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Queer Chicken Dinner
My Insincere Apologies to the Beat Generation

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A rebuttal of Jack Kerouac’s ‘On the Road’

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© 2012 by Ronald Thomas West

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This work may be electronically shared for educational and/or critical essay purposes. For profit & mass paper media redistribution prohibited.

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This endeavor began by accident or, alternatively had been engineered by fate and the gods. I’d been perusing the International Herald Tribune (Global Edition of the New York Times), May 23, 2012 and noticed the ‘On the Road’ (on the big screen) article in the culture section, about an upcoming screening of a new film at the Cannes festival in France. I’d thought to myself, ‘ok, it’s long past time I’d read this book.’ So I bought ‘On the Road.’

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The 'Penguin Modern Classics' edition of Jack Kerouac's 'On the Road' has a brief (23 page) backgroundcharacters biography by Kerouac biographer Ann Charters. At this point in my rebuttal, I'd read that and chapter one. My initial impression .. Neal Cassidy, the bi-sexual Denver skid row kid who the central character Dean Moriarty is based on, is hardly representative of the western states 'spirit of freedom' despite whatever Kerouac, Ginsburg, Burroughs et al, impressions might have been.

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I'm not saying Cassidy is entirely devoid of 'the free spirit of the west', only he was not anywhere near a whole picture, but more like a factory damaged misprint. The kids I knew in my youth were probably ten times as dangerous and interesting. Likely the comparison to Gene Autry is correct, a lot of his act was tied up in acting, trying be something in actuality he was not.

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I'm putting my money on the thought the 'beat

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generation' philosophers in fact were conned beyond their ability to grasp just how conned they were, but mostly just self-conned. Bob Dylan (Zimmerman) stated about ‘On the Road’

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“It changed my life like it changed everyone else’s” Well, Zimmerman got it wrong. There was this phenomena I’d known in my teen years and as a young man, that was altogether uninfluenced by ‘On the Road.’ I will write this rebuttal chapter by chapter, not having skipped ahead. Each of Kerouac’s ‘yarns’ concerning the Rocky Mountain character particularly, and the western states generally, will be a fresh experience, my not having read ‘On the Road’ previously, when making criticisms and any comparisons to the ‘Real McCoy.’

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We had what was known as ‘the line.’ The line was the old U.S. Highway 2 from Blue Moon Tavern at Columbia Falls to Freda’s Bar at West Glacier, Montana, in the 1950s, 60s & 70s. And it was every bar and pub between. Kids from ‘up the line’ were known to be particularly wild. The line was about 16 miles and 24 bars along a strip of pavement through what was in those days ‘wild country’ in ways that defy the stereotype. That wild country produced wild young people no Denver skid row kid could ever hope to compete with.

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A related personal note on so-called ‘Beat’ writers would be, likely this is why I could never relate to the work of Gary Snyder, also I'd met Richard Brautigan when he was living in Paradise Valley in the late 1970s and found

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him insufferable, conceited, rudderless, empty in ways that cannot be explained by Zen (and unapproachable as soon as he realized he'd met a real Montana country boy from a mixed White/Native American community.)

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Looking back, I have to say I was impressed at the man’s lack of reality, in a sense, a fraud. Did moving to Montana in some sense confer a Dean Moriarty-like authenticity in Brautigan’s mind? I suppose that might be motivation for an outsider, in process of trying to convince their self of something they in reality cannot and never will know. I see it this way: A country kid can go to the city and have his eyes opened. A city kid can go to the country and have his mind blown. There is a nuance here I am speaking of, for instance when you go into the wild country away from the ‘noise’ .. it takes about five days for all of the reverberations and echoes to vanish and find the stillness. City kids often freak out at the silence. Country kids often find it healing.

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At 61 years, I’m certainly not going to write my rebuttal correcting the western ‘character’ and ‘freedom’ in Kerouac’s style of three weeks Benzedrine psychosis (warping my imagination.) So I will browse ‘On the Road’ at my favorite horseback pace, a leisurely walk. And give my impressions of the book in juxtaposition to authentic recollections of those years alcohol was interspersed with mescaline, LSD, et cetera in a wild country with wild characters who oftentimes simply and soberly loved the area we lived in because it was absolutely BEAUTIFUL.

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Reminisce: I was riding horseback through the forest in the Great Bear wilderness on a moonless & overcast night, you could not see your hand in front of your face. The route was from the Middle Fork of the Flathead River headwaters country, across the Continental Divide at Badger Pass and out into the foothills of the Rocky Mountain Front on the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. I had total trust in my barefoot Blackfoot pony to keep its footing in the pitch dark, know the route and to stay on and make a correct decision at any fork in the trail. Relaxed in the saddle, I brought out my rolling tobacco and made a cigarette I never saw until I'd lit the match ..

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Kerouac whines and beats on him self like an autistic child in chapter 2, rescued from his ill-conceived initiation of hitch-hiking without a rain poncho, he spends his money on a bus ticket to Chicago. So he is one of those kids whose balls retract into pre-puberty as soon as he’s in cold water.

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Now, my impression is, if Kerouac had been up the North Fork of the Flathead River in the company of some real country toughs, they’d have dared him to kick a bloated Elk carcass just as hard as he could and it’d have exploded with a real ‘ripe tripe’ and covered him head to toe. Now, that’d be something could be excused for his whining to extreme over, with doubled over country boy hysterics surrounding his more certain misery at that.

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George and myself had announced a ludicrous pact, while partying at the Dew Drop Inn located between Coram and West Glacier. We’d take off in the morning and hitch-hike to party in Baja California. And that is what we did.

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With about $90 and a couple ounces of decent marijuana we headed off to party on the beach in Ensenada and have a swim in the Pacific. The trip down was easy, initially we hitched Highway 2 over to Spokane, Washington, to catch I-90 over to I-5 and south, the rides were pretty good. A young mother with her infant along, gave us a ride after dark in western Washington State. I held my tongue until she was slowing to drop us where

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our routes diverged and then gave her a real piece of my mind over the risk she’d taken picking up hitch-hikers, endangering herself and her child..

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We didn’t sweat bringing our dope into Mexico, the food at the little open market was incredibly cheap, we swam, smoked joints, and drank cheap beer until our funds ran out. We had a bit of dried beef, granola, and such and headed back to Montana after a week partying in Baja.

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The most remarkable memory I have of our stoned and drunken haze on the beach at Ensenada, was waking up in the middle of the night to the very real sight and accompanying roar, lying on my back staring with eyes that must have been the size of silver dollars at the underside of a large dune buggy chassis that happened to catch air in a leap directly over the depression we were passed out in, between rises in the sand.

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The rides north were not nearly as easy to catch and the going was slow. By the time we’d reached Sacramento, we were not only broke but now our rations had run out. Along the way we’d poached some green ears of corn from a large field for roasting. It loosened the bowls a bit but was sustenance and we were grateful for that.

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In Sacramento you cannot make a campfire to roast corn, and eating it raw is asking for dysentery, so we disposed of what we had left and the next days we’re looking a bit desperate. The freeway onramp had another set of hitchhikers ahead of us and they had first shot at any ride, simple etiquette. We’d asked how long they’d been at this particular onramp and the reply was 2 ! days, not

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encouraging. The graffiti did not look promising either .. on a sign post at the onramp someone had scrawled ‘no dope, no hope, no ride, I died’ .. another philosopher had inscribed ‘the age of Moses may be gone but I’ve been here 40 days and 40 nights.’ Meanwhile, the Sacramento traffic flowed as though we were invisible.

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About midnight, a young man working as a janitor parked his VW bus adjacent to the onramp and took his cleaning gear into a building. Within five minutes, the hitch-hikers ahead of us on the ramp had hot wired the little van and taken off. At 5 AM or so, we saw the owner come out of the building and flip out over the missing van.

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At noon, a car slowed down for us, our hopes went sky high, only to see a missile fired direct our way from the window of the car, as a half consumed ice cream cone hit George in the chest. That did it. We shouldered our packs and started walking. Having shortly inquired of the direction to the nearest railroad tracks, we began our trek to catch a freight train. After over an hour hike and within sight of the tracks, a police car stopped us and we were asked what we were doing. We explained openly and honestly and the cops put us into their car and drove back to hitch-hike from the same onramp!

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No sooner than the cops were out of sight, we shouldered our packs again and made the identical trek and made it to the tracks, and thence to a freight yard. Sorting the trains with the help of local degenerates (hobos) we found a freight bound north and found our way to Ellensberg, Washington State. The weather was nice and

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we’d opted for a flat car. Through that night, we saw intermittent stars as our train passed through tunnels and out again, making steady time. Crossing a pass along the way, our model 1939 Army surplus sleeping bags kept us safe against the cold. A hobo we’d met had suggested selling our blood to the local blood bank, to get a bit of money to eat. We passed on that idea and he went on to explain he managed to stay high that way, he’d sell his blood and buy Ruby Port wine to build it back up. I’ve never liked the idea of a transfusion since.

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At Ellensberg, we left the trains behind for I-90 and hitch-hiking again. We caught a ride in the back of a pick-up to Spokane and a trucker gave us a ride to Bonners Ferry, Idaho. We must have looked in pretty rough shape because he’d asked how long it’d been since we’d had anything to eat. We’d stated “the other side of Sacramento.” At Bonners Ferry, when letting us off, he reached into his pocket for his wallet and gave us five dollars. We were not whiners, had not asked for anything other than a ride, but our gratitude was immense. We thanked him sincerely, however I expect our eyes had made the better statement. There was a grocery near the spot he let us off and in ten minutes we were having a loaf of whole grain bread, together with a block of decent cheddar and two quarts of beer, a real feast. Less than 200 miles from home, our adventure could be considered complete. We’d done it for a single, simple reason. We’d said we would do it.

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My distinct impression is, Kerouac could not have toughed our trip out, without breaking down in sobbing hysterics.. he’s a huge whiner in chapter 2 and quit to

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take the bus almost before his trip had began. If this is honestly self indicative of a Columbia University football player who’d quit, he’d also quit the Navy, perhaps we already begin to understand his looking up to a skid row loser from Denver as a role model of western freedom..

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Kerouac does not have good instincts ‘on the road.’ Rather than conserve his money with intelligent purchases from grocery stores, he eats out at diners, easily tripling the drain on his limited resources. According to the Bureau of Labor calculator, his $50 he began ‘hitch-hiking’ with, is $127, adjusted for inflation, by the date George and I had hitched to Mexico and back with $90 and two of us at that. The distance differential, Lowell, Massachusetts to Denver, about 1,800 miles, versus West Glacier, Montana to Baja and back, more than 2,500 miles, points to Kerouac’s lack of common sense. Kerouac is going broke or so he would have you believe, and he is still hundreds of miles short of Denver. George and I had hitched into Baja, over 1,250 miles and had money enough for two of us to stay more or less drunk for nearly a week on cheap Mexican beer (we’d brought along our own marijuana.) When we ran out of survival rations and were stuck in Sacramento on the return journey, we’d sorted the freight trains by querying hobos, Kerouac mentions the freights in passing as a possibility he cannot act on, because he lacked good information. But in fact I do believe what he’d actually lacked was courage.

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Hobos are oftentimes predators, and hippies were sometimes their prey. On an earlier occasion riding freights, I was in the company of 3 hippies I’d hooked up with, when traveling home to Montana, following spring semester at college in Southern California, my first year on the G.I. Bill, following extended tour of Vietnam. Two

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hobos will easily size up the possibility to rob four hippies and I had long hair and might have looked the part but I certainly was not from Sausalito. As it happened, we had to change trains at a freight yard in Oregon, and were spotted by a pair of what looked to be pretty damn mean hobos, one of them pretty big. We were on a flat car, waiting for the new train to get underway, when the predators approached. The method they employed as robber-partners, was the big one sat back and let the ‘brains’ do the talking, to size up what they were faced with, and try and create an opening.

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I realized the city kids I was with were clueless, and it boiled down to it’d be me would have to make the stand with no one having my back. It did not even cross my mind to grab my pack and bail, leaving the kids to fate.

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As the hobos climbed onto the flat car from the one end, I positioned myself at the center of the car, putting myself between the hobos and the kids, also strategically positioned so if one or the other of the hobos tried to get around me at the kids, to one side or the other, the hobos would be at a disadvantage and in jeopardy of being jettisoned from the flat car, to either side. Thus positioned, I took up a karate stance that was subtle, not obvious, and stood my ground. The big hobo sat at the far end of the car and observed as the ‘brains’ probed my defense.

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The ‘brains’ had a very well rehearsed and hypnotic act that employed frenzied and non-sensical chatter accompanied by strange, rapid and contorted gestures with his hands, a sort of pre-Rap simulated

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methamphetamine hyper-pantomime in reality, incorporated into a dance of sorts, and it was plain to see his method was to distract by creating a sort of disbelief, disassociation or amazement at which point almost certainly a knife would manifest and be employed, he was pretty quick with his reflexes.

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The big one seated behind him, seemingly was the pack mule and lookout, too slow to make a kill. If the bizarre dancing hobo could get past me, the kids could have been terrified into anything, in which case it would be all over for the girl, a life scarring experience at the least.

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The ‘dancing hobo’ approached with rising intensity but I gave no clue of being mesmerized and he would back off winding the dance down, all the while intensely studying for any relaxation in my stance, which he sensed but did not appear to fully understand. Then he approached again with rising energy and I would show no reaction, never taking my eyes off of his. He backed away again.

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The he made one more effort, coming almost close enough to my initiating a Tae Kwan Do move, I knew I was fast and pretty good, and fully intended he’d be feeling the pain before he’d landed on his head off the flat car, but he sensed it and backed away and away some more. Then, the hobos left. The kids never fully realized what had just gone down, they’d only seen a gibberish-spewing idiot and had been relieved the big one had kept a little distance.

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Now, Kerouac had got my dander up a bit, his having read a book by it’s cover, slandering Montana particularly with his character ‘Slim’, every state will have its nuisance characters, and puts down the West generally by reducing our heritage to a farcical ‘Old West’ celebration at Cheyenne, Wyoming. He’d not realized this ostentatious and admittedly ridiculous event is not representative of our character, but is deliberately catering to tourists. Just as easily as not, it could be entrepreneurs from LA or the East coast exploiting opportunity, will be behind these celebrations designed to gouge the middle class on vacation and separate them from their cash. But I’m going to, mostly, let that slide, for now. I could go on about Kerouac multiplying his depleted $50 like fishes and loaves, but that’d be beating on a dead horse. Instead, I’ll correct the record regarding a prank he describes as victimizing ‘Montana Slim.’

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This begins with his ‘lucky ride’ .. a flatbed truck has picked up Kerouac, driven by a couple of Minnesota farm boys headed west, and they’ve been sweeping up every hitch-hiker along their route. I’ve no problem with this, George and I had a similar experience on our trip south to Baja (more on that in a bit.) One of the characters he finds himself riding with on the flatbed is his ‘Montana Slim.’ Now, according to Kerouac, Slim had to piss and the boys in the cab were not stopping, so Slim scoots himself to the edge of the flatbed to sit and piss off the back end of the truck. No sooner than Slim has his whang unleashed and is urinating, someone has

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knocked on the rear window of the flatbed’s cab, drawing attention to Slim’s act and (likely with hands imitating being on a steering wheel) suggests swerving the truck back and forth, which in fact the driver precedes to do. Slim has to fall onto his back to avoid going off the truck and is rolling side to side while (at this point probably involuntarily) pissing and everyone else is dying laughing. I have a problem with this.

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Firstly, per the great Jim Croce’s lyrics ‘you don’t tug on Superman’s cape, don’t piss in the wind, you don’t take the mask off the old Lone Ranger and you don’t mess around with Slim’, there is no country boy in America who’d do that, because every one of us with an IQ of at least 70, and there could be such a thing as a country boy with an IQ of 170 (a frightening thought), would understand when you piss at high speed from the back of an open vehicle, your body creates a vacuum in the wind. Sit with legs off the left side of the flatbed and your piss will be fed into the vacuum spraying your left side, sit with legs off the right and the reverse is true. Now, sit with legs off the back of the flatbed in the wind at high speed and your piss will be spraying in your face.

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Kerouac pinning this act on ‘Montana Slim’ can’t hold up because only a city boy would be naïve enough to commit this act of foolishness and in Montana there is no such thing as a city boy per se. Montana does not have any cities, not even a full hand of fair sized or ‘large’ towns and I’ll name those it had in Kerouac’s day: Billings, Butte, Great Falls and Missoula. You could not be from Montana and not have been exposed to a country boy ‘education.’

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Clearly, what has happened here is, Kerouac recounts a prank that had been pulled off by the country boy from Montana and Kerouac himself had been the victim. Slim had suggested to Kerouac pissing downwind off the end of the truck as the only possible option in a desperate to urinate circumstance, I grew up with characters who’d suggest exactly that to the uninitiated, and Kerouac had been desperate enough to try.

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Henceforth, in any following chapter, we cannot believe a word Kerouac writes about Slim, Kerouac hated him. His (some would consider ‘just’) revenge, was to reverse the gullible party in the prank, to denigrate the Montana character as a fool in perpetuity, immortalized in print.

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It was on I-5, near Roseberg, Oregon, George and I had hit our lucky ride south, taking us a LONG ways towards Baja. A caravan of U-Haul rental trucks was approaching and the lead truck pulled out and over for us. The men in the cab called out the window “Got a driver’s license?” We both replied Yes! And they’d said “You’re in, climb in the back!” We ran with our packs to the rear of the truck, the cargo door was retracted and locked in the open position and there were another couple inside who explained what we were into. We were part of a caravan of U-Hauls being gathered up from rental agencies they’d been dropped at along the interstate and were being returned, to be redistributed to agencies in the greater Los Angeles region. The contractor heading up the operation was playing fast and loose with the rules .. and making a lot of money. The scheme he’d implemented was to sweep up licensed

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hitch-hikers along the route, put them into driving shifts so we could move the trucks south for him, all the while he was no doubt setting up a claim that would entail expenses covering having had to employ ‘short term’ contract drivers. When we stopped for fuel, or to pick up more trucks for our growing convoy, we’d change drivers and have a ‘picnic’ break where he’d break out sandwiches, chips and canned beverages like Pepsi and 7-Up. We were all advised to pocket extra food and drink for refreshment en-route, it was an ‘all you can eat affair.’ We made steady time to a large commercial UHaul yard in Orange County, south of LA, a big piece of our miles had been discharged, lots of road was behind us at one stroke of luck. My recollection is, this was my hitch-hiking distance record single ride, of those days.

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Now, a lovely seeming circumstance arose that caught me by surprise. Both George and myself are veterans, George had been a heavy equipment operator for combat engineers in Vietnam. We might have looked like typical hippies in our twenties but really we were doing what we’d sorely wished we’d been doing at 19 years of age, instead of a combat zone. And we were from Montana. Now, being from Montana, we have respect for women, something that is inculcated in authentic country boys, and it happened that’d been noticed by a single and very pretty brown-eyed brunette who’d been picked up by the U-Haul caravan. Having arrived at the U-Haul commercial truck yard ending the ride after dark, we all were informed we could take shelter in the back of the trucks for the night and should clear out in the morning.

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The pretty little brunette maybe glanced around once, and then strode without hesitation directly over to me and pointed, while saying “That’s our truck.” My jaw did not drop, I was a good-looking kid in those days and I’d had my fair share. George just walked away shaking his head, plumb disgusted, his problem was his likeness recalling Irving’s description of Ichabod Crane.

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Now, once inside the truck with the girl, I do not recall her name, we sorted what was important in short order. She’d give herself to me if I insisted, but she’d prefer not to. I only held her, and was privileged to do that, and we slept through the night, no messing around. Come morning, she’d said to me, “you are really cool.”

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George was beside himself, near green with envy and snapped over breakfast “you didn’t get any of that!” I kept my cards close to my chest, a smile was my only reply. I could tell it bugged him for days. But I also know if we’d been in reverse position, it’d have been the same outcome, we both have this thing, it’s called ‘ethics.’

