They Were Pissed: America, Jack Kerouac, and the Beats
They Were Pissed: America, Jack Kerouac, and The Beats
They were pissed. Man! Were they pissed!
About what?
About racism. About poverty. About war. This was the 1940s, after America and her allies defeated the fascists murdering scum, who were responsible for killing millions of people. Even so, America was imperfect. Just like every other nation. In fact, compared to the rest of the world, America was a damned fine place to live. But it fell short of their expectations.
Their expectations.
These were The Beats—poets, literary mavens—rebels without a cause, who’d confused their sense of alienation with moral righteousness and political insight.
Not my man, Jack Kerouac, Buddhist, Catholic, Republican. He just drank himself to death.
Maybe Neil Cassady, aka Dean Moriarty, a living, breathing literary character come to life, as real as Holden Caulfield, and just as American. Both were alienated. Caulfield the fictional creation of J. D. Salinger, and Dean Moriarty of Kerouac’s On The Road, alias Neil Cassady, the real-life inspiration for The Beats and the hippies. Cassady, the rebel, blue collar intellectual, fast talking, con-man, and sociopath, discussing Chaucer with a friend while having sex with his wife. Strung out on Benzedrine and booze. But, burdened with a need to be normal. To work on the railroad and bring home the bacon, be a dad, raise children, pay the bills.
It’s tough to be normal, though, when you were raised by a low-life con-man. It does make fuel for the creative fire, though. And, maybe, some damned fine poetry, but absolute poison to live by.
Cassady was dead at 42.
I’ve always said that Charlie Parker was a genius musician. But I’d the to hate him for my Congressman.
“What about racism?” they screamed. “America had slavery. Maybe that’s what they were pissed about?”
Yeah. So did the rest of the world. Africa and the Middle East were no different. Those two places, even today, have slavery, as many as twenty million slaves.
That’s today! Not a hundred fifty years ago.
So, what were they pissed about? Alan Ginsberg said that America broke Kerouac’s heart. That’s why he drank himself to death.
I say,: “Don’t you know, when Muhammad Ali went to Africa, to celebrate his heritage, he came back home to America and said I’m sure glad my ancestors got on that boat!”
Yeah. Muhammad Ali dug slavery, otherwise there never would’ve been a Muhammad Ali. No millions and millions of dollars for fighting in Zaire. No movie. No books. Nobody.
Money isn’t everything. But whiny-ass children, even the adult ones, sure want some. Lot’s of money, which is why they whine loud and long.
Sometimes, I tell them the road is hard. Even if the poet can imagine a world that works different. Just not one that works.
So, what were they pissed about?
Life. That’s what they were pissed about. Why not! When your worldview is based on the poetry in your head, things are gonna be ruff.
Like I said; Charlie Parker would’ve made a rotten politician. So would most poets. Parker, the junky-jazz musician could play his ass off, though. And Kerouac could write—and maybe that should be good enough.
Bust’a Crab
They were pissed. Man! Were they pissed!
About what?
About racism. About poverty. About war. This was the 1940s, after America and her allies defeated the fascists murdering scum, who were responsible for killing millions of people. Even so, America was imperfect. Just like every other nation. In fact, compared to the rest of the world, America was a damned fine place to live. But it fell short of their expectations.
Their expectations.
These were The Beats—poets, literary mavens—rebels without a cause, who’d confused their sense of alienation with moral righteousness and political insight.
Not my man, Jack Kerouac, Buddhist, Catholic, Republican. He just drank himself to death.
Maybe Neil Cassady, aka Dean Moriarty, a living, breathing literary character come to life, as real as Holden Caulfield, and just as American. Both were alienated. Caulfield the fictional creation of J. D. Salinger, and Dean Moriarty of Kerouac’s On The Road, alias Neil Cassady, the real-life inspiration for The Beats and the hippies. Cassady, the rebel, blue collar intellectual, fast talking, con-man, and sociopath, discussing Chaucer with a friend while having sex with his wife. Strung out on Benzedrine and booze. But, burdened with a need to be normal. To work on the railroad and bring home the bacon, be a dad, raise children, pay the bills.
It’s tough to be normal, though, when you were raised by a low-life con-man. It does make fuel for the creative fire, though. And, maybe, some damned fine poetry, but absolute poison to live by.
Cassady was dead at 42.
I’ve always said that Charlie Parker was a genius musician. But I’d the to hate him for my Congressman.
“What about racism?” they screamed. “America had slavery. Maybe that’s what they were pissed about?”
Yeah. So did the rest of the world. Africa and the Middle East were no different. Those two places, even today, have slavery, as many as twenty million slaves.
That’s today! Not a hundred fifty years ago.
So, what were they pissed about? Alan Ginsberg said that America broke Kerouac’s heart. That’s why he drank himself to death.
I say,: “Don’t you know, when Muhammad Ali went to Africa, to celebrate his heritage, he came back home to America and said I’m sure glad my ancestors got on that boat!”
Yeah. Muhammad Ali dug slavery, otherwise there never would’ve been a Muhammad Ali. No millions and millions of dollars for fighting in Zaire. No movie. No books. Nobody.
Money isn’t everything. But whiny-ass children, even the adult ones, sure want some. Lot’s of money, which is why they whine loud and long.
Sometimes, I tell them the road is hard. Even if the poet can imagine a world that works different. Just not one that works.
So, what were they pissed about?
Life. That’s what they were pissed about. Why not! When your worldview is based on the poetry in your head, things are gonna be ruff.
Like I said; Charlie Parker would’ve made a rotten politician. So would most poets. Parker, the junky-jazz musician could play his ass off, though. And Kerouac could write—and maybe that should be good enough.
Bust’a Crab
