Half the guys in the place looked just like him, except maybe the sunglasses). But Chrissie and Peter Paul thought it was fantastic. Just no romance, no way, got it.

What does have Chrissie’s attention is one James Joseph Kelly, “Fingers Kelly,” who is sitting right next to Peter Paul at the moment. Now Fingers Kelly used to have the moniker of "Five Fingers" Kelly and for the squares out there that meant he was a clip artist and for the real squarey squares that meant he took things from stores…without paying. In other words he swiped things. But a couple of juvenile court appearances and some manhandling by James Joseph Kelly, Sr. shorten his moniker to Fingers, fast. Now what Chrissie wants to talk to Fingers about is why, why just a couple of hours ago, did Fingers state to the best of his recollection that he did not want to see one Christine Anne McNamara on Saturday night. And on that night take her to the annual North Adamsville High School “Hi-Jinx” dance.

Now Fingers, Fingers Kelly, is wise enough to the ways of the world to know that if he doesn’t grab Christine Anne McNamara with both arms when she is “after” him then some other guy (or guys) will be more than happy to do so. See Chrissie, besides being the head cheerleader at North is nothing but a fox. And Frankie, Fingers, hell even Peter Paul know this fact. Tall, brownish blonde hair, a few freckles, nice legs, and a very nice personality (has to be if Peter Paul thinks so) to go with that physical description. And she is interested in lots of things besides corn-ball cheer leading like that folk music stuff that was just mentioned. But Fingers has the freeze on for her.

Fingers is not bad looking, kind of tall, somewhat athletic (you had to be in his former career), not bad to talk to, but is nothing if not just an okay guy. So the number one question, well, really the number two question after how many days will it be before Joanne reins her lover boy, Frankie, in, is why Chrissie is after Fingers so bad. And why Fingers, knowing what he knows about North Adamsville high school guys, is not waiting with bells on to take Chrissie to the dance. Well, you have not been paying attention on that Finger’s part (Chrissie we will get to in a minute). Finger, when he was Five Fingers, always had kale (cash, money, dollars, okay) and was not afraid to spent it. But in his new life as just Fingers he is broke more than not. And see, he cannot go back to the five fingers way of life because one Senior Kelly will bop him good. And old Senior, while we are at it, is not lending sonny boy any dough (kale, okay) after forking put a ton of money to keep one James Joseph Kelly, Junior out of reform school. So that is the skinny, pure and simple. So if you have any loose change hanging around ship it over Finger’s way, and thanks.

Now Chrissie is another matter. As already mentioned Fingers is okay but just okay so it has to be something else. And it ain’t dough (although she does not know that Fingers is broke, totally broke). And it ain’t the no car for a Saturday night date. She said that she would borrow her father’s car. Even Peter Paul is puzzled by this situation and usually he is clueless about such “high” romance. The only thing anybody has come up with is something that people noticed after Chrissie first’s heavy “parking” date (you know what that is right, nobody is that square, kissing and more than kissing) with Fingers (a double date because of Finger’s car-deprivation so it’s not what you think). For a couple of days after that she was all dreamy-faced, all glowy and stuff. Humm.

Sunday, April 27, 2014

***In The Time Of Beat Daddy  Jean Bon Kerouac-Jack Kerouac’s American Journey  

 
 
 
Book Review

From The Pen Of Frank Jackman

Jack Kerouac’s American Journey: The Real-Life Odyssey Of On The Road, Paul Maher, Jr.,Thunder’s Mouth Press, New York, 2007       

Everybody with any literary skills coupled with some wild-eyed youthful romance vision of the open road, long forgotten and suppressed, scurried like crazy to get something in print for the 50th anniversary of the publication of Jack Kerouac’s great American novel and classic road travelogue, On The Road, in 2007. While Jack Kerouac was clearly the leader of the pack of 1950s “beat” writers, and is rightly regarded as such by most literary critics and the general reading public still interested in such matters, the areas to be mined in order to say something new about that classic “coming of age” saga has gotten rather barren of late. So Paul Maher in the book under review, Jack Kerouac’s American Journey, tried a different tact by going to the sources, the real-life adventures by the people that were the models and sketched uses by Kerouac as that project came to fruition. While, as with most works that rely on Kerouac’s note and journals, the line between fiction and real-life after all this time is somewhat blurred there is no question Maher has provoked a certain amount of thought about the effects the book has had on the several “youth nation” generations since the book was first published in 1957.

For this writer, a member in good standing of the Generation of ’68, the generation after Jack’s “beats,” the import of the book was, despite Kerouac’s vociferous disclaimers to the contrary, as a road map to break out of the stifling bourgeois respectability that our parents, parents bringing up children in the frigid red scare Cold War 1950 night wanted to impose on us. In short, we  were mesmerized (we young men anyway) by the buddy duo of Dean and Sal as they headed out on the open highway, breaking convention, busting out the dope, lusting after women, and getting all naked and funky in the process while being be-bop daddies in the wide open towns of this country, especially  San Francisco. For us that was the great appeal and no more needed to be applied.           

Paul Maher’s story line recognizes that aspect of the book but wishes to tell us that we, we of the Generation of ’68, had only half the story, the literary half and that the real story behind that novel which took several years to publish after its completion (that publishing story is included here too) is almost as compelling. Although no question if Mister Maher’s work were the novel that it would have long ago gone on the remainder lists. The roar of the road becomes more humdrum when one see the actual actions of Sal/Jack, Dean/Neal and the large cast of characters that passed through this beat travelogue. While the wine, women and song aspect will always resonant with some of future reading publics the real-life figures were made of clay, would not pass muster on the women question, and would be far less romantic that today’s more appropriate anti-hero novelistic characters. Kerouac after all was trying to tell a story of a lost (maybe a never was) America with outsized cowboy and outlaw heroes out of the old West in the age of the New West. Throw in the reality of some extremely individualistic and at time bizarre behavior, Catholic mysticism, and the like and the novel certainly has greater appeal. Some interesting material to think through here but I keep getting this nagging suspicion that wine, women, song and the open road is what will draw the young (and others) to Kerouac’s book as we wait upon the centennial. Read on, please.