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5

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Chapter 5, all of 3 " pages, is hardly remarkable, a sort of ‘filler’ to bring Kerouac over to Denver following a drunken night in Cheyenne, where he’d finally passed out in a bus station. He forgives ‘Montana Slim’ (he kinda had to, considering the huge lie he’d told about Slim in the chapter preceding), his depleted $50 experiences another night multiplying like loaves and fishes, as it dwindles at about " the rate it had ought to have been dwindling, considering his bar hopping and partying, and he shows no qualms over having tried to pry a waitress away from her boyfriend for a one night stand, and tried to convince another woman she had ought to take a perfect and stupidly drunk stranger from the east coast (himself) home across the plains in the middle of the night simply so he could screw her. To his credit, Kerouac admits she sneered at him. If Kerouac continues to mix with westerners without a competent baby sitter, particularly with his ingrate’s attitude towards western women, he might need two or three guardian angels, just to stay alive.

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I was ‘up the line’ at Hungry Horse, Montana, and tequila drunk on Cuervo Gold, to that point you puke, pass out to semi-comatose state and the next day your liver will hurt. One of our local girls, I knew who she was but I did not really know her in any sense of acquainted, gathered me up, and took me home. She’d cleaned up my face, maneuvered me onto a bed, unbuttoned and removed my shirt and yanked off my trousers, covered me with a blanket and went off to sleep

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in her own bed. In the morning, I found a clean robe draped over the end of my bed, a note explaining she’d had to leave for work, I was welcome to use the shower, should fix myself some breakfast, my clothes were washed and in the dryer and to please lock the door behind me on my way out .. all to be taken as a humanitarian act.

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One gets the impression in similar circumstance, Cassady and Ginsberg would have taken turns screwing me, while passed out, and Kerouac would have written about it. Now, about this point, I have an observation. Kerouac has a sort of ‘ethics free’ vain or narcissistic conscience, a weak ghost of empathy that only appreciates his self, and in a guilty way at a distance. It is a faint conscience.

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At Denver, Kerouac looks up ‘Chad King’ who in actuality is Haldon ‘Hal’ Chase. Other than being the critical character at the center of responsibility for getting Kerouac and Ginsberg acquainted with Cassady, Chase it would appear will be a bit player in Kerouac’s work and with good reason (I’ve not read ‘On the Road’ ahead of this narrative, taking it chapter by chapter without knowing what lies ahead, but I do a short research on the characters as they ‘enter the scene’), Chase is a Denver resident who’d not grown up an abused kid on skid row.

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Now, when an honest westerner realizes he has played a critical part in perpetrating a world-class fraud, he’ll behave like Chase had, later on. Some years after Chase had disavowed Kerouac, Ginsberg and Cassady altogether, Kerouac biographer (he’s had more than his

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share) Gerald Nicosia looked up Chase at home. Haldon ‘Hal’ Chase or ‘Chad King’ had subsequently run Nicosia off, threatening him with a rifle. This is a straightforward action you could believe in, attesting to the ‘veracity’ of the ‘Beat’ writers, by Chase. We’re about to meet Ginsberg and Cassady, and because authentic Rocky Mountain folk tend to call a spade a spade, no beating around the bush so to speak, let’s have a brief but honest glimpse at just what sort of characters Kerouac will be chronicling, in the coming chapters.

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Cassady ‘got his start in life’, eventually pointing to his becoming Ginsberg’s hero and a writer, at age 14, when his ‘mentor of promising but disadvantaged young men’ began butt-fucking him. By the time of Kerouac’s hooking up with these two ‘On the Road’ (in Denver) Cassady is already giving Ginsberg literal blow-jobs, something he would do for the next twenty years despite Cassady since having become married and having kids, and Ginsberg having acquired a “life-long” partner.

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This work is so patently founded on dishonest characters, and chronicled by their avid admirer and co-conspirator, I believe it will be safe to say [by the end of this work] there is nothing can be believed AT ALL in relation to anything written by Kerouac. Or for that matter, nothing can be believed as written by his ‘beat generation’ peers.

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Chapter 6 of ‘On the Road’, a whopping 2-2/3 pages, is an apologetic denial of reality. Its concluding sentence “But where was Dean?” is a disingenuous cover. Now, I understand the publishing house censors of the 1950s demanded cuts on account of the prevailing norms of that era (liability lawyers & criminal prosecutions) and demanded Kerouac clean up his manuscript, but somehow I doubt that is the case here, having just written off Chad King (Hal Chase) and as ‘class snobs’ for their clearing Cassidy and Ginsberg out of their lives, and while Kerouac’s a Chase guest at that, a sensible decision for responsible people facing reality and work every day.

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Kerouac, who only wants to party and screw, is not about to honestly state they’d made a sane decision on account of Cassidy and Ginsberg are in a persistent ‘69’ position of drug and alcohol enhanced reciprocal fellatio, when not frequenting the lower dens of Denver’s skid row.

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Cassady, to this time, likely has never worked a job honestly. Ginsberg would not know what hard manual labor even is. Kerouac’s mother has worked supporting him, and has done so for years into his ‘adulthood.’

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I knew how to work. But I wasn’t the best hard laborer because I hated it. Sometimes I’d been fired and sometimes I’d quit. At other times I’d toughed it out. At 12 years I began learning how to build fence and by 14 years I was using a 1880s’ fifty pound steel bar that was originally a railroad track tool, to open holes in rocky

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soil, lifting and dropping the bar, then working it back and forth as it penetrated deeper, preparing for driving fence posts into the ground by hand, which I did as well. I’d worked with other kids, harvesting the lodge-pole pine that would be made into those fence posts. I’d known that old steel track tool so intimately, by the time of my adult years, I’d named it ‘Satan’s Cock.’

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I’ve bucked 60 pound hay bales, along side a truck that it seemed would never stop, through a field where you’d have to run ahead and grab a bale, bring it close and heft it onto the truck for the stacker and run ahead again, all damn day. I’ve split ten cord of wood, by hand, in the fall season, many a time. I’d built irrigation systems with a crew, when the old King Ranch outside Valier, Montana, transitioned from cattle to agriculture. I’ve been a cowboy, I’ve pulled ‘green chain’ at more than one sawmill, and that’s not all. At 5 foot 7 inches, and 150 pounds for most of my adult life, now 61 years old, I can still flex Popeye’s forearms.

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Moving into chapter 7, we catch Kerouac in a lie right off. Well, a dishonest insinuation actually. Having slammed his new host ‘Roland Major’, actually Allen Temko, in the first paragraph, no doubt because Temko is aligned with Hal Chase and Ed White in the developing Denver versus the frauds feud. In the second paragraph Kerouac goes on to blow hot air to Temko. The context insinuates Kerouac has intimate knowledge of the freights ..

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“.. I love the boxcars and I love to read the names on them like Missouri Pacific, Great Northern, Rock Island Line. By gad Major if I could tell you everything that had happened to me hitching here”

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.. when we know he’d never gotten any closer to the box cars than seeing them rolling along side the highways on his trip west. By his earlier admission, to Kerouac’s credit, he states he’d passed on any chance at hitching freights. But he might yet experience his infatuation in reality, as it’s certainly possible Cassady has ridden the trains and might introduce Kerouac to the experience.

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There is an interesting psychological thread developing here. When denigrating Temko, Kerouac puts down Hemmingway and makes allusions to a sort of ‘Hemmingway-esque’ class snobbery lifestyle associated with Temko’s experiences in Europe. One must wonder if Kerouac’s disdain (to put it mildly) for Hemmingway is based on jealousy and Hemmingway’s authenticity of

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experience (WWI, Spanish Civil War) versus Navy dropout Kerouac’s propensity to tell, if not in every case a self-aggrandizing lie, often the self-excusing falsehood.

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The paradox here is, in his dishonest way, Kerouac is accurately portraying how to live a dishonest life. Meanwhile, Ginsberg is instructing Cassady in the libertine philosophy of the male homosexual and the wide-open promiscuity known in that community (despised by many lesbians) which Cassady is in turn applying to debauching Denver’s women. One gets Cassady is a natural heterosexual and would have remained straight, were it not for his age 14 years encounter with a ‘mentor of promising but disadvantaged young men.’

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Under Ginsberg’s tutelage, Cassady is now cheating on his wife, as well as cheating on his girlfriend that he is cheating on his wife with, all the while concealing his behaviors and lying to every one of them about his intentions, assured by Ginsberg this is real ‘freedom.’

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In Ginsberg’s ‘ethics free’ version of essential sexual liberty, taught to and put into practice by Cassady, essentially the women are hustled with lies, and then absolutely screwed, and in every sense of the word.

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Kerouac wraps up chapter 7 with bringing an entourage of drunken, partying friends back to his ‘guest’ quarters after 3am and Temko had sensibly denied a wild party of carousing drunks entry to the apartment which in fact did

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not belong to him but to the family of Ed White; because the place most certainly would have been trashed.

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I was at Crow Agency, Montana, for the Indian days celebration. ‘Crow Fair’ has a good pow-wow and I’d traveled down to take it all in with Blackfeet friends from Browning. I’d played a little stick game, but was mostly taking in the dance at the arbor, there were Indians from tribes in every direction, had traveled to participate. The costumes were incredible, brilliant color, the drums and singers were excellent in the northern and southern style.

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After the dance had stopped for that evening, around midnight, not yet tired, I’d wandered off into the surrounding brush, deciding to check out ’49.’ This is an informal or ‘off the record’ pow-wow event (never advertised.) I was aware of it, but had never really experienced the native love music. I was standing back from the young male dancers who, after the dance, had brought a drum, and were singing the love songs.

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Suddenly there was an absolutely gorgeous young woman in traditional dance costume, walked directly up to me and stood tall, proud, looking me in the eye. I was caught flat-footed, a little panicked, I could not think what to do, I knew there was a proper Indian response but I could not come up with it, the right story. I was thinking like mad for several moments and she’d walked away without ever uttering a word. And then I remembered:

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In the Blackfoot oral history, there was a time when women and men did not live together, but on opposite

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sides of a valley, separated by a river. Then, the Nin-nawa-ki (the Chief of the Women, the highest form of Blackfoot chief, woman or man) gathered the men and lined them up and told the women to chose their husbands. The woman who wished to be married would walk up to the man she desired. If he followed her, they were a couple..

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Like popping awake, I looked around to see which direction this beautiful woman had headed but did not see her, already vanished into the dark. An Indian standing beside me had then said: “too late, she’s gone.”

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8

Allan Temko confronts Cassady with “what’s this I hear you are sleeping with three girls at the same time?” .. Cassady looks down at the carpet with a sort of nervous foot-shuffle: “Oh yeah, that’s how it goes.” .. his innate but dying Rocky Mountain cultural honesty admits he’s treating the women like dirt, his vanishing conscience feels a faint twinge. Meanwhile Kerouac disses Temko’s perception of Cassady as a moron and a fool and claims “of course he [Cassady] wasn’t.”

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Meanwhile, having set in motion divorcing his wife and promising to marry the girl he’s been cheating with, he’s continued to cheat on both his wife and girlfriend with a third girl (and certainly with Ginsberg as well), all the while under Ginsberg’s tutelage. A bit later on, at one of Cassady & Ginsberg’s ‘learning sessions’, Ginsberg presses Cassady on his ‘honesty’ with Ginsberg over Cassady being into Ginsberg’s pocket for his money (the hypocrisy is indeed rich), at which point Kerouac [in this context] honestly observes honesty is beyond reach.

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Kerouac meant this observation in a macrocosmic way but what is patently obvious is, Kerouac does not see beyond his dishonest microcosmic worldview, and he misses the paradox he’s created for himself; honest admission of dishonest perception or alternately stated, subliminal confessions in dishonest chronicles.

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We had our dishonest folk. More often than not, they were immigrants, and I’m not talking about Mexicans,

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but people from the city. Chuck was a good enough seeming fellow, and you did not get the feeling he’d rip you off, likely because he wouldn’t. But there is such things as ‘degrees’ of dishonesty’ it would seem. Chuck had nearly gotten in over his head when he’d decided he could backpack the wilderness with George and myself. In fact he WAS in over his head, only reason he’d not been left to die on his own was, George and I didn’t want to be in a position of having to answer for it. So, the day had come we knew we had to get out, on account of a Spring storm and coming high water. We’d told Chuck we’d be hiking out that day, 30 miles. George and I took Chuck’s pack, emptied it and divided the contents between us, so he’d be hiking with no weight at all. Subpoint here being, if he’d quit, he’d have no survival gear, putting Chuck in a circumstance [in his mind] if he did not keep up, he’d damn certain die. But we [George and myself] kinda were of the opinion Chuck would die anyhow, left on his own. And we hiked out, 30 miles that day. Chuck never fell much more than a half-mile behind, and that’d be about the time George and I would take a break, and when we could see Chuck coming up the trail, we’d resume marching, we were brutal, but it was what it required to get out that day. Chuck made it.

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A few weeks later, my dad approached me with a big grin. Chuck’s and my dad were acquainted and Chuck’s dad had always felt his kid was a kind of hippie wuss. My dad had told me Chuck’s dad was beside himself with glee over George and myself had “hiked his kid’s ass off.” It was reported back [via my dad] Chuck had lain on the sofa at home and moaned for a week. Now, Chuck could not brag his life achievement of a one-day 30 miles

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hike with two local, well known mountain-boy characters, at Columbia Falls, Montana, in any honest way. It required returning to live in Riverside, California, to live up to his heroic deed (in his mind.)

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9

In his ‘trek to the mountains’ chapter 10, Kerouac puts down the best party scene he’d been to, to now, because, it’d been hosted by the Denver partisans, in the ongoing feud with the Ginsberg fraud. He has what it would seem amounts to one hundred people cleaning up an old mining house, to party in, but can’t find a bed that isn’t choking with dust when he needs to pass out. Frat kids crash and ruined his party (I laughed at this) and all the girls bailed out and abandoned the scene. Bar hopping in the company of Denverites Ed White and Bob Burford, he projects what to certainly amounts to his own out of control and drunken behaviors onto Burford, throwing a whiskey in someone’s face for being an opera tenor, maybe it was Burford knocked someone cold, to keep them from killing the boorish Kerouac, and then no doubt it was Kerouac had called a waitress a whore (he pins it on Burford) and White and Burford get him out the door alive before the ‘count of ten’ the locals had told Kerouac he’d best be out of sight or he would have, as we say in the Rocky Mountains, ‘had his clock cleaned.’

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We can know Kerouac is pinning his own boorishness on the Denver Burford because we know Kerouac had already framed Montana Slim as the victim of the ‘pissing in the wind’ prank, his modus is to pin his own inadmissible behaviors on other people. This all points to the reality of cause or reasoning behind Hal Chase threatening Kerouac biographer Nicosia with a rifle some years later, to make him go away.

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In all likelihood, Kerouac, who has a clown’s instinct that is actually pretty amazing, clearly takes opportunity to frame his associations for his inadmissible experiences, and it is certainly possible ‘On the Road’ had been penned as a cartoon chronicle of sorts, a deliberate, dishonest lampoon of his experiences.

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It can’t hurt to point out here, Kerouac, who is living and partying entirely on his several Denver host’s dime, unbeknownst to them having already passed up opportunity at employment, preferring to avoid work and search out opportunities to party and screw instead, is giving a real middle finger to naturally generous folk who’re trying to show him the authentic side of the Rocky Mountain West character and provide Kerouac a contrast to Denver’s skid row dens, and associated denizens Cassady and Ginsberg, to write about.

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Kerouac could not fit this truth into his biographical endeavor, the fact he’d ultimately made a dissolute, cowardly and wrong choice of company he’d kept. As well, Kerouac can’t help but lie about the character of the people’s lives he writes about, in some cases destroying reputations. With his Catholic guilt syndrome, there could be no confessional booth big enough or priest with a life long enough, to confess the entirety of his lying behaviors, it is small wonder he drank himself to death.

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It was ‘up the line’ at Marten City, Montana, where a bar fight of legend broke out. The setting was the “Deer Lick Saloon” and it entailed a local rivalry, of sorts, or perhaps better said, an ignorant misapprehension of reality. Loggers are of a peculiar sort, never much

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venturing out of the woods, or so it would seem. Not that they’d entirely a limited world-view. Now, before the advent of hippies in this world, we had some pretty cool red-necks. They did not refer to Gays as ‘queers’, rather using the more polite euphemism ‘greek.’ This points to a well read red-neck in the subject of history and I think where things went wrong was, the time came along when classical music could no longer be called ‘long-haired’ music after the portraits of composers, without raising the specter of Ginsberg, homosexuality and free love, rather than a discreet ‘greek’ conductor, and it pissed them off as a class. The red-necks could no longer enjoy symphony orchestra, Alan Ginsberg having poisoned everything that come to mind, and that ended the more tolerant ‘greek.’ All this came to a head one day at the Deer Lick Saloon, when a drunk logger mistook some local, long-haired, mountain boys for hippies, or maybe just wanted a fight, and called them a bunch of queers.

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It happened fast, there was no build-up at all to the fullblown riot that ensued, fists were flying along with bar stools tossed through the air in the general direction of opposing sides, and the group of loggers had their hands full with a bunch of long-haired, hay bale bucking, green chain raw lumber pulling, every bit as strong, tough-asnails country kids, and the Deer Lick Saloon was going to be destroyed in short order, there was no doubt.

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I’d have never believed, ever, that I’d be playing skiprope in a bar fight but that is exactly what I found myself doing, except it was ‘skip-leg’ when a one legged old timer had been knocked off his bar stool in the chaos, landed on the floor and his fake leg had come off. With

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his back against the bar, he had his own foot by the ankle with both hands and was swinging his fake leg at anyone in range, purely survival driven I suppose. I was surrounded on three sides by fist-fights, boxed in, and had to jump his leg again and again, to avoid being struck, as he swung his fake leg back and forth in an arc.

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About this time the owner of the saloon had brought out a large caliber handgun, a 44 Magnum, and began firing shots into the ceiling, to get people’s attention and break up the bar fight. Twice we all heard BOOM! BOOM! .. and suddenly it was the folk proverb ‘all you could see was assholes and elbows’ as people tried to clear out of the place, not knowing what was up, only that someone had pulled a gun and was shooting. There were too many people to go out the two saloon doors fast enough .. you could hear the large plate glass break as chairs went through windows to open escape routes.

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10 When Kerouac gets back to Denver, he meets up with Ginsberg and claims Ginsberg tells him that he [Ginsberg] had been in Central City with Cassady and bar hopping at that. Not mentioned is how Ginsberg and Cassady had gotten themselves to Central City but Ginsberg tells Kerouac that Cassady had stolen a car, to get the two of them back to Denver. Now, this is an unlikely tale. By the era of Kerouac’s party adventure to Central City, Colorado, the town’s population had fallen to several hundred people. I supposed if you’d had every resident in town out partying, plus every tourist leaving their kids un-minded to do the same, it MIGHT be possible Kerouac would not have encountered or noticed or heard about the odd couple/flamboyant Ginsberg with side-kick Cassady in the town’s handful of bars.

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More likely, Kerouac was feeling like persona-non-grata in relation to his hosts Ed White and Bob Burford particularly, was afraid to ride back to Denver with them. Also he’d certainly made enemies of some of the locals with his behaviors. Probably he’d called Ginsberg and Cassady, asking them to find a way to rescue him from Central City, because of town folk he’d been a perfect boor to, now looking for him with an eye to kick his ass, as well perhaps fearing the ride back with Burford particularly. Cassady had stolen a car and Ginsberg rode along to fetch Kerouac back to Denver. This thought would be buttressed by Kerouac at this point plans bailing out of his Denver hospitality, and his burning

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desire to get out of town. He’s running scared and needs to put some distance, let things cool off.

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But Kerouac can’t leave Denver because he’s broke, so he airmails his mom a request for $50 and soon we’ll be back to his multiplying money like fishes and loaves. Meanwhile, the cad Kerouac has screwed a young local he describes as “a little girl, simple and true, and tremendously frightened of sex.” More likely, she was tremendously frightened of Kerouac and that’s why she gave herself up to him. Then, Kerouac’s weak Catholic conscience pricks him and he wonders “what God had wrought when He made life so sad.” I’d have wondered ‘what god had wrought’ when ‘he’ made sorry-ass characters like Kerouac, Cassady and Ginsberg.

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I can’t be proud of everything I’ve done, but some people can grow up and correct themselves. I’d stolen cars to joyride, and so had other kids I knew. More often than not, we were not caught. The kid closest to Cassady, that I’d known, was Dusty from Livingston, Montana. I doubt he’d ever been butt-fucked by a ‘mentor of promising but disadvantaged young men’ because he’d never looked at me with that gaze of a ‘peculiar’ predator, or made any pass suggesting homosexuality, but Dusty had been disadvantaged, for certain. More or less an orphan, likely on account of alcoholic parents, Dusty had been neglected for years as a child, he had issues on account of it, was toughened up by his associations in the near to Livingston and notoriously rough town of Butte, prior to relatives taking him in ‘up the line’ at Coram, Montana. I was a Coram kid, our family lived at an old homestead in

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a then 70 years old log house less than a mile through the woods from Coram, farther if you walked the road.

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It happened both Dusty and I were in hot water, Dusty likely for his penchant for committing robberies, he never really said why he’d a sudden case of ‘cold feet’, but he was itching to get out of town and fast at that. I was into trouble over a relationship with a 16 years old local girl, she was willing, and I’ll leave it at that. We split town together and went to Livingston, where we’d caught a freight train east, on the run. We jumped off at Dickenson, North Dakota, and it seemed the most forlorn place on Earth. Having gone to the local skid row ‘mission’, we were issued a voucher, good for a meal at the local truck-stop café. The food was tremendous at the start of the meal but both of us had slowed down our eating by time it was " consumed, and Dusty had said “notice how good it was when you were really hungry and now it is getting kinda hard to stomach?” His statement was absolutely true, the chicken fried steaks were terrible, as though the café had been authorized to feed folk with a ‘voucher’ freezer-burned food. After, looking out at the desolation that passes for a town in North Dakota, we looked at each other and walked back to the freights, to hitch a train returning to Livingston.

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At Livingston, Dusty had parked me at his ‘safe’ house and told me to wait, that he’d be back. Several hours later he’d returned with over $200, a lot of money to us, in those days. We bought proper train tickets, from Butte to Seattle, drank a few shots in the club car during the trip and then got a room on the skid-row. I went looking for a job while Dusty proceeded to try and make it as a

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hustler in a local pool hall but was taken by a better shark, who’d whipped him fair and square, that’d been ok but the local shark had made a near fatal mistake and insulted Dusty on top of taking all his money. The next day, Dusty caught the guy in the elevator and with doorclose button, up button, down button, beat him senseless. Out and about, I’d gone looking for Dusty and came to the pool hall and saw what looked like the grime of decades had been cleaned up from the floor of the elevator, someone had cleaned up the blood. Back at the room, Dusty was there, he told me what had happened, we had to leave, fast, and we were broke again.

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We’d walked out of the downtown area of Seattle, to one of the suburbs, and the next day I knocked on a Catholic rectory door, to ask if the priest was in and if we could be given a little something to eat. The high school girl who answered my knock said the priest was not in, but she was pretty and I stayed on a few minutes to talk with her, told her we were sleeping in a sawdust pit at the nearby school, if the priest would like to send something over for us to eat. The next morning, this pretty girl woke me with a touch, looking like a frightened deer, Dusty and I had buried ourselves in the sawdust to stay warm, only our heads showing and were sound asleep. The girl’s father was a deacon at the church and he’d sent her to wake us and bring us home for breakfast, he took his Christian faith in a genuine way. Then, after we’d put on our very best and sincerely grateful country manners for this event and explained our predicament in a highly selfcensored way, not wishing to freak this kind family out, we were surprised with being told we could have a spare basement room their house while looking for work.

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Deep under it all, Dusty remembered his roots. After breakfast, and with a chance to speak alone, Dusty had told me “Ron, these are really decent people and I want nothing to do with it. You’ve been a good friend, no one could ask for better. But I have to cut you loose, you’re too decent to be my partner. You stay here and find a job and best of luck to you.” Dusty had then left and I never saw him again. Maybe I wasn’t as decent as Dusty made it sound, but by comparison, perhaps he was right. I’d stolen cars, but I could not bring myself to commit robberies or engage in wanton acts of violence.

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I got a job at ‘Gil’s Burgers’ and picked up a second shift working at the Kentucky Fried Chicken next to Gil’s at the top of the hill, when you’ve come across the bridge into West Seattle. Across the road was a used car sales lot. I’d bought a $100 car from a private party with my first pay-check, figuring I would live in it, move on and get out of where I was staying, to stop being a pain to patient and kind people, I’d had a truly sweet lips to lips encounter with their virgin daughter by this time and was feeling like an ass. She’d need me to make love to her like she’d want to fall into an open sewer, was my feeling and I wanted away before that became reality with all its possible complications. But my car’s engine promptly blew up. With my next pay check cashed and money in my pocket, I went across the street to the used car lot, not to buy one, but to steal a car, at 4 am and get out of Seattle, headed nowhere in particular, just out of town. I wanted away from the entire circumstance and there was damn certain no way I’d want to keep working at fast food joints in the city, the very thought was nauseating.

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I jimmied the door- lock in no time, pushed the car, an easy to hotwire older Chevy, into the street, jumped in and coasted it down the hill to a turn under a bridge where I’d take my time to hotwire it, a clean job that was not obvious, was my plan. Everything went smoothly until I had it hotwired and the car would not start, the gauges came alive and there was no fuel in the tank! I cleaned up my fingerprints and left, daybreak was coming. I could not bring myself to walk back to the house and face the people who’d given me a real break and I was faking it. I thought it all through, how everything was bothering me, while walking, and figured I didn’t desire go the criminal direction and needed to change tact. I simply did not like the path I was on. That was the last car I’d ever stolen. I was 18 years old.

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Walking across the bridge and into downtown Seattle while the sun was rising, I had a bite to eat, then volunteered for the draft at the US Army recruiting office later in the day, my room and board was resolved.

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11

My chapter 11 first impression is, Kerouac displays ignorance of the local culture now that he has made it to San Francisco and calls it ‘Frisco.’ To locals from the ‘Bay Area’, San Francisco is known precisely as “San Francisco” or “The City.” Having hooked up with Frenchman Henri Cru (Cru’s book alias or fictional character is Remi Boncoeur) and working a security job together, Kerouac displays good sense in his handling of Okinawa bound migrant workers during their drunken bouts at the barracks he is responsible for, criticizes Cru for scheming to steal from them, but then helps Cru burglarize a cafeteria they should be guarding. In two pages time (chapter 11 is a real chapter, not a snippet story) Kerouac had been sneaking a view of Cru’s naked girlfriend sunbathing but in his Benzedrine psychosis while writing, has already forgotten and states: “I kept my promise to Remi [Henri Cru] and averted my eyes.”

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During this several weeks period he’s employed, Kerouac claims he’d sent forty dollars every week to his mom. If this is true, the only question is not whether, but only the extent to which he’d subsidized this largesse, by engaging in petty crime.

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Kerouac burns his bridges behind him with Henri Cru, one wonders how many of his own miscreant deeds Kerouac projects onto a man who, by Kerouac’s admission, would have nothing to do with him for years.

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He then conjures up Allan Temko from nowhere and pins a consistent theme of what can only be his own boorishness on someone he does not like (too many other folk are behaving like a cloned personality ‘B’ jerk, when Kerouac’s been heavily drinking), getting thrown out of a fine restaurant, to close out chapter 11.

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Our Rocky Mountain’s grandfathers were the peer generation of Kid Curry, and a frontier legacy of bad men/outlaws does not disappear in a generation. I’d known plenty of kids who’d committed criminal acts and in our territory, more than just a handful had wanted to give our outlaw legacy a try, at least once. Consequently, when planning a robbery, they did not mess around.

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Like the time a few of our local boys hijacked a fork lift from the adjacent saw mill, and then drove it over to and through the large plate glass window at the B & B department store at Columbia Falls, Montana. Using the machine to remove the locked office door, in short order they’d lifted the shopping center’s safe and driven it back out, into the parking lot, the safe was dropped into the back of a pick-up truck, where they’d abandoned the fork lift and made their get-away. All this happened within a few minutes time and only a few blocks from the police department..

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12

In chapter 12 Kerouc typically wilts again in difficult circumstance, when leaving burned bridges behind, hitch-hiking away from San Francisco. He takes the inland route via Fresno and stuck in Bakersfield, catches a bus to LA. He meets and hustles a Mexican girl on the run from an abusive husband and lands her in a motel in Los Angeles where he gets laid and makes plans with her he has to know are phony, she is looking for stability, he will tell her any story to keep getting laid.

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The lies are patently obvious. If he were headed to Texas as stated, he’d not have detoured to LA by catching a bus from Bakersfield. The direct route is south (and best shot at a short route from truckers) via Tehachapi and beyond and then east. I’ve hitch-hiked the same country and driven it as well.

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If the were such a thing as ‘down the line’, the toe would be the Blue Moon tavern close to the Stoltz sawmill just outside Columbia Falls on the Road to Whitefish. I’d been drinking there with a Chippewa friend, ‘Bugs.’ We were relieving ourselves at the urinals when a tall redneck type looked out through his drunken haze and queried Bugs, “What are you, a Mexican?” He was just being stupidly curious, we’d Mexicans in the neighborhood as well. Bugs reply was “I’m the meanest fucking Indian you’ll ever meet” which served its purpose and the guy shut up and left us alone. I knew Mexicans and Indians, and it was no big deal. There was

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more natural social tension between the rednecks and longhairs than between races in our neighborhood.

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But we were all country people and had more in common than not, and one thing we had in common was a sort of extreme native humor. Like the longhair who’d normally have nothing to do with chicken fighting until nature delivered into his flock a homosexual rapist rooster and he began scheming right away, thinking how he could humiliate rednecks that enjoyed cock-fighting by springing a pervert-chicken on them by surprise.

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By all accounts the rapist-chicken would be a formidable foe in any chicken fight. This chicken had been observed to have a sort of ‘mesmerizing’ look of a killer when he’d approach the other rooster who’d be flustered by the pervert chicken’s movement away from any frontal confrontation, not running away, but circling his opponent to get behind. Always seeking approach from the rear, there being no honest face to face fighting intention, about the time the opposing chicken expecting a normal fight would begin an opposite turn to meet the pervert’s expected attack, he’d made a fatal mistake, quick as a snake can strike, the rapist rooster would leap, beak snagging neck feathers from behind, and be on the unsuspecting rooster’s back and fuck his adversary just as though it were a hen. The raped rooster would then just lay there with a dying squawk, precisely as though it’d been killed as opposed to screwed.

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This last phenomena particularly suggested a clear victory in the imagined fighting ring, how would the

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rednecks be able to admit anything other than their straight chicken had been whipped, fair and square?

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Well, the problem was, chicken fighting was never a big deal in our area of Montana, and he wouldn’t raise enough betting money from the rednecks to make any such endeavor worth the risk involved, plus the pervertrapist rooster’s owner knew that by springing any such surprise, he’d likely not escape the event alive short of employing a sub-machine gun. A trivia note, the rooster’s name happened to be Jack..

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13

Kerouac may be a gifted story-teller, however the key here is ‘story.’ As sick as I am of picking through his lies, I have to resign myself to it, because we are only approaching the close of part one, in what is a five-part work. It’d be nice if I were able to simply enjoy the flow of his writing, as so many have, but as the Blues Brothers had noted, ‘this is a mission from god’ (note the small g.)

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In chapter 13 there appears to be no threatening witness lurking with the possibility of blowing the whistle on Kerouac in his 2 weeks love adventure with Bea Franco [‘Terry’ in the book] and he fails to pin any truly boorish behaviors on a single soul. No parties such as Burford or Temko to call his BS for what it is and no need for preemptive attacks on peoples character accordingly.

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Perhaps Kerouac had actually found his ‘people’ and behaved well throughout this episode, in which case he should never have left. But it jumps out he asks his mom for fifty dollars [thirty pieces of silver] to get him out of the circumstance, rather than applying the funds to get himself and Bea Franco set up to make a go of it together or keep any of his promises/plans he’d lavished on this migrant labor associated woman; pointing to his merely lying to get laid. He tells Bea goodbye and then collects his mom’s money that’d been wired to him and splits.

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There is a truly pathetic side to Kerouac, one can only surmise any reason behind his running away from making intelligent, life fulfilling decisions or acquiring

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self-evident truth as a person. My instincts tell me this has to do with his patent closet homosexuality, a thing Kerouac certainly will never come to terms with.

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In my actual acquaintances with male homosexuals, and it is not as wide experience such as you’d know from circulating in a gay community and therefore not definitive, I’ve repeatedly encountered denial mechanisms (liars) among the men. Not in every case, but more often than not. Very interestingly, precisely the opposite has been my experience with lesbians. Among lesbians, I have several very close and trusted friends who live by values demanding ethics and core honest behaviors. By contrast I have one close gay male friend and it has taken years for me to learn to trust him. Why?

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Because of the individual gay male behaviors per se, those I have experienced. Assessing Kerouac, my guess would be, like Cassady, Kerouac was a natural heterosexual orientation male whose behaviors had been modified in his formative years by a predator, in Kerouac’s case, most likely a pedophile Catholic priest.

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Kerouac impresses as a closet gay of that sort which had been created through a predator’s abuse, not via a natural homosexual orientation which I am firmly convinced is produced in nature, is not against ‘god’ and is best described as ‘it is what it is’ as in ‘life is a paradox.’

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So, what is the point of insisting on artificial values, violently imposing monotheism’s social will to the contrary? Nature is way smarter than people. But Kerouac is completely hung up in his social-religious

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conflict, he has been shaped by a patently misogynist hierarchy, the Catholic Church, his mother is a long suffering saint to whom he can pray to for money at will, he’ll never amount to anything (in his mind) without his priest’s blessing but he cannot actually trust a priest, ever, so he substitutes his fraternity brothers approval (Cassady, Ginsberg) instead. He will remain a closet gay.

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The man is a typical church production, in effect, a confused (inculcated by religion) misogynist with instilled un-natural (as opposed to nature’s produced spontaneous-natural) homosexuality he will never become comfortable with, in effect a perfect Roman Catholic Church wrecking-ball victim embodied with a naturally gifted mind. He will never know peace, normalcy or allow himself a fulfilling life with a woman he actually would become capable of loving.

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I’m the only person I’m aware of, that could honestly state they’d had a ‘queer chicken’ dinner. Living in the country and raising chickens for both eggs and meat, and having grown up observing the same in my parent’s time, I know that roosters raised together typically will not fight, let alone rape each other. So, when the pervertrapist rooster had manifest, it was plainly an anomaly.

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I thought about it, dropped the mean but entertaining fantasy of introducing the bird to a redneck cock-fight, and not being a homophobe, figured eating the queer chicken would not somehow threaten my orientation. So, the chicken’s head came off. That was something like 15 years ago. I’d only recently named the chicken Jack.

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14

Kerouac gives an eloquent description of his bus ride back across the USA (on his mom’s fifty dollars), demonstrates an awareness of American history, feels terribly sorry for himself (whines) while a little hungry and having to hitch-hike the last 300 miles home.

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End of Part One

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Part Two
1

Let the lies begin (again.) Kerouac has finished a manuscript (with his mom looking over his shoulder, no doubt) in the past year at home. It is the end of 1948. Cassady rolls back into Kerouac’s life together with his wife LuAnn Henderson (‘Marylou’ in the book) and ‘along for the ride’ Al Hinkle (‘Ed Dunkle’) in a brand new Hudson.

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At first glance it would seem Cassady is still married to Henderson, his cheating with 2 other women, one (Carolyn Robinson, ‘Camille’ in the book) he has promised to marry (and had been making love with Ginsberg, who is advising him on these matters throughout), the divorce talk of a year ago, all this appears to have been put on ‘hold.’ But it is all very much more complicated and criminal as one reads on..

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Kerouac asks Cassady where he come up with a new car and Cassady claims he’s paid cash for the car, having made $400 a month over the past year working for the railroad. A basic new Hudson in the 1949 model year costs over $2,000 and an unskilled railroad worker makes less than $1.50 per hour, do the math. If we made Cassady a ‘brakeman’ (his later in real life job), earning a bit over $200 a month in base salary, the numbers still won’t add up, considering his penchant for partying, not to mention having to eat and maintain a roof overhead.

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Unless, of course, he has actually acquired the new car through financing and now will be running off with the car without paying for it, stiffing the bank.

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Alternatively, the car perhaps has been paid for with proceeds stemming from some criminal enterprise. This thought is buttressed in the following pages of part two, chapter one, when it turns out actually Cassady has abandoned Robinson and their new infant, apparently in big hurry to leave San Francisco, meanwhile Hinkle has hustled his girl into coming along for the ride because she has some money, Cassady picks up first wife Henderson in Denver along the way, convincing her everything has been a mistake, and they abandon Hinkle’s girl at a hotel in Tucson without a dime or so much as letting her know she is about to be dumped out of the picture. By the time they’ve arrived on the east coast and picked up Kerouac, Cassady is behaving like a speed freak (likely Benzedrine), with telling behaviors clearly indicating more than a hyper-nervous felon on the run. Having driven pretty much non-stop in a mad, speeding (or ‘speed’) journey across the country, this is the freak show Kerouac will now proudly join and pursue with his chronicles.

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I’d just returned from a journey of madness to Egypt, India and Nepal. It was winter in Montana and Freda’s Bar in West Glacier had already been long closed for the season. Not wanting to adjust to a Montana winter, just returned from the ‘Yin and Yang’ café in Katmandu, where I’d actually found a pack of authentic ‘made in the USA’ Camel non-filter cigarettes, an amazing score, better than hashish in my thinking, I packed up my VW

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bug, collected a Chippewa friend, Dave, with nothing better to do, and we headed west and then south. First we drove out to Seattle and went up the Space Needle just to have had the experience, and then drove down the coast. Cutting inland from the Bay Area, we unwittingly retraced Kerouac’s route, out of San Francisco.

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Not turning towards LA after Bakersfield, but continuing south towards and beyond Tehachapi towards Blythe (Kerouac’s more sensible route if he’d not lied about the circumstance surrounding his bus trip and hustling Bea Franco), we were driving through the Mojave Desert in the middle of the night under a starry sky in December.

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Of the three hallucinogens I’d experimented with more or less extensively, Psilocybin, Mescaline and LSD (and never having had a bad ‘trip’ with any of them), Psilocybin was my hands down favorite. We’d been driving straight through and I had a supply of Psilocybin on hand, to stay awake, by far preferable to any of the amphetamines. With Psilocybin, you can ‘graduate’ the level of the drug based on consumption, and your state of consciousness as well, from merely ‘alert’ to full-blown ‘cartoon.’ We’d been lightly nibbling the stuff, time to time, over the hours, I was mesmerized to the tuned VW engine in the desert night at 55 mph, Dave was mildly high and zoned on music with a set of head phones.

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Now, in this state of awareness, the most logical decisions can go wrong and descend into spontaneous cartoon madness, and we experienced one of these events, when I’d decided to have a snack while at the wheel. Not wishing to disturb Dave, I’d reached between

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and behind the bucket seats of the little bug, into a groceries sack and felt around for something to eat. I came up with a jar of feta cheese in brine and decided to have at it. Placing the jar between my knees and clamping it there with leg pressure, minding to keep my eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel, with my other hand I’d unscrewed the jar’s lid. What happened next, was pretty bad. The old VW bugs have a floor level heater vent close behind to where the left foot rests while cruising, it was cold out and the air cooled engine’s heater was on full blast. The feta cheese jar slipped from between my knees when the lid came free, the jar was full to the top with brine and as it happened, the jar dropped and landed on its side in such a way most the brine had poured direct into the heater vent and instantly the little car was filled with a STRONG aroma, closely resembling puke.

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Having been through a war and many back alleys in the 3rd world, I have a pretty strong stomach, plus I had the cognitive understanding the source of the aroma was actually NOT puke but Dave was caught unawares, his headphone came ripping off, eyes bulging and his gag reflex was set off like crazy, not cognizant of what’d happened. “DAVE! DO NOT PUKE IN THE CAR! Was my instant shouted reaction, Dave rolled down his window, stuck his head outside but the initial look on his face had me in hysterics, no cartoonist could draw it without winning a Pulitzer Prize.

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What happened next is priceless.

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Dave could not keep his head out the window for more than a few moments because at 55 mph, 28 degrees Fahrenheit wind turns your entire head into the excruciating pain resembling ice-cold water on a bad tooth. Dave would involuntarily have to bring his head back in with its incredible expression of ‘what is happening’ combined with the most realistic desperation I’d ever seen on any man’s face, his gag reflex would set off again, I would repeat, having to force it out while laughing “DAVE! DO NOT PUKE IN THE CAR! Dave’s head would go back out the window, and it all kept cycling in animated cartoon that had me somewhere near one hair short of helpless with hysterics, trying not to pee myself, all the while keeping a steady clip of 55 mph.

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At long last the gods had pitied Dave, as it dawned on my hallucinogen warped mentality I could pull over to the side of the road and stop, whereupon Dave had instantly leaped out of the car and I became a helpless bag of dissolving, laughing hysteria behind the wheel..

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Dave’s cognitive dissonance must have been incredible, his subliminal reflex acting on primitive instinct when one pukes, everyone should puke, likely an evolutionary hand-me-down from ancient hominids having experienced eating bad carrion, but he can cognitively see I am not puking, and am telling him NOT to puke in the car (where instinct tells him puking has occurred.)

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2

I could get fifty suppositions wrong and still accurately nail the gist of these characters criminality. Not even a full page into chapter 2 and BINGO! My assessment in the preceding chapter had nailed it. I’d written (patting myself on the back here) “Unless, of course, he has actually acquired the new car through financing and now will be running off with the car without paying for it, stiffing the bank.” Kerouac states: “It was a brand new car bought five days ago, and already it was broken. There was only one installment paid on it, too.” So the ‘paid cash’ claim for the car has suddenly died.

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There cannot be any question now, despite Kerouac’s Benzedrine induced writing psychosis, he’d been aware he is embarking on an adventure underwritten by fraud. And then, there is this INCREDIBLY INTERESTING quote from this book (Penquin Modern Classics 2000 [British] edition, page 106) written sixty years ago .. Kerouac attributes to Cassady: “Dean [Neil Cassady] had a sweater wrapped around his ears to keep warm. He said we were a band of Arabs coming in to blow up New York.” Now, I understand amphetamine freaks live in a state of paranoid psychosis, but I think this is incredibly prescient. Without question, in the coming chapters the Henderson chick will morph into former FBI Agent

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Colleen Rowley who’d passed information on the 9/11 hijackers via official channels and the information was suppressed in the weeks prior to the Twin Towers being hit, Cassady will turn out to be Rudy Guiliani whose command central was obliterated in a professional, controlled implosion [demolition] as clearly documented by rememberbuilding7.org, Kerouac is in actuality Godfather George H.W. Bush of the “Family” Harper’s Magazine investigative reporter Jeff Sharlet has written about, and Ginsberg will turn out to be Bibi Netanyahu converted to life of crime by the paranoid-fascistMOSSAD-penetrated-CIA-founded-Christian evangelical/oxymoron organization ‘Jews for Jesus’, all working behind the scene to open every possible avenue for a crew of duped Arabs who resembled nothing so much as Disney’s ‘The Gang That Couldn’t Shoot Straight’, framing the Muslim world for 9/11 via a double false flag event meant to consolidate a police state, have the USA fight Israel’s wars by proxy (MOSSAD) and in the process initiate a Biblical Armageddon prophecy based new era of Christian Crusades (CIA.) Kerouac is writing MAD Magazine’s comic strip ‘Spy versus Spy’, on steroids.

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Uh, let’s forget this immediately preceding, it is the characters in ‘On the Road’, are actual paranoidpsychosis amphetamine freaks, and I digress: George Carlin: Hey Lenny, have you seen Jesus? I've got a question for him. Lenny Bruce: He’s never here on weekends, he ALWAYS goes to the Parallel Universe of Tikkun Olam

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George: Why is that? Lenny: Quantum Mechanics and Communion, every Sunday he’d get all sorts of afflictions if he stuck around, you know, the ‘creating reality’ thing. George: There has to be a joke in this, right? Lenny: It’s actually worse than you’d want to think, since the evangelists put words in his mouth to eat Jesus' body and drink his blood, the liberal Christians give him hives and if that weren’t bad enough, then you’ve got the rightwing pinheads coming down with this cannibal smack, oops, I meant snack .. all taking a bite out of him, the ultra-right parasite Catholics give him ringworm, the fascist parasitic Protestants give him scabies.

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George: Rosicrucians? Lenny: Rosacia! George: Holy fuck, no wonder he bails out of the heavens on weekends.. Lenny: Yeah, it’s like why I left Brooklyn, Hasidics and little boy butt-fuckery .. all these guys looking like Bavarians in bowler hats with pig-tails in the wrong places, I mean c’mon, wherever you see anything like that, you know something is perverted.

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George: Well, I was going to ask him a question, maybe you can help me out. What is up with this ‘Jews for Jesus’ thing?

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Lenny: You mean Jews for Jewdas? I mean, here are right-wing evangelical Jews praying like Pentecostals for the Jews to be destroyed so they can rebuild the Jewish temple in Jerusalem, call it Christian and get Jesus back .. where’s the sense in that?

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George: Well, I was wondering about the ‘makes sense’ part .. I mean, here are Jews trying to covert people into right-wing Christians, and it was right-wing Christians had stamped out six million Jews already .. I’d run across this blog “These Jews need Jesus” .. there’s a joke in there somewhere, right?

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Lenny: Oh yeah, imagine sending a bunch of homosexual-pedophile Hasidic Jews to a straight Puritan chapter of Heaven where no kids are allowed, there’d be a serious riot. As if the fascist Puritans wanted to be outed as well, the schumks!

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George: Actually, that’s a GREAT idea.. uh.. Lenny, how many times were you arrested?

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3

Chapter 3 opens with a phone call from Helen Hinkle (‘Galatea Dunkel’ in the book) who had found her way to William Burroughs place in New Orleans, the woman Al Hinkle has married for her money and then had been dumped in Tucson, broke. The woman is described as a “tenacious loser” and Al Hinkle as “an angel of a man, actually.” The Hinkle woman is trying to track her ‘husband’ down and Al Hinkle has a “worried look.”

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Meanwhile, Robinson, the abandoned mother of Cassady’s new infant has called as well. The woman that is present, Henderson, is good for making out, getting laid, cooking and sewing socks, I don’t seem to recall her being credited with any notable mentality.

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Cassady and Kerouac have a long talk about ‘god’ having ‘no qualms.’ And now Ginsberg will be entering the scene, it can only go downhill from here. I’d hazard a guess these men’s attitudes should jump out at any reasonable person as in fact an authentic misogyny, I doubt it would require a ‘feminazi’ personality to see it this way. These men are cowards, incapable of taking responsibility, particularly in relation to women.

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Defining myself as a slut: I had been reflecting on how women are construed to be “sluts” in monotheism based cultures for any variety of spurious reasons, such as socalled ‘promiscuous dress’, flirtatious behaviors et

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cetera or even for simply presuming to position themselves equal to men. I am in my 61st year. Looking back, I examined how my own sexual behaviors would stack up, were there an equivalent familiar cultural noun for males.

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Because I am a 'straight' man, I’ve not been on the receiving end of the male hierarchy insults, certainly not in relation to social interactions in a sense of communicating sexuality. So I must limit defining myself in terms of a ‘slut’ per actual sexual encounters, which is neither balanced nor fair in relation to the more spurious accusations women (or openly gay men) must face, but it is the best I can do within the cultural norms. Since age 18 I have had sexual encounters with thirtyfive women (and zero men.) I could have had sexual relations with many more women than this, but I’ve always tended not to have encounters with another woman if I am already in a sexual relationship, and I’d avoided women in an existing committed relationship. One was a virgin who became my first serious girlfriend One was a dedicated lesbian who could not explain why she had a sudden desire for and invited the encounter One was a fellow ‘Christian’ college (Azusa Pacific) student who woke me up as she climbed under my sheets from out of nowhere, stark naked (a ‘gift from god’) One was a sex crazed High School girl who could not ever get enough of me, anywhere, anytime, including

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risky encounters in public areas in broad daylight, until I moved and did not tell her to where I’d relocated to One was a mutually agreed ‘we both need a lover’ indefinite arrangement Two were ‘winter blankets’ in Indian country, following a native cultural habit of a mutually agreed short-term cohabitation (typically over winter) Three were encounters with completely unknown women where it simply ‘clicked’ and our clothes came off Five were ‘flings’ or that is to say repeated sex over a period of one to several weeks with no real intentions of a long term relationship, just a mutual desire to get laid Five were hookers, all when I was a young soldier, four of those in Vietnam Seven were serious girlfriends I’d either lived with, or had been married to, one of them for 15 years Eight were acquaintances where we’d experienced a single spontaneous encounter Thirty-three were over a period of 1969 to 1990, I was married and faithful to one from late 1990 to Spring 2005 and have had one six months duration girlfriend since, having decided there is no healthy future in, or any point to spurious relationships.

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In western societies, a man with comparable history would likely be condemned only if he were exposed in puritanical environment or aspired to politics in more conservative societies and in many cases would be admired as ‘manly’ or 'virile’ where a comparable woman would be absolutely labeled ‘slut’ or 'whore' Pondering this preceding, it occurs to me that outside the odd relationship with a remarkable man, any woman who actually believes in achieving equality in monotheism based cultures (modern western civilization) is self-deluded. Before this could happen, the very cultural norms would have to be overthrown, no different to the gods of Olympus had overthrown the Titans.

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By comparison, in Native culture or matriarchy, a woman with comparable history would not be condemned at all. Women are perfectly entitled to ‘shop around’ until they settle down with a suitable or compatible male lover/friend that she would eventually decide on as a good husband/father over the long term, and generally this graduates to monogamy. The father(s) of her children prior to settling down have no bearing on her subsequent long term relationship, there is no attending paternal jealousy experienced by her man and this phenomena reflects in Native language phenomena where there is no single word for 'father' because the same word means 'uncle.'

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4

There is a preoccupation with death and that is discussed .. Kerouac blames everything on Cassady bringing marijuana and the party goes on.. At this point Kerouac is screwing the Henderson chick who has sorted she will be ‘re-dumped’ by Cassady who had earlier [in the book] been making phone calls to Robinson behind her back, as well Kerouac’s sleeping with a longshoreman’s wife, and when he’d brought his six days [48-49] New Year’s eve road party to the house of a friends mother and she had the temerity to say something, the woman is told to “shut up, you old bag!”

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I had walked across the street to buy some 'multivit' fruit juice at the bakery in Wiesbaden and saw a notice taped to the door my microscopic German language skill indicated the premise would be closed on "muttertag."

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The young bakery ladies are always laughing at me, and have been since day one, a social-phenomena I fail to understand and has left me scratching my head (is my fly open?) But it does not matter because the laughter is friendly. So, I have tried to convince them I am the real life model for Inspector Clouseau as I fumble my wallet, money and goods to be purchased with my old soldier syndrome that is my neurological impairment.

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I express mock outrage recently, routinely, at the price of my vitamin juice having increased but needing to augment the joke before it is totally boring, I interspersed today's shock at the price with ridiculously

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profound and sincere relief at the notice of the bakery's closure having reminded me to call my mother on the upcoming Sunday or I most certainly would have forgotten and she would be saying bad things to me.

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Men forgetting mom's special day, the wife's birthday, anniversaries, et cetera, reminds me of nothing as much as the ten years I smoked dope and would sometimes tear my house apart looking for the keys I had 'forgotten' where I had placed (clutched in my fist all the while.)

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I don't see how the dope can be responsible all these decades later, I am certain the tetrahydracannibanol molecule must have left my body's fat cells by now but suddenly stricken with a flashback of dope smoker's paranoia, I had the frightening thought, because I am skinny, the dope is actually concentrated to an unhealthy degree in the paper thin layer of natural insulation and energy reserve so scarce to my physical that when I exhale I sink in the swimming pool, so what would be the point of coming up for air? Exhale to catch my breath and I would sink to the bottom of the pool!! ARGHH!!

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Having fought off the paranoia, I wondered to myself, if I could quit smoking dope, why can't I remember what is important to the women in my life? (down to my 80 year old 'mutter', momentarily ;)

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To quit smoking dope (I had been smoking it like a Jamaican dockworker since introduced to the habit in Vietnam), first I quit buying it. I thought this would breed resentment in all of my dope-smoking friends when I had quit contributing, they would go away, and it would be

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easy. Well, I was wrong.

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A decade of smoking dope with peace and love hippies after the war was like paying into a pension, 401k or CD and earning interest. "Hey Ron, Remember the quarter ounce you fronted me two years ago? Here is a half ounce to return the favor, sorry I 'forgot' for so long." It was not working.

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So I told my friends I had acquired a peculiar religion where the adherents (I was the only one I knew of, but I did not tell them that) give up their abstinence for Lent and live cleanly the rest of the year (one said “Oh wow, like that is so COOL man”) and I stuck to my guns. It worked. Nobody I knew that smoked dope could remember when it was Lent.

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Having thought about all that, I concluded today that this is how it should work for remembering Mother’s Day. One day a year is pretty damn stingy, not only impossible for a man to remember. A man should be given grace and forgiven for the ONE DAY a year he slips up and forgets the women in his life. Prioritizing the women in one's life, everyday as a matter of habit, one is less prone to forget.

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Of course none of this has anything at all to do with my younger sister having given me the butt kicking of the decade recently for not having called my 80 year old mom for a couple of months

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Men, muttertag, and muttering...

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Disclaimer: For those of my readers who are more literal, this disclaimer would point out I am of the 'antiexaggeration' school of thinking.. Example given, when Bill Clinton claimed he "did not inhale", that was an exaggeration. When I state "like a Jamaican Dockworker", or "a decade of smoking dope with peace and love hippies", that is anti-exaggeration." The difference? Bill Clinton is a liar. When I tell a 'stretcher', it is to ‘enhance the truth’ ..

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5

Chapter 5 opens with Kerouac’s mom telling him he’s “wasting his time hanging around with Dean [Cassady] and his gang” but Kerouac decides she is wrong. Ginsberg is in the picture now, dishing out an amoral set of philosophical questions for Kerouac and Cassady, a sort of ‘what does it all mean’ demand that they discover a purpose and he is not talking about any purpose having to do with living intelligently. For example, as Ginsberg demands they come to terms with their plans and predicts they will come back from a mad adventure to the philosopher’s ‘stone’, in the same moment he is doing a threesome in bed with Cassady and Henderson, recalling the previous times in Denver and Ginsberg instructing Cassady in the concept of ‘freedom.’ Next, it is Cassady and Kerouac in bed together with Henderson. Then Cassady beats Henderson black and blue, what did you expect, with Kerouac, Cassady and Ginsberg, a woman is a cover for other issues, she gets fucked in every sense.

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By the time Kerouac, Cassady, Hinkle and Henderson leave New York on this new leg of the ‘adventure’, Ginsberg’s apartment looks like an amphetamine junkie den and likely it is just that, as Kerouac notes [on top of Cassady’s classic symptoms] Ginsberg “wasn’t sleeping anymore these days.”

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No one will tell you, nor is it in any official literature that, at least up to the 1970s, the Coram Experimental Forest outside Marten City, Montana, concealed a

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geophone network in a restricted area, on account of the Hungry Horse Dam having been built on a fault which had since become active.

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Coram had been around since the turn of the 20th Century, Hungry Horse had been simply known as place on the trail where a starving horse had been found before that, and Marten City came into existence in the late 1940s with the beginning of Hungry Horse Dam’s construction and all three had boomed. For five years it was a construction workers bonanza, bars and business flourished, post offices had opened and then it went bust with completion of the hydroelectric project. Hungry Horse, Montana, ! mile west of Marten City, had suffered the larger decline as many laborers had been housed in barracks as opposed to people who’d built houses in what became Marten City, or built or lived in existing structures at Coram. The Bureau of Reclamation owned barracks had been emptied by 1954 and pretty much so was Hungry Horse.

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By the 1960s, Marten City and Coram had become a Montana version of Al Capp’s ‘Dog Patch’ in the Li’l Abner comic strip. What had been left behind were largely people with no wherewithal or motivation to move on, located in ! square mile or so of mostly dilapidated structures, in each of the locations.

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In those days Marten City was largely a populated by Whites and Indians with the occasional Mexican in the mix. A half-mile to the east on U.S. Highway 2, Coram was a similar demographic circumstance. There were more Indians in community those days than in the

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present time, Blackfeet, Cree, and Chippewa (Plains Ojibwe) and Métis (a kind of northern Creole) mostly, with a few Salish-Kootnai and Assiniboine, probably about 30% Indians mixed in with the Whites. This area is the heart of ‘up the line.’

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I would suppose it is because the White and Indian kids grew up together, children are truly color blind and racism is a learned cultural phenomena, we did not know the bigotry you might encounter in other adjacent but off the reservation communities such as Havre, Montana.

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Montana had seen several waves of White supremacists immigrate into the state, because there is no historical Black community to offend their bigotry, first following the Civil War, again with affirmative action in the 1950s, and now recently again but, I expect these more recent migrations will be largely absorbed and defanged over time because they are a minority in a ‘live and let live society’ that’ll turn on them if they go to making serious problems in a mountain culture that largely believes people should mind their own damn business.

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I recall, when a kid in the 1960s, my dad had come home laughing at some local Whites who were an exception, not the rule. They owned a café, I won’t say which one because it has changed hands since and it’d not be fair to pin the present proprietors with the sin, it was the previous owners were racist (and did not last.)

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As it happened, some Black African engineers, I recall from Nigeria, had come to study Hungry Horse Dam. The Black engineers went into the café to eat, my dad

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was present, and the Africans were informed by the woman on shift, “We don’t serve niggers.” One of the Africans had replied in perfect English: “There should be no problem, we won’t be ordering niggers, we are here for something to eat.” My dad had laughed out loud, invited the Africans to sit at his table and that was the end of the stupid stuff. A good customer, with honest reputation, was more powerful than any racist attitude.

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For us kids, it was heaven because for the most part no one really cared about this sort of idiocy, and we had a one eyed deputy sheriff who pretended to get after us but actually believed we had to party because there was nothing better going on for kids to do, and our partying could be amazing events. We were wild, we were free, sometimes we crossed a line we had not ought have crossed, but there is no way Neal Cassady and company could be representative of our character. We had people like Kerouac’s crew migrate in, but that is another story.

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6

Rolling south and then west on the ride to New Orleans, there is a page dedicated to putting down cops as a class, all the while the petty criminal nature of these men shine, stealing gas and cigarettes as they push on. Kerouac is nearly 27 years old, with his mother supporting him when he is not subsidizing his ‘on the road’ with petty theft. Cassady is on the cusp of turning 23 years old. He claims engaging in sexual activities beginning at age nine, not a definitive proof of ‘acting out’ experiencing pedophilia but we do know by age 14 years he had a ‘mentor of promising but disadvantaged young men’ who introduced him to sex with males. Ginsberg has introduced him (and Kerouac) to two-men-on-onewoman sex. Meanwhile Cassady is trying to convince the still black and blue (from his beating) Henderson all should be forgiven and she can move to San Francisco where they can sustain a relationship on the side, when he returns to the abandoned Robinson and his infant child. Kerouac feels stiffed by this unsurprising behavior from Cassady, he’d expected Henderson would be turned over to him to be screwed. Ginsberg has stayed behind in “fag town New York.” Hinkle is along on this ride to look up William Burroughs, where the woman he’d married to get money to begin this ‘adventure’ is waiting for him, after they’d dumped her in broke in Tucson weeks ago, because she is a “tenacious loser.” As they arrive in Burroughs town of New Orleans, Cassady “spat out the window, he groaned, he clutched his head. Great beads of sweat fell from his forehead from pure excitement and exhaustion.” I don’t suppose Kerouac

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would admit, even if he could with 1950s censorship, they are little more than a party of amphetamine-wrecked losers. All this, and we are merely " into part two’s chapter 6.

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The second half of chapter 6 is an ode to William S Burroughs, a junkie (self-injecting every day) and among the every imaginable substance imbibed, such as whiskey, marijuana and morphine, there is Benzedrine galore at his house, Burroughs wife Joan is a complete speed freak. It comes as small surprise Kerouac claims Burroughs had been the guru of himself, Cassady and Ginsberg, they’d all previously ‘sat at his feet’ to learn.

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For all of one’s adventures going about this incredible world and all of its possibilities, it is ultimately unnecessary to sink into a dissolute state where a man will kill his wife, when ostensibly trying to shoot a glass of vodka off of her head in a so-called ‘William Tell stunt gone wrong.’ This is precisely what Burroughs would proceed to do in a few years, when in Mexico.

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Bribes had been paid to release him from jail, and he skipped the country, never answering for this behavior, on top of that, he’d been in Mexico waiting out the statute of limitations on charges in the USA. Prior to this, Kerouac had, together with Burroughs, attempted to conceal a killing, disposing of evidence, when one of their associates had killed another. It never ceases to amaze, how Western Civilization honors and rewards its’ losers, criminal genius notwithstanding. Now, Burroughs is joined the pantheon of the immortal ‘Beat Generation.’

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I was walking alone in the forest outside of my hometown (West Glacier, Montana USA) returning to my house from a visit to some Blackfeet Indians staying in a tipi a mile or so away. Not paying attention to the fact I was not on a trail but walking through the forest simply by familiarity with the terrain, my foot rolled into a small depression concealed by leaves and I heard my ankle break with the sound equivalent to the crack of a 22 caliber pistol. I was about half-way way home, out of earshot of anyone and thought !.. 'well, this is pretty stupid circumstance'"

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Sitting on the ground, I felt over my foot and determined what to do. I tore my shirt into a makeshift wrap for my ankle, to give it some support, stood up and leaning against a tree, looked around for a suitably strong walking stick. I spotted one and hopped on one leg to retrieve it, and completed my journey home."

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My 'home' at that time was a metal shed with a dirt floor, I was unemployed and pretty much broke and seeing a doctor or using an emergency room and being billed, was not an appealing thought. So I packed up minimal camping and survival gear and a few paperback books, and hitch-hiked to the north entrance of Yellowstone National Park."

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Just inside the park, you won't see this in any of the official literature, is the natural drain of the 'Mammoth Hot Spring', where a large stream of very hot water

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erupts from the ground and flows a short distance into the Gardiner River. It is in the river canyon below Mammoth, about 2-3 miles south of Gardner, Montana, where the road from Gardner to Mammoth crosses the Gardner River (there is a sign marking the 45th Parallel) is a parking place, I had made the journey catching rides in less than two days. I hobbled the mile or so upstream along the riverside trail and arrived at Boiling River for my!convalesce."

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For the next ten days or so I spent my days soaking my foot (at times my entire body) in the natural beauty of my surroundings, taking breaks to sun myself while reading paperbacks on the ledge above the river. Elk and Bison had wandered by, the sky was big and beautiful. The river has cut away much of the bank since those days, as it slowly moves in a seasonal migration towards the opening in the ground whence the hot water flows, one day the flow of the hot water will likely emerge directly into the cold flow of the Gardiner River. Then, as now and as in times past, one should be able to find the place in the mixed hot and cold water flows to suit your desire, it is quite a marvelous experience to shift ones body from hot to cold and back to hot with minimal effort."

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America was less fascist and our National parks less policed in those days, there was no one giving me any problem for having a small tent pitched 50 or so yards from the Boiling River hot spring, outside any designated camping area. Nor was it any big deal, in those days, to

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'skinny dip' [bathe in the nude] at Boiling River, people worked these things out with common sense, or as in the case of what I had witnessed one day while sunning like an Iguana (in my cut-off blue jeans), sometimes fate works these things out for us, and that is ok.!Or mostly that would be the case and people who could not handle the nude bathers would find somewhere else or another time to enjoy. Life was more relaxed in those days."

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It was late mid-morning, I was reading 'The Greening of America' (it never happened, obviously) and a group of about a dozen hippies had arrived and all had jumped into the river naked, no big deal. They were enjoying the water where the hot mixed with the cold, after each season's high water people would gather the smooth river stones and build submerged dikes to shape the current into bathing pools of varying temperatures. Not everyone was naked and those not in the nude, did not seem to mind those who were.!"

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But then .. it happened a Girl Scouts troop was coming up the trail, from my perch above things I could see what the others could not, an old and a young scout master, and about 15 teenage girl scouts with towels about to discover at near point blank range that their planned soak was full of naked people."

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The older woman was up at the point of the troop and coming upon the place where the trail first opened a view of a dozen naked hippies in the water a mere 15 or 20

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meters distant, she turned like a drill sergeant and ordered her girls to stop in their tracks. The girls obediently did so, but also you could see there was a certain spirit of rebellion stirring, obviously the nude hippies were no threat, they were women and kids among them, it was not like some motley lot of dirty old men. These were more lenient times, the girls were not horrified, they only wanted into the water, hippies being a common social phenomena of that era, they'd yet to become extinct and this was no big deal, it was plain to see."

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Now, the scoutmaster ladies had separated themselves to one side, to have a 'Plan B' conversation out of the girls hearing, and I swear it must have been the serpent from the garden that freaks out the misogynist Christians, had something to say about what happened next."

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It just so happened a very large Bull Snake frequented that area and liked a pile of old lava slabs to sunbathe and the lady scout masters had chosen those very lava slabs to stand on and have their conversation. The Bull Snake also choose that very time to come up for his morning sun and emerged precisely between the women, at their very feet, sending the two scout master ladies into what appeared to be opposite direction levitations with accompanying screams. By the time they had recovered their composure, too late, all discipline had been lost, and all of their charges were happily in the water, together with naked hippies."

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Recipe for recreating an outdoor hot spring in your bathtub: Hot water on demand, a large window open to a beautiful day, one packet of 'natron' [baking soda will substitute] and a deep tub. Close your eyes while soaking and engage memories of more innocent times .. all the while imagining any sound of traffic are the narcotics deranged tourists Kerouac, Cassady and Hinkle, soon to be fatally gored, having convinced Henderson to take their photo while posing like clowns together with Bison.

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^ Perhaps I shouldn’t have gored Al Hinkle to death in Yellowstone in the preceding chapter, as Hinkle makes a sane decision one can only hope holds up, to bail out of the madness together with the girl who’d previously been dumped in Tucson, the two of them go off to get their own room and look for work. Possibly Al had a ‘back from the future’ vision and changed realities (Burroughs believes in things like this.) The “tenacious loser” (Hinkle’s wife) comes across as the sanest character in this lot of losers, she’d sequestered herself at Burroughs’ place until Hinkle had arrived, having nothing to do with her unwanted host junkies. Kerouac has no use for her.

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Reinforcing the long running thought they’re (Kerouac, Cassady and Henderson) amphetamine junkies, Kerouac notes more of Cassady’s bizarre behavior, as well flat out states the area Cassady and Henderson been sleeping on the couch at Burroughs, is littered with Benzedrine tubes.

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Kerouac, other than noting the odd behavior he cannot relate to, such as the “tenacious loser” extracting Hinkle and moving on, performs an oratory of what amounts to morphine induced political fellatio on Burroughs, worshiping the gifted degenerate throughout chapter 7.

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Burroughs, Kerouac’s fellow Navy reject, who’d also failed at an attempt to join ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan’s CIA precursor, the ‘Office of Strategic Services’, rails against Washington DC, corporations, unions, the country gone

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to hell, and of course it does not occur to him how his lifetime dissolute drug addiction might fit in this theme. On the other hand, I have a lot of respect for Hunter S. Thompson having completed his military service and taking an anti-war stance in contrast to the military reject and holier than thou killer/junkie Burroughs.

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Iraq bothered me because I was certain my eldest son would go [he did not]… a peacekeeper veteran of Bosnia in the Guard. Iraq also bothered me because it seemed we had learned nothing POLITICALLY as a result of Vietnam. Our Vietnam deep involvement was engineered by our combined military-State Department-CIAcorporate industrial complex profit motive with the phony ‘Gulf of Tonkin’ incident… a remarkably false event sharing the identical value of political deceit found in our accusations of Iraq having weapons of mass destruction and Al Qaida ties… one million dead Iraqi civilians later, this is all a part of process in my head, a process not entirely set aside from multiple attempts on my life for my combined life experience and politicgoing to military intelligence and psy-ops skills… not only my successes as an investigator The bottom line is this: It is all about money, a corporate share-holder orgy in government and, now days, with the beyond ‘Orwellian’ twist of religious fanaticism, Christian fanaticism and corporate profiteering Christian driven Islamic fanaticism, thrown in I remembered the Medal of Honor winner who would not cut his hair for Nixon at his White House ceremony after leaving the Army, he’d told the press “I was stoned and I

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freaked out”… relating to his acts of heroism. I wonder what our ‘Bible Patriots’ of today’s American military’s 15,000 strong fundamentalist “Officer’s Christian Fellowship” would think of him? Maybe they would spit on him like the rumors had of our returning Vietnam Veterans experience?? That never happened to me.. Our Veterans service organizations drive off members with their redneck social ignorance and drunken bar scene of regaled war glory, lives and years past, in utter disdain of persons like myself, providing no sober and peace devoted alternative… “blessed are the peace makers”, Jesus wasn’t talking about Colt revolvers… and they can get you psycho money, as your veteran advocate, with their fill in the blank (your name) forms requesting disability reviews for physical and/or mental disability Funny how that psycho rating climbs but not the rating for physical disability even with your health deteriorating as you help Native Americans win successes against corporate criminals… corporate criminals who counterfeit compliance to the law to steal Indian resources.. corporations like Chevron with Condoleezza Rice sitting on the board of directors.. while attorneys with names like Yoo write legal briefs to assist fixing things on the inside I did not appreciate having to go to the same major university medical center the Veterans Administration sends it schizophrenics to be studied, for my evaluation, and pay quite a bit of money out of pocket to get a clean bill of mental health and undo their label ‘psycho’… how

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would they turn my clean result down? They could not. Our labeling and persecuting political enemies had been a bit more careful than that of the old Soviet Union… our more effective dissidents are quietly murdered, typically with difficult to detect poisonings meant to look like natural deaths, or arranged accidents when they cannot be discouraged or discredited. Very likely people such as Karen Silkwood and Paul Wellstone, not only Omar Torrejos And then you have veterans peace organizations driving off (with their socialist drivel) people who’d otherwise be members, leftists who won’t work with the conservative anti-war folk to push change for our common secular sanity and very life survival Our grassroots reform culture, liberal and conservative, seem like a couple that always fight, gossip and consequently turn off the neighbors… to the wealthy corporate criminals’ advantage and life is a drama like some morbid reality show, when in fact this essay is a fair glimpse of a very present reality in relation to reality past… we are NOT learning from our mistakes and uniting to force change in our politics, rather allowing the same players play the same subversions of our rule of law with their corporate criminal influence buying game in ever more dangerous gambits in an ever more dangerous world The 82nd Airborne at Fort Bragg, 1972 I did not know anyone who went to church. Some undoubtedly did, but it was not pushed in our face. Our

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self-sobriquet in those days, the jumping junkies, was a barracks neurosis of fitness, drugs and frequent lockdowns A murderous collective killing machine to face in battle, no doubt, despite numerous soldiers whose life was a cocktail of fitness and drugs… men that easily could win commendations or medals for valor, ‘freaking out while stoned’, our training was that good, that had been demonstrated by many of us already in Vietnam No one I knew needed to be motivated to patriotism or simply do a good job as a soldier with mandatory Bible studies, the fundamentalist crap being force fed today’s troops. I’m getting ahead of myself in the story’s timeline, but I wonder how our Vietnam experience stacks up to today’s military’s fundamentalist Christian reality, my recollections are of a more honest military, or are just more honest recollections and certainly no less brave Fort Lewis, 1969 In Indian country, where I am from, it is the size of your heart that counts. I was in two fights in basic training, and I did not start either of them. The first was picked by my trainee squad leader who thought he had to be a bully to lead. I did not back down. He was easily 1/3 larger than I, physical stature and weight. He won that fight, but I was not defeated and he knew it… I gave him far more than he ever could have expected, in fact about the limit he could handle, and showed no fear. He left me alone after that go round and stopped picking on people. He was smart enough to learn. The second guy I fought,

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closer to my size and none too bright, was put onto me by a bigger guy that did not want to take me on. I made short work of him. No one made us go to church Fort Rucker, 1969-1970 Your army gratitude for graduating the light observation helicopter maintenance class at the aviation school… which means you could be sitting on the back floor of a four seater, legs out the side, feet on the skids with a machine gun in your lap, playing tease for a gunship you are partnered with in a ‘hunter-killer team’… is to be washing pots and pans in the school’s cafeteria while waiting for your assignment West! Vietnam! I never saw the guy’s face, my orders appeared as papers clutched in a fist thrust through the slot for trays with dirty dishes… my reaction was a strange mix of adrenaline and sinking stomach… nobody was making us go to church At Travis Air Force Base, 1970 Shipping out, I’d heard of the Vietnam ‘fuck you lizards’ and took it to be an environmental psychosis, I did not, I could not, see this as anything short of a soldier’s urban legend. Lizards simply do not say “fuck you.” That was my naive reality… and the fact is, no one was marching us to church. And lack of church is NOT why we lost Vietnam At Vung Tau, 1970-71

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I’d been transferred to Vung Tau after six months inland as a member of the smallest combat assault aviation unit in Vietnam, I had been assigned to brigade aviation at a brigade of elite light infantry shock troops. We were brutal to the enemy in combat AND unchurched. I’d never heard a ‘fuck you lizard’ so much as mentioned, let alone seen or heard one It was on my first night shift guard duty at Vung Tau, I’d had smoked a joint of potent Vietnamese marijuana, that was normal by now, was settled in behind my small sandbagged breastwork for what I figured would be a boring night. And then, from ten feet behind me… clearly, and not meekly, a human voice had stated: “Phuc uuu!” With every hair follicle on my body an instant goose bump, I spun 180 degrees and would have cut anyone standing there in half with my Colt automatic rifle… if someone had been there Now, worse than the non-existent Viet Cong taunting me, the marijuana paranoia called the ‘noids’, began to work. I had completely forgotten about ‘fuck you lizards’ and my sanity was crumbling… no one at Vung Tau had warned me of this enemy because, for the soldiers already stationed there, this was ‘normal.’ I probably thought, ‘Man, I should have gone to church’ The lizard’s accent is like an American saying ‘fuck you’ through a kazoo, only 95% human and 5% kazoo… hence the perfect Vietnamese accent and spelling- ‘phuc

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uuu’ It must have been the alpha male phuc uuus which were at times particularly vocal, a sort of major mucus throat clearing, before hurling the spitwad: “oh-aw-ickk-phucuuu-phuc-uuu-phuc-uuu” The CIA propaganda teams trained the lizards, that and the fact of our Vung Tau Viet Cong phuc uuu heroin smugglers, kind of makes me snigger at the idea of $500 million Taliban heroin profit claims… because it was phuc uuu reptiles dressed like ‘Men in Black’ delivering the heroin via the CIA’s “Air America” planes, to supply our Vung Tau addicted soldiers The Vung Tau Viet Cong phuc uuu lizards were selling our good food downtown, using U.S. Army trucks to deliver, our soldiers had to buy their own food back to get a decent meal, sort of making me laugh at the thought of our ‘Christian’ military leaders pointing fingers to corruption in Afghanistan, following on Halliburton in Iraq One of our cooks was so outraged at preparing the substituted friendly fire killed Water Buffalo for our meal, he made marijuana brownies for our phuc uuus cadres (and went to jail saying oh-phuc) The lizards took a cut of the taxi fares, from those taxis allowed to use the premium parking outside our base gate, the phuc uuus drove up the fares this way and our soldiers drove the taxis away from the gate with a wrist rocket and ball bearings, muttering: ‘phuking phuc uuus’

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That got us all into trouble and we became the phuc uuus confessing in formation. Our phuc uuu 1st Sergeant: “I want the device and I want the responsible parties to step up front and center!” From the back of the formation: “Phuc uuu.” That came from my squad and suddenly the 1st Sergeant was at the rear of our formation, in my face, “West! Who said that!!” From the front of the formation came the words: “Phuc uuu” The ‘Biggus Diccus’ scene in Monty Python’s “Life of Brian” HAD to have been inspired by the “phuc uuu” interrogation at Vung Tau And the one guy I knew of in our company who’d ever gone to church, our Jesus freak, was a good guy, never pushing it in our face, but most of us knew no piety at all and we did great work rebuilding the war torn helicopters At Camp Frenzel-Jones (Long Binh) 1970 We called him O, no kidding, simply that, O. Behind his back some called him Psych-O, one of his helicopter combat team-mates had told me O became sexually aroused in combat. I thought that was interesting but who cared? O was a killer and a good one and, that was premium in our business But killers, in the military, not only on the street, must be managed, like the time I was driving an errand and O had wanted to come along because it was along the route where he could buy good opium laced marijuana cigarettes. Coincidentally, these were commonly called

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‘o-jays’ by the soldiers, rather fitting… I stopped at the small business stand on the highway between Long Binh and Saigon where O made his purchase, I’d gotten out of the truck and was checking things out when O’s eyes suddenly seemed to roll up behind his lids and come up again from below, a different person… he had pulled a 38 caliber pistol from his pocket and was about to shoot his drug dealer for short changing him when I stepped between them, pushed O’s arm holding the pistol away while making eye contact and saw recognition registering as I told him “Get in the truck O, we’re leaving…” I was not a serious pothead, just curious O was a 50 caliber door gunner on a Bell UH-1-H model helicopter converted to a gunship, a frightening killing machine packing O’s 50 Cal, as well there was a modified XM-27 ‘mini’ gun system: a large volume, multiple barrel, high speed modern 7.62mm crew directed Gatling gun driven by an electric motor- a grenade launcher was onboard, also assorted hand grenades that could simply be dropped out of the aircraft by the crewmen (our crews flew with the doors removed), these included fragmentation and ‘white phosphorus’ grenades… a white phosphorus grenade dropped into enemy positioned using jungle canopy for cover can be especially effective in panicking and flushing targets into open space where they are easy kills. I don’t recall we were ever taught this was a war crime violating Geneva Conventions, or maybe it was not banned yet, but I doubt it would have mattered… it was about killing the armed enemy in combats and it was called ‘whatever works’ Being good killers does not come naturally to just

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anyone, and most of us, unlike O, had to learn. Many learned to kill by learning to hate. I recall one of my fellow soldier’s laughing about having dropped a CS (tear) gas grenade on a Buddhist funeral procession as they flew over at low level… I thought that was pretty mean but it was emotional survival to him, he had learned to hate the “Gooks” in order to feel right about killing them. He might still be maintaining his hate and emotional survival by telling war stories while drunk in a Veterans of Foreign Wars club None of the soldiers I knew believed our political leaders godless communist enemies were ‘children of Satan’ we could indiscriminately kill, families included… that is happening now days with our special operations in Afghanistan… Our Vietnam soldiers accepted surrenders and I never knew of any murder of civilians other than the My Lai massacre and the murder I prevented. But our crews did have lots of those ‘feels right’ hate opportunities to do things like drop tear gas on outdoor weddings and funerals.. because we flew just above treetop level most of the time… in order to be a brief and fleeting target away from any unexpected enemy ground fire Back at Vung Tau I don’t know or cannot recall who began it. Maybe it was a soldier snapped and said “I’ll show you fuck you!” It was after dark, on a weekend. Maybe thirty of us had not gone to town on pass because we had no money or did not care to. The numerous phuc uuus were especially vocal that night. Someone had found a stick and began

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killing the phuc uuus and the soldiers suddenly mobilized as though ordered to the attack and went on a lizardkilling rampage. Flashlights were brought out. More and more killing sticks were located. It went on for maybe two or three hours, until a living phuc uuu could not be found. Lizard bodies were everywhere If there was anything we could have learned in Vietnam, it is: even the lizards were meant to hate us

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8

Kerouac and Cassady steal bread, cheese and a carton of cigarettes at their first fueling stop, having left New Orleans for “Frisco.” Describing the untended store he steals the bread and cheese from as a ‘shack’ where he can hear family eating dinner in the back room, he justifies his act with a sort of pseudo anti-capitalist “crooks don’t know.” What we cannot know is the extent this act may have injured a family’s small business. Cassady steals the cigarettes. The drugs, alchohol and gas money for this portion of the trip is Kerouac’s G.I. Bill dollars meant for college. He does not explain how this is possible, given he is a navy washout but we can assume he found a means to cheat the system or there were then liberal rules governing veterans assistance.

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Cassady tells a story of two years previous in Beaumont, Texas (as they are passing through that town), how he’d the opportunity to pick up a starving runaway girl out to steal an orange and brings her home, while noting “her beautiful body was matched only by her idiot mind”, as Burroughs was trying to screw a young Mexican kid by getting the boy drunk, and Ginsberg is inspired to write poetry in the midst of this, high on heroin.

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Out in west Texas Kerouac shoplifts their bread and cheese again: “We couldn’t spend a cent on food.” The amphetamine psychosis has caught up with them, Cassady stops the car and strips naked, gallivants about in the sagebrush, Henderson and Kerouac strip as well

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and they drive on stark naked, stopping again to explore an Indian ruin and then Kerouac falls asleep while Cassady and Henderson are screwing in the car. They are about out of gas money by El Paso. Dean vanishes for awhile with a local who suggests they mug someone for money and while Kerouac denies any real intent in this regard, Cassady reappears saying “that is one crazy guy” and they are somehow able to roll on with no gas money, out of El Paso. About this time Henderson has begun to rue the entire adventure, and particularly her association with Cassady. Kerouac subsequently claims he pawned his watch beyond the New Mexico-Arizona state line, to make it to Tucson, but he is inclined to concealing certain facts (including his homosexuality) and has been shown to be an invertebrate liar, relating to culpability in larger embarrassments. One might safely assume this leg of the journey had been funded with a felony robbery.

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Kerouac borrows money from an acquaintance in Tucson and they push on in amphetamine-induced insomnia. Montana libertarianism has nothing at all to do with tea party politics. How it all began with our ‘live and let live’ philosophy almost certainly stems from the Civil War and tens of thousands of gold prospectors from north and south alike, having to get along. There was perhaps the occasional hard-line southern partisans from a camp at ‘Confederate Gulch’ east of the Missouri river, rode through the main street at Helena, firing revolvers into the air, and that was pretty much all our country-side experienced of the war. Then we had our bad-men, Henry Plummer and gang, and around the turn of the 20th century, Kid Curry was operating in the state.

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A few decades later we had Lucky Luciano using our wild country for liquor running from Canada during prohibition, as well purportedly using the ‘Silvertip Ranch’ outside Marten City to chill out. After, in the 1950s, Montana became a haven for both fugitive NAZIs and fugitives from the McCarthy ‘anti-communist’ persecutions, it has always been a good place for people who’ve wanted to drop out. If they’d gone about killing one another as a matter of habit, it’d work for no one and so Montana people have always pretty much looked the other way, in the best interests of all, to get along.

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And that’s how it was for the kids growing up, an amazing amount of tolerance, and liberty, and when kids had been sent to the youth prison at Miles City on occasion, it was not a big deal. People understood we live in a very imperfect world. They were welcomed home when time was up and life moved on. I knew some of these kids, consider many of them friends to this day and they were angels by comparison with Cassady and Kerouac.

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Mike S. was brilliant, not mean. He had, like many of us (and some of our parents) realized school was a lot of horseshit intended to structure us into sheep. How can you expect the children of multiple generations of antisocial outlaws, among solid good folk, and there had been plenty of overlap, to train to be an accountant, or god knows what other mundane life of totally & utterly disinteresting self-slavery, to conform? We hated school and there was quite a bit of understanding and lenience.

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Mike had, on one of his more inspired days, taken a Montana Highway Patrol officers uniform out of the parked patrol car in front of the Deer Lick Saloon, put the uniform on and began directing tourists up a winding 70 miles of gravel road to a wilderness border ranger station, because, as he’d decided to imagine for these unfortunates, the main road to Glacier National Park had been closed to all but emergency services. The Highway Patrolman came out of the saloon, where he’d been having a leisurely hamburger, there was Mike standing out in the road, waving local traffic through, but tourists were being sent to nowhere and Mike was delivered to the Flathead County Jail at Kalispell, Montana, juvenile offender cell. That was a big mistake on the authorities part. They should have just given him a talking to.

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As it happened, the juvenile cell’s one wall at the beginning of the cell-block must have been a mere plywood or single layer of brick separated it from the evidence room and Mike was a typical country kid, strong as an ox. That night he’d broke through the wall in a bid to escape and found him-self among cases of confiscated whiskey. He ferried the whiskey back into his cell and began passing full bottles out to the other prisoners, handing them through the steel bars, the whiskey passed from out-stretched arm to our-stretched arm from cell to cell and the entire jail population became roaring drunk. And, of course, Mike was sent on to Miles City..

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9

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Kerouac does not know what a ‘hairpin turn’ is, calling it a ‘u-turn.’ There no more mention of stealing to eat, and no mention of going hungry and so we are back to essentials multiplying like ‘fishes and loaves’ by a man who whines if he misses a meal, on the other hand, people strung out on amphetamines typically lose any inclination to eat after awhile. They’d taken the Tehachapi route going north, the one I’d mentioned made more sense to take south if he’d not lied about the circumstance of hustling Bea Franco on the bus to LA. Having made it to Oakland, Cassady dumps Kerouac and Henderson on the street (so he can run off to fuck Robinson, ASAP) with a vague promise to find them in the morning, and Henderson is slowly figuring some things out as she states: “You see what a bastard he is? Dean [Cassady] will leave you out in the cold any time it is in his interest.” Kerouac agrees with Henderson in his bald-faced lying way, his modus is no different. He’s been aching to get Henderson away from Cassady so he can screw her as much as he’d like to and then discard, just like he has screwed other women he’d made a conscious decision to fuck and dump (e.g. Bea Franco.)

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I’d been hiking with friends across the Bob Marshall Wilderness complex, we’d entered the area at Spotted Bear River, near where it meets the South Fork of the Flathead River, above Hungry Horse reservoir. We’d hiked the Wall Creek trail across the Spotted Bear headwaters country, into the North Fork of the White River on the west side of the Chinese Wall. I woke up one

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morning to the sound of a shotgun blast and the slug had whistled right over me as Mike T. had hollered “Venison today boys!” On the other side of me from Mike was a small deer, it had been knocked down by the slug. Mike ran around me and over to her, having reloaded with birdshot and while saying “Take it easy girl” to the deer (struggling to get up) had finished her off with a second shot at point black range to the back of her head.

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We cut her up and built a makeshift soak-tub from a plastic ground cloth, filled with the deer cut into strips and topped off with water, sea salt and cayenne pepper. I’d gathered some wild onions from the sandy river-bed and we had fried venison liver and onions for a late breakfast, went fishing, had trout for dinner. At dusk we’d woven a thin green willow-branch drying rack that had been suspended by supports, forked branches stuck into the ground, about a foot above our campfire.

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Through the night we’d taken shifts, feeding a fire deliberately kept in a low state of combustion, with a mix of dry and green wood fed in a small but steady stream, to keep the fire going under cover of dark with low light, low heat and high smoke, the rack covered in pre-soaked venison strips. At daybreak the fire was snuffed and the entire valley, full of smoke, soon cleared off. We each had a decent supply of preserved (semi-dried, salted, and smoked) Robin Hood’s ‘king’s deer’ added to our packs and moved on. That was our first few days hiking an incredible paradise, but only one among many interspersed journeys in various local company, a taste of what had been, prior to the environmental devastation

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attending the social devastation visited upon wild peoples in what had been a wild land, a Paradise lost and a Paradise that would remain unknown to most that would come after. We were the Indians, the people we’d grown up with. What was the point to respect convention? This will never substitute for self-respect.

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10

Kerouac states about Henderson: “I saw what a whore she was” after Henderson had sorted a place for them to stay and he’d fucked her for two nights and began fighting with her, probably because he treats women like shit. When she had taken up the company of some other people and that is too much for him to handle, he dirt bags her. Kerouac closes chapter 10 spewing a few of pages of amphetamine psychosis-guilt-laden-gibberish about his mother ashamed of him in imaginary former lives and how miserable and hungry he is.

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We all had noticed, at different times, on different journeys, that you could not get high on marijuana when on sustained hikes in the wilderness. Smoking good weed was like smoking nothing at all. There was no point to getting stoned. Hiking above Big Salmon Lake, via Smokey Creek trail across the Swan Divide, a route to take us out at Lake Holland, with 100 plus miles of trail behind us, we’d met a camped party, hosted by professional wilderness outfitters.

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It blew the minds of the city people when we’d described our route and calculated the intervening distance on a meandering ten days hike that had seen us looking to the east from the top of the Chinese Wall (Continental Divide) near Larch Hill Pass, exploring the White River country, and then the upper reaches of the South Fork of the Flathead from White River Park to Big Prairie up the one side and down the other, past Holbrooke to Little Salmon Park, and then with a short loop back, now

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headed out above the Big Salmon. They were a hunting party, we’d given them several trout we’d caught a bit earlier, they were super pleased with that gesture of simple country hospitality and friendliness, and they’d given us each a beer. Then we’d pushed on, we’d be out later that day.

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‘Two Buffalo Bulls had walked to a crest and saw a herd of cows in the valley below. The young bull pranced in a circle and proposed: “Let’s run down there and breed a bunch of those cows!” The old bull had replied: No, let’s WALK down there and breed them all..”’

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We crossed the Swan divide and walking down we came to Upper Holland Lake, where two hundred girl scouts were camped out. The scout master ladies we met were curious, duly impressed with our hiking ‘across the Bob’ feat and probably horny. They invited us to camp out with them that night. The four of us country boys looked at each other, saw opportunity for BIG trouble, I’m guessing the film ‘Three in the Attic’ had crossed every one of our minds. We politely declined, explaining we had a schedule to keep, there were friends would be picking us up for the ride back to the car we’d left at journey’s beginning (not true.) At Holland Lake Lodge we bought Snickers and Almond Joy candy bars. Weed would get us stoned again.

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11

On the Road’s part two, last chapter opens with: “Dean found me when he finally decided I was worth saving.” Cassady: “Where’s Marylou man?” Kerouac: “The whore ran off.” End of Part Two

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Part Three
1

Of course Kerouac opens part three with a lie, no surprise here. He states he’d almost been hired at a job but if you look at the context, either he’d quit or been fired. Having used a G.I. Bill check forwarded to him by his mom (now it is plain she proactively enables what she has to know are fraudulent endeavors) he’d returned home from San Francisco, and then uses another of these government education checks to return to Denver, fraudulently enrolled in school he cannot be attending if you believe his timelines. That or his attendance is spotty at best, with no real inclination to education but rather acquiring the benefits to further dissolute adventures, a deceitful literary voyeurism. This would be easy enough to accomplish, in those days government bureaucracy could not begin to keep up with actual attendance (no computers) on what amounted to an ‘honor system.’ He doesn’t find any of his despicable party friends in Denver and launches into a self-flagellating oratory of guilt, not feeling adequate, unconsummated desires, a depressed self-portrait of a loser. Then he states:

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“I went to see a rich girl I knew. In the morning she pulled a hundred dollar bill out of her silk stocking and said ‘you’ve been talking of a trip to Frisco, that being the case, take this and go have your fun.’ So all my problems were solved.”

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I now can believe Kerouac has been a male prostitute and as much as admits it without saying so, his ‘rich girl’ might have in her fifties and a Federal judge’s wife for all we know. He doesn’t name her. Alternatively, it might have been the Federal judge himself, dressed up as a woman for public consumption in Kerouac’s memoir. And then a whadda-ya-know moment, he catches a ride west to San Francisco with pimps. The closet whore-boy Kerouac now runs again to Cassady as though to be reunited with his one true love. There can be little doubt Kerouac and Cassady have been lovers, Kerouac and Burroughs have been lovers, Kerouac and Ginsberg have been lovers and Kerouac’s rewrite of what now amounts to a Petronius’ ‘fellatio-satyricon’ on the road, moves on.

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It stretches the imagination to understand how Kerouac could possibly be idolized in literature except one were to ‘step outside the box’ of the subject at hand and look at what is idolized in a larger sense: misogyny, criminality and associated but closet lifestyle of prostituting oneself. In this case, one needn’t look far at all to discover accurate comparison of Kerouac’s work to another societal deceit on a macrocosmic scale:

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I’d been perusing titles at ‘Books in Berlin’ (an English language bookstore) somewhat absent-mindedly, but noticing quite a few titles dedicated to international intrigue. I suppose that should come as no surprise, there are many CIA and other English fluent ‘spooks’ in town, as well they must have quite a few local acquaintances and it is reasonable to assume they’d be interested in ‘shop-craft’ reading.

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I had no particular interest in the fiction side of the game, it is difficult enough to sort through the propaganda and disinformation rife in non-fiction titles, but then a book I happened to glance inside the front cover caught my eye.

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“Body of Lies is fiction but reads like fact. CIA officers admire [author David] Ignatius because more than any other writer he understands the nuances of their trade – fascinating” George Tenant, former CIA director.

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‘Well then, why not’ was my thought and I purchased the used paperback Body of Lies. If George Tenant was accurate in his assessment of the book, and there is no reason to expect otherwise, he’d have done the agency a favor to have kept his mouth shut.

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But first, the author. It has been a very long time since quality fiction has been appreciated, and David Ignatius adds to the thought. Though not as cheesy as, say, The Da Vinci Code [my other read of contemporary fiction in recent years and a profound disappointment] the quality is far short of classic American literature. It is not so much a phenomena of dearth of quality writers in modern American literature, so much as it seems there is a dearth of readers who can appreciate quality, which sadly is no longer seen in best selling works, we have not seen a Washington Irving in quite some time. David Ignatius is no Washington Irving and Body of Lies is no ‘Astoria’ .. but is better than Dan Brown’s cheese that passes for literature.

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If Body of Lies accurately depicts CIA covert operatives and actions, as Tenant claims, I should recommend the book as a lesson in why CIA is about as useful to my nation as the folk proverb ‘tits on a boar.’ Other than revealing his taste for crass literary shallowness, Tenant also should have kept his mouth shut because he has authenticated/endorsed:

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1)Cowboy culture and mentality. Throughout, there is a hackneyed and simplistic theme of ‘if we kill first, they won’t kill us’ coupled with the idea ‘what the politicians don’t know (breaking laws, committing murders), won’t hurt them (or us)’ leading to: 2)CIA operations officers who are culturally so selfcentered, narcissistic and vain, there is no qualm felt whatsoever at sending repentant jihadists, even innocents into intrigues, as pawns in circumstance that often gets them killed, to further any objective, no matter how minimal or trivial the gain, attended by the thinking 2 wrongs or 10 wrongs or 100 wrongs can add up to make something ‘right’ for the American people [by a virtually lawless CIA]

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One gets a sense the author/book deliberately cheats certain social realities to promote a fantasy ideology, and one gets this is how a ‘body of lies’ so to speak, is fed to the agents who worship this author. The simplistic protagonist is a CIA officer with a ‘conscience’ who falls for the books heroine who does charity work in refugee camps, with plot set in the radicalized Islamic world of the ‘war on terror.’

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She works on his head with a principled demand he cannot be CIA and have a future with her because someone has to be the ‘good American face’ with a demonstrable commitment to social justice for the Palestinians. But this aspect of the plot altogether fails to convince because the author hammers on a theme of ‘they all want to kill us’ [Americans] without any delving AT ALL into the WHY.

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There is zero honest history presented [zero history in fact, as though it were too embarrassing to present to the reader] of the long time habit of the CIA and other western intelligence agencies manipulation/exploitation of the Islamic world on behalf of western economic models (corporate boards) with deceits, corruption and violence.

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In this novel, Murder Inc (CIA) happily runs amok murdering with patriotic spin while going after Murder Inc Jr (Al Qaida) with no end in sight and no honest attending story line of how we had arrived in this circumstance.

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Our CIA operational officer protagonist dutifully follows orders he knows will get people killed without cause, rhyme or reason, repeatedly, and demonstrates little conscience in this regard, if only it might lead to one more ‘tip’ and in fact it is obvious he [or the author] only is capable of caring when it comes to the woman he thinks he wants to fuck for the rest of his life, a portrait in actuality of a sociopath (at odds with any suggestion the man has real feelings.) Her character is developed

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almost entirely on chauvinist habit of perception, what a great lay she is, and no aspect of her ‘caring’ in the purported social cause is developed, bringing across the idea the author (and his fans) are in fact incapable of any depth in this regard.

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The sympathy for Islam set in the book is mainly based in admiration for duplicity, and underlines the idea Islamic culture is based on a principle of ‘dissembling’, and there is no ‘ordinary’ Muslim character developed in any sense of a sympathetic human understanding (other than admired as a fellow killer in the trade.) In fact the books ‘happily ever after’ ending strongly sends the message there is none, and cannot be, any American with Muslim heritage accepted as a patriot or trusted to work honestly for CIA.

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Body of Lies would be excellent reading for the ideologically driven intelligence agent who wished to keep his or her head in the sand and promote killing without conscience while maintaining the self-deceit a worthwhile action and patriotic goal is pursuit of western economic domination (modern corporate board colonialism.) .. no different to On the Road would be excellent reading for anyone who wished to deviously and simultaneously glorify and excuse dissolute excess.

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2

Chapter two opens with Cassady welcoming his lover Kerouac who is unable to grasp how it is Robinson would see him as the devil incarnate set out to destroy her life. In Kerouac’s absence, Cassady has been stalking Henderson, a self-admitted ‘Peeping Tom’ he is painting her a prostitute by claiming (in Kerouac’s rendition of the ‘facts’) she is sleeping with every sailor in town, there is no consciousness of any double standard even if this were to be true. That Kerouac has it in for Henderson is quite obvious and we know he has a propensity to smear the characters he does not like.

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Cassady claims he smoked bad weed and went out of his mind, tracked down Henderson with a gun and told her one of them had to die. He hits her so hard he breaks his thumb and wrist but claims she was not hurt. Henderson marries a guy who tells Cassady he’ll kill him if he ever comes near her and now Robinson, while shouting “Liar!” at Cassady throws Kerouac and Cassady out of the house and their new episode of partying can begin.

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And finally Kerouac has the unmitigated gall to express an almost fatherly sentiment towards Cassady, a concern actually quite accurately approximating a pedophile ‘mentor of promising but disadvantaged young men.’

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Narcissism

Don’t you think..? One said.

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No, I feel.. Said another.

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Insecurity, Passion-aggression Is missing Having been loved-

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All success’ measures Sole accomplishment Nurtured image, Not feeling.

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Where is the child? No love reflects Passive-affection’s Cold desire to be acknowledged-

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This trick Of self in glass is: The thief Of self at last.

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To be loved For what you are NOT Could be The most important thing, so

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Why.. Hate that Which refuses To be you?

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3

Kerouac convinces Cassady to abandon Robinson and his child again, they determine to party in San Francisco for two days and then head for Denver. A newly married friend is strong armed into leaving his wife, to chauffer them about the Bay Area bar scene, Cassady having had his car repossessed.

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Kerouac and Cassady now go looking to round up fellow dissolute excuse for humanity, to share in the upcoming debauchery. They find Hinkle’s wife at home, and she tells the men off, what a bunch of worthless fucks they are and how they destroy women’s lives, specifically naming Robinson and Henderson. Kerouac pins all accusations from Hinkle, together with responsibility for all episodes of their criminal behavior on Cassady, we know this is a lie because Hinkle has been in direct contact with Robinson and Robinson clearly points the finger at Kerouac being the instigator of the misery brought into her life. Kerouac is in the classic trap of having told so many lies he cannot keep track of them all, the original lies, the lies made up to cover for the lies in the first instance, his entire narrative falls apart for anyone who’d care to examine the facts as opposed to worshiping the perpetrator.

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Kerouac, Cassady, Burroughs and Ginsberg are horizons beyond ethically filthy people. They are evangelists for a misogynist criminal immorality. That Ann Charters could, in her introduction to this book, have glossed over this fact with her passing, pale excuse “prevailing

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attitude towards women of that era” or whatever were the unconscionable and inexcusable verbiage she’d used, is little different to the present day Catholic church denial of reality in regards to institutionalized misogyny and resultant homosexual pedophilia, and to be even-handed, you will find similar denial in any fundamentalist group with a certain fable at the core of its culture’s founding, the lie of a woman responsible for all of our world’s ills on account of an apple and her collusion with a snake.

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Riddle

A recipe for abandonment wrought empathy and compassion only to see this put away by empathy and compassion. What both is, and declines to be, truth?

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4

Kerouac would have you believe the woman who’d just written Cassady (and no doubt himself) off as deserving of nothing less than being shot dead for their behavior towards women, now goes on to party with Cassady and himself. In this way Kerouac paints Helen Hinkle a crass hypocrite. Next, the women walk out, embarrassed by Kerouac supposedly having nothing more than innocent fun (that smells bad) and the method employed to seduce the reader is to elevate the Black musicians and their undoubtedly deserving music in an exaggerated way (one wonders what they might have thought about their audience, were they have to read Kerouac’s book.)

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The incredible hypocrisy of denigrating a ‘fairy’ in attendance jumps out, recalling Kerouac is a closet gay. Burroughs and Ginsberg make cameo appearances over the two day span of drunken self-inflicted stupidities, then Kerouac and Cassady slip out of town like the cowards they are, no doubt for fear of certain women.

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We knew how to party and our women loved us. Hal and Randy had come up with a 1932 MAC freight truck, built a dance floor on the back with stereo and keg rack, the summer of 1969 was on! ‘Marten City Mac’ partied up and down ‘the line’, at Lion Lake, Emery Bay, among other spots and when the traveling party on the back of a classic truck with trailing caravan had become too noticeable (not good for the Glacier Park tourist destination image) and the Montana Highway Patrol had

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staked out our area, we stayed closer to home and took our week to week ongoing party to ‘the burner.’

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‘The burner’ was a very large steel tipi shaped structure at an abandoned sawmill in the forest outside of Coram. Furnished with carpets, beds, arm chairs, whatever was donated or could be salvaged from discards, with a huge bonfire in the center, ‘the burner’ had been the scrap wood disposal system for the sawmill and in fact had been the sawmill’s ‘burner.’ Forty kids could party inside without seeming over-crowded.

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Not far away was Lake Five .. and to give some idea of country boy antics that happen for no particular good reason, one day Mike O. had rounded me up, he had a couple of cases of beer and just the two of us went for a row around the lake in a 14 ft aluminum boat, drinking all the while. We had gotten pretty damn drunk while rowing around and swapping stories. Of course one will eventually have to piss in this state and I stood up and was wizzing over the side of the boat into the lake when Mike decided to have fun with that and began rocking the boat to make taking a leak into the lake a challenge.

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Damn drunk as I was, I’d balance problems to begin with, having to find sea legs in a rocking boat was giving me concern because we did not have life jackets and I was cognizant enough to realize drunks can’t necessarily swim all that well. Or maybe I just did not want to go overboard and with my whang hanging out at that.

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While trying to keep my balance, and the piss over the side accurately, I started cussing cease and desist orders in vivid language and suddenly Mike gave up and collapsed in a heap of hysterics. I failed to see what could be so absolutely entertaining but the boat was drifting in such a way, as I continued pissing, it turned slowly and into my fogged vision, which suddenly focused, I saw the Lake Five Resort lawn and swimming dock with wide-eyed tourists in bathing suits, everyone of them staring in a state of perfect disbelief, at a distance of about thirty yards.

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5

Chapter 5 opens with: “The car belonged to a tall thin fag..” as Kerouac and Cassady catch a ride to Denver, Cassady calls it a “fag Plymouth” and goes on to remark “Effeminate car!” These two have SERIOUS manhood issues, and one [this writer] expects had they been born into the wealth and power of the military-industrial complex, they’d easily have become fraternal brothers of those many generals who conceal their true sexual orientation as they’d ‘made their manhood’ mark with careers cluster bombing civilians and placing the women they’re incapable of actually caring for, on pedestals.

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Kerouac goes on ecstatically about saxophone as though the instrument were an erection; in terms of ‘blow’, ‘blows’, ‘blowing’, followed on by “throbbing poles.” Meanwhile the other people on the ride are beginning to worry about the (certainly Benzedrine fueled) madness in Kerouac and Cassady. Cassady attempts to hustle “the fag” for money, male prostitution comes up. Cassady, when it’s his turn at the wheel, entertains himself and Kerouac with a demonstration of everything you should never do while driving, actually doing it and frightening the bejezus out of the other people in the car who are plainly happy to be rid of Kerouac and Cassady in Denver, time to time a smidgen of truth slips into Kerouac’s narrative.

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Gender is certainly considered a complex and interesting thing. Yet were something ever so simple? By

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comparison, juxtaposed to western languages, American Indian language is gender rich, inclusive of many degrees of androgyny On the other hand, male hierarchal order (western language and civilization) with few and simple gender expression, has a high degree of repressed homosexuality rooted in artificial masculine narcissism and denial (monotheism/ego) perpetrating a fear-based suppression of precisely one half of innate human intelligence, that is, feminine intelligence. It’s as simple as a fable blaming all of our world’s ills on a woman, apple and snake, (on the Planet of the Killer-Homosexual Frogs) And when I say this, I am not speaking of the ‘symptom’ of repressed women in western civilization based cultures, but the reality of the suppressed feminine intelligence in western culture’s largely male mentality, where most men likely never gave two seconds thought to the fact all of us have a ‘pair’ of brains, one masculine and one feminine, that is our left and right hemispheres America's homophobic (repressed homosexual) religious right worships a fantasy figure bearing no resemblance to the Jesus of history, in fact their's could be called 'Himmler's Jesus' .. a sort of Nazi deity with relationship to the tea party similar to Hitler's relationship to Albert Speer (on the Planet of the Killer-Homosexual Frogs) The notoriously evil Michael 'Dr Egghead' Hayden has called for a cyber-version of Blackwater which would result in homophobic neo-con hyper-extremist virtual reality mercenaries loosed with hacking tools in the name of 'national security.’ We live in a science fiction

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horror movie to a greater extent everyday, when fantasy is merging with reality (on the Planet of the KillerHomosexual Frogs) "The Jesus loves nukes speech" .. just the simple fact of neo-con "chaplains" teaching the ethics of launching nuclear weapons for the United States Air Force should loosen the bowels of about everyone on the planet (of the Killer-Homosexual Frogs) And what of the women attracted to these violent repressed homosexual males, inclusive of women truly worthy of wearing ‘pant suits’ like Michelle Bachmann & Sarah Palin? Terrified they might ‘discover’ they are gay, were the western male mentality (includes ‘Bull Dykes’ Bachmann & Palin) to admit sincere feminine qualities (we all have them, it is hard-wired into how are our brains are built) in defiance of the western culture’s monotheist model's narcissist masculinity, rather than a healthy mental androgyny (a truly heterosexual psychology) where people are allowed to express natural proclivities, instead you have an angry repressed homosexual civilization that could be called:

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‘Planet of the killer-homosexual frogs’

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6

Kerouac opens ripping on gays when Cassady has said something pissed him off : “I’m no old fag like that fag” and the Cassady gets all hurt and has been crying over Kerouac in such a way Kerouac makes him out to be like a woman in the way chauvinist men make women out to be weak. It is interesting interaction as one might expect between a ‘man of the house’ stereotype and his woman with hurt feelings. It is interesting emotion not having been expressed in any sense towards any woman to now.

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Kerouac denies responsibility for being at fault for anything in this world. The chapter is developing into a rip on Cassady, similar to the idea you should never befriend someone whose favorite epithet is ‘Judas Priest!’ Kerouac pins a pedophile lust on Cassady over a 13 years girl but it is unconvincing, his perceptionsdescriptions are too intimate-personal. This must be Kerouac’s own behavior described. The “committed Catholic spiritualist’ Kerouac ‘protects’ the girl from Cassady, closing out the chapter.

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Do Not Be Like The Hypocrites

Jesus is almost certainly the most misrepresented man in history. 'The Christ' is established in scholarship as an invention [lie] by the so-called St Paul, adopted by the church, and smears the reputation of the historical Jesus [a great teacher] by adapting Greek paganism rites that turned animal sacrifice into the Christian ritual human sacrifice and cannibalism known as 'Communion.' Any

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rational person who will like to know the history behind these facts need only look into the research of 'The Jesus Seminar.' A gesture of respect to the authentic, historical Jesus would be to explicitly condemn any reference to Jesus' so-called 'sacrifice' claiming his blood had been shed to 'save' people, the most perverted belief ever to contribute to the collective madness of Western civilization infecting the world. I've yet to meet a Christian professing blood sacrifice 'salvation' open to reason and learning, insofar as understanding how much harm these sort of archetype myths do, particularly in relation to perverting the minds of children and desensitizing people to human slaughters on a grand scale. Talk about pornography. If human sacrifice and ritual cannibalism as base foundation for a culture do not make a pornographic culture, I can't imagine anything that does. Maybe it's time to practice a bit of common sense and simply create a social scene where these images are not welcome and let people wonder what it might be like to live 'beyond the pale' or be 'tempted' so to speak, to discover the possibilities when they are willing to step beyond the fear mongering and necrotic bonds of ignorance. We live in a literate world these days, perversions of history should no longer serve as instrument of superstition created by the power corrupt to control people through fear. There is no healthy rationale to provide hospitality to any being harboring such absolute social poisons the

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image of blood sacrifice entails. I certainly don't need it in my life. Jesus should not be associated with hate mongering and mainstream Christian dogma is chock full of invented hate, this evil is not limited to the religious right. From the misogynist story of 'The Fall' to Cain and Abel requiring blood sacrifice to ‘God’ it just goes on and on. It's time to acquire sanity, quit ritually killing and eating Jesus and genuinely healthy people would want no associations with people who do that. Particularly the people who push the idea Jesus tortured to death is a good thing (as though on a billboard) but consider: Are those who quietly celebrate this killing and eating of a human being any better? According to Robert W. Funk, Roy W. Hoover and the Jesus Seminar- The Five Gospels: The Search for the Authentic Words of Jesus. New York: MacMillan Publishing Company, 1993: “For Paul, the Christ was to be understood as a dying/ rising lord, symbolized in baptism (buried with him, raised with him), of the type he knew from the hellenistic [Greek] mystery religions. In Paul’s theological scheme, Jesus the man played no essential role.” “Eighty-two percent of the words ascribed to Jesus in the gospels were not actually spoken by him, according to the Jesus Seminar.” “The church appears to smother the historical Jesus by superimposing this heavenly figure on him in the creed: Jesus is displaced by the Christ, as the so-called

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Apostle’s Creed makes evident.” “Words borrowed from the fund of common lore or the Greek scriptures are often put on the lips of Jesus.” “The evangelists frequently attribute their own statements to Jesus.” “We know that the evangelists not infrequently ascribed Christian words to Jesus-they made him talk like a Christian, when, in fact, he was only the precursor of the movement that was to take him as its cultic hero.” “Jesus rarely makes pronouncements or speaks about himself in the first person. Jesus makes no claim to be the Anointed, the messiah.” “Jesus taught that the last will be first and the first will be last. He admonished his followers to be servants of everyone. He urged humility as the cardinal virtue by both word and example. Given these terms, it is difficult to imagine Jesus making claims for himself- I am the son of God, I am the expected One, the Anointed- unless, of course, he thought that nothing he said applied to himself.” The historical Jesus was a healer/teacher having nearly nothing to do with church teaching, hate mongering actually, and a reasonable person should be able to see the good in Jesus teaching has been buried, notably, among other things Jesus had stated: “You cannot serve God and money” While the Catholic church has fought tooth and nail to keep pedophilia scandals under wraps to preserve

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church property and finances from lawsuits and, “Give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s” As ultra-right Catholic bishops have devoted themselves to undermining secular constitutions and rule of law.

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7

Chapter 7 opens with Kerouac and a quart of Old Grandad whiskey, as he continues to impugn the character of Cassady while taking no responsibility at all for the company he keeps or his part in their criminal behaviors. He pins a dangerous new scene over another barely pubescent girl on Cassady, one can only wonder whether it is actually Cassady, and in case of projecting his own behaviors, if he is honest about the sex of the child.

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What we likely see developing here is, Kerouac cannot bring Cassady home to his mother, having promised to take him back to the east coast and Kerouac ALWAYS runs home to his mom. So Cassady has to be trashed in order to justify dumping him or justify making him vanish. That Kerouac has a large hand invested in destroying Robinson’s attempted bringing stability to Cassady, to live responsibly, would never occur to him.

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Kerouac makes himself out a kind and caring father figure to children at the house where they are staying, even as he has been drinking hard liquor in the kids presence and is generating a scene drawing their mother into going with Cassady and himself on a roaring drunken spree about town. Cassady steals five cars over the course of the morons’ day of partying, Kerouac helps him dispose of the last one, so it won’t be sitting at the house where they will be passing out.

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Going to accountability in Native humor, I have a crosscultural observation: morality masks a plethora of behaviors ethics cannot. Native American humor was all about ethics, that is no matter how harsh a truth, it must be out in the open at the least as a metaphor, the purpose in Native humor is all about keeping things honest. So, I will write about an Indian, a culturally intact Indian.

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Imagine the insanity of a tribal mentality taught to observe and honestly remark on the world around them suddenly cast adrift into the ego shielding 'Honky' sea of political correctness. Now, this native mentality is only certifiably insane because of context, or better said, an out of context circumstance. This is because in the native world from which he had sprung, politically correct is actually a buzz word for the circling buzzards of Indian humor, any Native who hears the words 'politically correct' is apt to drop everything and listen in to the most recent wisdom and insight (always in the format of the often untranslatable to the Whiteman 'Indian Humor') ripping the people who trashed 200 years of treaties and moved on pretending as though nothing had happened.

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This endeavor goes to shatter stereotype of the 'taciturn' Indian which is actually a reflection of the little understood Native cultural communication phenomena of rather than say something honest to a Whiteman that threatens the Whiteman's ego and be killed for saying it, just shut up.

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Now, for simple literary device sake, we will make this Indian 1) White skinned and 2) the last of his kind. How could this happen and the said Native persona is alive in

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the 21st century, a full 150 years since the Native custom of a White captive child raised to be Indian?

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Well now, to be honest in the Native way, we must address this portion of the literary endeavor with a joke story drawn from real life, a sort of collage of facts assembled from bits and pieces of diverse experience, combined with anecdotal information to create the culturally intact inherent Native wisdom found in their humor.

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In other words, parts of the story from here out are an autobiographical facts incorporated rip-off of other peoples life stories and experience. And because unlike the White world, the Native world entertains paradox in daily approach to life, some more of what follows is simply made up from the imagination's fund of plausible improbabilities.

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We'll call the Indian “Ron” although his native name in the Cree Indian country he hails from is 'Moon-i-Yas' which can be translated either "Not like us" or "Paleface." In “Ron's” case it is "Paleface" when properly translated, because the other translation applies to people who act like Whites, rather than look like them.

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And by Native definition, “Ron” is Indian on account of his cultural behavior, his 'pale face' simply being unfortunate circumstance or, better said from the Indian perspective, that peculiar cosmic joke of life circumstance which one way or other manifests the Trickster aspect in all Native experience.

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To kick off the story, back in the late 1940s there were people just like today's truly Honky folk, real White people, that behaved in all sorts of self- repressed ways and repressed their own kids because of their staunch Puritan belief in H.L. Menecken's maximum that 'proper' Puritans must preoccupy themselves with the horrifying thought "Someone, somewhere, might be happy." So they learned to follow Jesus command to 'love' by 'loving' to hate.

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Because of the 'love' factor in 'loving' to hate themselves, their kids and their fellow man, making 'love' is more often a rape than not, 'loving' their brothers and sisters is 'loving' to tell other people how to live their lives, and 'loving' security is to create an insecure society so they can 'love' the idea of a police state.

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Now the daughters of these fundamentalist people, whether the arch-conservative Protestant or the ultraconservative Catholic, are not so different to some of today's young women, raised in families that with bared fangs dare anyone to so much as mention sex to their children let alone have it taught anywhere other than at the kegger parties of the young people, who learn to hide the realities of their lives from their parents because you are punished whether you lie or tell the truth. So lying becomes in vogue because if you are young and you lie, you might not be caught and punished for enjoying yourself, whereas if you tell the truth you will be punished every time.

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So impromptu sex education at the young peoples parties gives a whole new meaning to expressions such as

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'powerpoint' and the many unwed young mothers resulting are simply one manifestation of God's will and Jesus commandment that people 'love' (other peoples misery, whether Neil Cassady, Michelle Bachmann, Jack Kerouac, or Sarah Palin and the Puritans.)

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As fate would have it, in the late 1940s a young Catholic girl had gone from her conservative family upbringing and all girls school, where the nuns would not touch sexed with the proverbial ten foot pole, in Chicago, to college at Gonzaga in Washington State where she was introduced to sex as a sorority girl by innumerable happy to oblige young men .. at the 'Girls Gone Wild' parties before the era of exploiting these events on video.

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Concealing her inevitable pregnancy from her far away folks, not having known what a condom is, she was driving home to Chicago with her new born, this was in 1950, give or take a year or so, and dropped the infant off on the doorstep at the Catholic Rectory at Havre, Montana, with a note pinned on the swaddling infants dress: "Ron"

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A Chippewa Medicine Man from the nearby Rocky Boy’s Indian Reservation was at the cinema close by, he enjoyed the classic 'Bugs Bunny' cartoons preceding the movie and paid his entry fee for that but then always left. The movies themselves were non-sense to him.

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Walking along the street, he noticed a dropped envelope, picked it up and was surprised to see it was stuffed with cash. He noticed the black ink stamp of the Catholic

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parish on the envelope and walked to give it to the priest at the rectory, and found the infant.

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Stepping around the child and standing on the step above, he knocked and the priest answered the door. The Medicine Man stated "I found your lost money" and handed the surprised priest the envelope.

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The priest, who hated this Medicine Man his Native parishioners would sneak off to see behind his back, shouted "Returning this money won't buy YOUR way out of Hell!" and slammed the door in the Indian’s face, before he could tell him about the child.

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The Indian knocked several times more, and patiently waited, but there was no further opening of the door. So, he picked up the kid and took "Ron" home. Given to the Medicine Man's niece who had her own infant the same age, "Ron" was suckled, named "Moon-iYas", surrounded with love and the native joke the newly found 'twin' was result of "Indian Immaculate Conception." No one of the Indians wanted to give the found kid to the meaner than shit White people at Havre, Montana, it just seemed wrong.

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When it came time to take the infants to the Indian Agency for birth certificates and enrollment, the Agency people just figured they were fraternal twins and there was a White father of the one child. So "Ron" grew up Indian. He moved to Al-boo-quark-ee in the southwest because of his fond memories of the old Medicine Man

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mimicking Bugs Bunny's pronunciation of that city's name.

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Sixty odd years after “Ron’s” birth, President Obama ordered DNA tests on all Indians to reduce the Native Enrollment and save money better spent on wars and corporate militia than Indian health, kicking Indians that could not demonstrate 75% Native American blood off their reservations. It was discovered Moon-i-Yas, a.k.a. "Ron", was the last White captive and he became a national sensation. What bloodthirsty savage had murdered his family and kidnapped this child? And anyway, a White Indian had to be a subversive, the bloodthirsty murdering savages that raised "Ron" had to have imparted their pagan licentiousness to him. The FBI was ordered to investigate "Ron", it was a matter of 'National Security.'

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Meanwhile “Ron” had discovered a few things about White people. Like when an arch-conservative fundamentalist Republican principal of a lily-white charter school surreptitiously run as a private Christian institution that doubled as a cover for intelligence agents masked as teachers who break every civil rights law you can imagine, have discovered you have raised your kid Indian, all of the state apparatus is arrayed against you for the satanic act of being an ultra-liberal permissive parent. Allergies causing red eyes are interpreted as the child being a devil, but because there is no law to charge you with for that, you are investigated for drugs. When you are courageous enough to fight back for your kid and call a spade a spade, it is 'undue hostility towards authority' and you are investigated for terrorism. Failing

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every effort at criminal entrapment and being counterinvestigated, assassins are dispatched by the neo-con hate mongers... and failing again and it again it all just keeps getting bigger- FBI criminals implicated, Department of Defense criminals implicated, CIA criminals implicated, the criminal Church implicated, the National Security Agency implicated, allied intelligence, MOSSAD particularly, implicated.. meanwhile the White, Native American Jason Bourne-savant-idiot-tricksterclown has ‘pantsed’ the fascists again and again!

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Because “Ron” really IS Indian, he fights back with taunts and satires, in the post –modern weapon of blogs. "Ron" taunts the establishment with the idea of "Jewels Misogyny", wherein these neo-con closet-gay institutions of accelerated education attended by the children of the military/industrial rich and powerful, only the brightest and most beautiful women teachers are hired… and must adopt masculine persona like so many ‘bull dikes’ as have the Michelle Bachmanns and Sarah Palins of this world, women who consequently marry self-repressed homosexuals attracted to these so-called women because of their male persona. They are all ‘men’ resembling nothing so much as castrated mannequins in drag.

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The end result? Either liberal women who hate themselves (Jewels Misogyny) for their participation in this travesty, job security being more important than ethics and fighting back or, women with "Acquired Ego Priapism Syndrome" like Michelle Bachman and Sarah Palin or the 'imaginary' school principal. Women who behave like sexist and racist men. Woman-male rapists of our values of tolerance and compassion, the liberal and

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libertarian values that are uniquely American, the ability to live and let live. Women of Bachmann and Palin's class which join with criminal-fascist men in covering up constitutional crimes with religious façade Obama is afraid to pick on.

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Of course the initial culture clash long ago was the Indians being shocked at how harshly the Puritans treated their children, the cause of many a 'captive White' raised in Native freedom and, conversely the Puritan horror at the liberty of the Native children resulting in the practice of "The only good Indian is a dead Indian." Not so different to Palin's persecution of the Native Alaskan children with her racist drive to remove Native jurisdiction over Native child welfare. Palin is a Honky (not hockey) mom, a Puritan White, psychologically male, racist woman with Acquired EgoPriapism Syndrome, i.e. a chauvinist.

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What I mostly enjoy about this story is, in the modern politically correct world where only women can refer to a woman as a bitch, and get away with it, no differently than only gays may refer to themselves as queers or fags, only Blacks can call themselves Niggers or Asians can call themselves Gooks or Chinks, Mexicans self-refer as Beaners, Jews calling themselves Kikes, Indians laughing at the idea of being Prairie Niggers, and Sheep bleat to themselves they are Meadow Maggots, without a hate crime referral, this Indian author can call the right wing fascist White people in absolute racist terms "Honkies" and totally get away with it because he is White skinned. I say that especially because of Supreme Court Justice Alito referring to "Marauding Indians" in a

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context of self-defense in recent decision on firearms, I suppose he thinks we should be hunted like wolves from planes. But because no one ordinarily can comment on physical attributes such as gender or skin color outside their own race or sex freely, this prevents in any politically correct circumstance the real or broad examination of the perverse Puritan sexist and racist BEHAVIORS tied to the descriptions which underlie psychologically male Honky right wing criminal women like Bachmann and Palin who resemble nothing so much as the drag queens Neil Cassady and Jack Kerouac must have fantasized themselves, had they dared to be openly gay. Gee. Somehow the story did not end up funny. I'll work on that.

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8

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In what is likely a stolen Cadillac, purportedly a limo they’ve been entrusted to drive to Chicago, Kerouac and Cassady pick up a pair of Jesuit students and take back roads out of the Denver region, stop at a ranch house to eat with people acquainted with Cassady, and not surprisingly, these folk appear relieved to see this crew shortly move on. They head north, to take the Nebraska route east, less populated, less traffic, and fewer cops. Cassady has already lost control and put the car into a ditch, damaging it. He continues to demonstrate amphetamine-induced behaviors.

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Kerouac, prior to having bailed out of the single mother’s home from where he’d initiated this latest chapter in an ongoing cross-country criminal spree, now running from the law, makes himself out to be a tender, devoted and caring father figure to the children who’ve witnessed (and possibly molested in the course of) this episode, in a much lionized ode to debauchery. One is amazed that once ‘On the Road’ had been published, Kerouac insists to the myriad reporters pursuing him, for years after, he is a “committed Catholic spiritualist.” In the paradox of things, this may be the one truly honest stance in life he’d ever taken.

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I Wish To Introduce To You A Lie

A person might have the three dimensions of no sense of guilt, no shame and no fear of outcomes and be either psychopath or highly evolved, depending on a peculiar

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circumstance… the absence or presence of a fourth dimension.

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Going to the difference between values and ethics or, sympathy and empathy, I will point out a typical social lie most of us are not aware of: the idea just because we can have values and express sympathy, we are whole or complete beings.

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Values are meaningless without ethics or, the applied principles which is the power actually to care for someone other than ourselves and be aware of the effects we might have in outcomes in other peoples lives, our responsibility for others we incur with the making of life choices impacting others, taking decisions.

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Family, and children especially, in order not to become emotional deserts, rather to be strong, require in the beginning, exercising the paradox of a principled stand precluding the emotion of sympathy.

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Sympathy is a robber, enabling feeling sorry for oneself. People who express sympathy enable themselves and others to feel sorry for themselves and are the ones contributing to the cycle of people dying inside, expressing and enabling sympathy only reinforces behaviors which are self serving and shallow.

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Empathy empowers. What is empathy? Empathy is the ability to set aside any self-serving emotion or motivation and know in some sense a compassion for the circumstance of another. Empathy as a capacity to care for another can only be acquired via the discovery of

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principled behaviors or, better said, the fourth dimension of ethics which precludes any sense of real guilt, shame or fear, in a positive sense of self. Empathy stems from a positive sense of self-acceptance.

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Guilt, shame and fear taken together with sympathy are used to manipulate and control in the negative sense of shaming, the shaming of children particularly. This teaches feeling sorry for the self, inculcates a blindness to positive outcomes and perversely too often creates a self-centered numbness to negative motivations guilt, fear and shame.

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Here is created the emotional desert of no real personality, a seeming wasteland devoid of the fourth dimension of empathy and ethics: equaling what might be the hallmark of the psychopath.

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The psychopath knows: No sense of guilt for hurting others with their behaviors. No sense of shame for being shallow without any real caring for a person outside their own self-centeredness. The psychopath knows no sense of fear of consequences in relationships, is incapable of feeling or taking responsibility for damaging the emotions of people whose lives they shape and must rightfully depend on them for examples of stability and a future, especially children.

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All of this negative self-centeredness only can only come across as a life lived as a lie, whether sensed in the self or sensed by others. No matter how strongly values are expressed with language, the preceding only develops a

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heightened sense of self-worthlessness, to a point of numbness.

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Without applying a discipline to the self, a practical decision taken without self-pity, conforming the self to a certain principled stance with taking personal responsibility for those whose lives you must without question impact, negative reciprocity must be the outcome.

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We lose our children most often because of emotional disconnect. A principled stance applied to the self in relation to ones behaviors can open the door to know empathy, to discover caring for another and watering the seed of a healthy emotion.

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No sense of guilt turned on the self rather than projected onto others, might enable a positive self-examination. No sense of shame turned to the self-examination might enable opening space for what one could become. No sense of fear to look at the shallowness of the self would perhaps open one to grow inwardly, to overcome any sense of worthlessness, even nothingness.

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The spirit of any child must become severed from the parent who may have been there in every superficial aspect but was not there in the most important way, a way of showing the ability to model caring for the self inside. The self inside that knows to be both kind and principled in example to the child, the self inside that knows to care for a child in the empathy of a spiritual relationship of peers that engenders a sense of loving

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admiration, the self inside which shares with a child the development of self respect.

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Without these, a child can wither and become lost… we so often lose these kids because we have provided no healthy sense of love, they are dying inside themselves and suddenly we may not see them again. Because they’d had no sense of being protected, they ceased caring about themselves in any healthy sense, they made poor decisions, meeting life tragedies far too often.

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I wish to introduce to you the lie your behaviors can only bring demise in your relationships with yourself and family when in actuality you could be a short step away from great ability of knowing what it could mean to discover to be alive inside, to know a sense of being loved such as only a child can bring to you, a sense of self respect, an opportunity to grow deeply, to discover and develop a real personality.

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Principles which are applied to the self, ethics, not values superficially espoused, can serve to sustain life opportunity for those who must otherwise despair in ways children cannot know how to explain to you, on a road to one day become lost for having felt cast adrift, the emotional desert of having died inside. Conversely, it is a simple sustained act of self-discipline that can lead to birth inside, to have a genuine personality. Both your child inside and your children will respond to you caring for you.

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To be a child again, to explore in small and simple ways together the marvels of our existence, to know children

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will love you unconditionally because you become open to the idea you are valuable to them, let this rise from beneath the surface of having become numb to real emotion, to know what it means to be free, to explore the world anew with small friends that desire to know your presence intimately, deeply, those friends who depend on us, our children.

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I wish to introduce to you the lie of your worthlessness, shallowness, and incapability of becoming valued and deeply considerate in a reciprocal love knowing the real meaning to care. I wish to introduce to you to the lie of your being a psychopath.

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9

Having left Denver in a hung-over rush to get out of town ahead of the police, chapter 9 is one long description of Neil Cassady’s amphetamine fueled psychotic criminal endangerment of people across several states, with long stretches of road driving over 100 miles per hour. Concluding in a stark admiration Kerouac states: “We had come from Denver [to Chicago] 1,180 miles, in exactly seventeen hours .. for a mean average of seventy miles per hour across the land .. with one driver.”

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In a way, Kerouac and Cassady remind me of Russell Means, likewise a hypocrite, self-aggrandizing liar, misogynist and criminal, and like people who admire Means, people who admire On the Road must lack confidence in their ability to be free, idolizing the wrong figures and overlooking a collective set of un-corrected behaviors which clearly amount to a damning indictment.

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Russell Means would not know me from Adam, were we to meet, is my guess. So now I will remind him of what is not forgotten. Russell and I go back over 30 years, to the International Treaty Councils held at Fort Belknap in Montana. I was invited by the Atsina members based on my association with the old Blackfoot Confederacy, The Kainah, Sisika, Amskapi Pikuni, Skinee Pikuni, Sarcee, Atsina and particularly because of my relationship to the Pikuni peoples.

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On one occasion I accepted, and generously donated considerable financial support to this American Indian Movement event. Delegations from numerous tribes attended, from the USA and Canada. My nephew, Devalon Small Legs, from an important family of Canadian AIM leaders of that time, attended from the Skinee Pikuni, I was the only Amskapi Pikuni present.

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AIM had incorporated both political and spiritual movements, our Blackfoot confederated members tended to the spiritual side. The difference is, the spiritual people understand that to be Native American is primarily a way of life, a lived philosophy. I am White. But I grew up bi-culturally Native American, with relationships in the Native community from my youth. My Pikuni spiritual people had always honored this. Also my Plains Ojibwe and Cree peoples.

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Russell’s AIM people did not even bother to inquire when they met me, they saw a Whiteman, judged me on that fact solely and Russell accordingly has been a fool for over thirty years. Indian people should never have to be instructed to be civil in their Native community. On top of about $700 out of pocket to help feed the International Treaty Council event and provide some travel money, a lot of money both for myself and that community in that era, I had brought in some non-native people with open minds. I wished to create empathy, open channels of dialog and raise awareness in the outside world concerning the cruel apartheid system our subjugated tribes suffer.

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Russell’s AIM delegation killed that. The only people from the Means camp to visit our camp, came to make pointed racial insults. It was so bad, my Blackfoot confederacy people and Atsina hosts had to call a special meeting simply to insist we be treated in a civil way. It never happened (civility from Russell’s people) but the worst of the insults ceased. So much for dialog.

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At a subsequent meeting attended by Russell and myself in Great Falls, Montana, Russell had to be pointedly told I could participate in the Pipe Ceremony by my nephew Devalon, the AIM spiritual leader for that event. That was the last and only time I had personally met Russell, but I have kept an eye on him since.

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I am related to the Gophers, a plains Ojibwe family. I am not close to all of them, I will say it is for reasons more traditional people would understand. However I did know Robert Gopher, a key International Treaty Council supporter, quite well. To be fair, I will say Robert was a well intended but bullheaded and not the brightest man. When our relative, a Gopher kid, was to be sentenced for manslaughter, a result of drinking and driving, Robert asked Russell Means for help. That was a big mistake. The kid was guilty as hell, with multiple prior offences, and instead of opening a civil dialog in the community concerning why these things too often happen in the repression of enforced poverty, Russell shot his mouth off to the press to the effect the prosecution of the kid amounted to “racism.” That was pretty rich, based on my experience with Russell. His “racist prosecution” statement was all over the Montana newspapers, it

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pissed off the judge and the book was thrown at the Gopher kid, he got the maximum possible sentence the prosecutor was asking for, 100 years.

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When I met the author of ‘In the Spirit of Crazy Horse’, Peter Mattheissen, we had a short conversation about Russell. I told Peter that Russell is a “really big asshole” and Peter agreed with me “Yes, Russell is a very big asshole, but he is an important asshole to his people.”

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I respectfully disagree with Peter. There is only one important asshole in Indian country, and that asshole is Old Man Coyote. Russell went on to bail out of Sundance and dumped his Montana Sundancers in the middle of vows, that made the newspapers with tribal spiritual leaders pointedly upset, he rode off into the sunrise, when he got a call to be a movie star in Iroquois country. It would be fitting he played a bad guy.

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And it came out the non-violent AIM educator, Annie May Aquash, was murdered by the Means faction of AIM, the order to kill Annie was given out of a meeting held in a Means brother’s kitchen. Like Peter Mathiassen and many others, I had believed it was corrupt law enforcement had murdered Annie, but that was Russell’s AIM faction line of bullshit. It hurt, that one. Some of our Indian people are no better than the goons who persecute us.

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And then, Russell’s wife called 911 in New Mexico because he was beating her.

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Finally, Russell tried to run for tribal council, the most corrupt and repressive banana republic regime you can imagine, tribal councils being completely in violation of the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights and habitual offenders against Native American human rights and a mainstay of the American apartheid system for Indians.

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I am not aware Russell has ever corrected himself in these matters. In the Indian way, when you have made mistakes, they must be confessed. Russell had stated: “For the world to live, Europe must die.” Russell should better look at killing the “Europe” in himself. Because the ego of the Whiteman, also known as refusing to learn and correct oneself, is fatal to what it means to be Indian- that is to become generous, gentle, kind and loving people who live in a beautiful way.

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People should, in the circumstance of Russell presenting himself as a role model for our young people, question whether Russell actually is an authentic Indian who has overcome great adversity or, sadly, whether the facts point to Russell as a failed and angry trash product of the Boarding School legacy.

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This is something Russell clearly has never grasped as a concept; he has never walked the walk. Insofar as the facts speak for themselves, in the old Native way, Russell Means is without character or substance, the man is a ‘nothing person.’

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10

Hiding the Cadillac is the first priority of business when arrived in Chicago, reinforcing the thought the car had been stolen. After cleaning up and recovering the Cadillac to go out and party all night, Kerouac describes the jazz takes and names the greats and their legacy while at the clubs, one wonders what the musicians might have thought of his making their performance into a metaphor for fellatio. Cassady finishes the job of ruining the car while they’re out and about.

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Purportedly turning in the now destroyed Cadillac [with California plates] to its owner in Chicago, leaving the car off with quick getaway, Kerouac closes with: “We never heard a word about the condition of the car .. in spite of the fact he had our address and could have complained.”

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Throughout this book, there has been a consistent theme of exploiting young, vulnerable and/or impressionable women. One can only wonder how much damage occurs from the fallout of being lied to by handsome and sincere seeming young con-men, to get laid and nothing more, how many of these women realize, and how soon and following how many negative experiences, the priorities of western culture’s males stand no higher than those of male Chimpanzees searching out opportunities to breed.

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Breakfast at a Pizzaria

Britz, a southern suburb of Berlin, I had once described as more than dead, actually dead and embalmed. It is the

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most ‘German’ area I’ve encountered in this city, which is more typically multi-cultural, vibrant and alive.

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I had been staying with a friend over the weekend, and on Saturday morning walked to find an out of doors café for early breakfast and coffee. In this large suburban area with few opportunities for culture in any sense, there is a reasonably large shopping center located at the JohannesThalerChausee [Germans run words together like a double mouthful of pasta] underground station, where there are several possibilities for uninteresting food. But only the pizzaria has pleasant out of doors seating .. with a typical German breakfast menu. So my decision had been made for me.

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Here in Berlin’s spiritual center for the German ‘I hate my life’ culture, I had an interesting hour’s observation. The pizzaria’s waitresses obviously have been hired for their sex appeal, and are apparent ‘high maintenance’ personalities who despise working Saturday mornings for any number of possible reasons but the most obvious reason is they’d had a ‘real’ Friday night preceding.

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There was one on shift when I’d arrived at opening hour (9 AM) and all of 3 customers to begin the pizzaria’s day. She came and took my order with the forced and pained smile that typifies the mainstream German philosophy: ‘I hate my life.’ Her amazing bum might offset this for some of the customers, perhaps a calculated ploy of management.

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Waiting 40 minutes for my food (to her credit, my coffee arrived in 20) my typically agile mind took in the surroundings.

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Berlin’s urban sparrows have adapted to scavenging crumbs from beneath the tables at the out of doors cafés, but have not evolved patience with the slow deployment of possibilities on Saturday mornings. One of them, communicating irritation at my providing no timely sustenance to her growing family, took the opportunity to perch directly above my head and aimed a defecation directly my way. I saw the danger and dodged the bomb.

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Then my coffee had arrived and thinking to dispel further danger, I broke the little graham cracker that came with the coffee into bits the size of a match head and flicked them ten or so feet away from me, to preoccupy the sparrows. One of the other customers watched all the while with the typical German look of disapproval, which was supposed to halt my anti-social behavior.

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But this was not nearly as important to me as placating the angry birds. At 30 minutes, the waitress reappeared with a plate, napkin and utensils, as well as senseless salt and pepper, but not my food, and I only was pleasant to her. Over the past ! hour preceding, two more waitresses had manifest, slowly, as though eternity were about to begin, concluding the previous night’s passion play. These two had arrived consecutively, first to drink a coffee and smoke in their civilian clothes, and suddenly

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turned out in uniform to work the morning shift. The very pretty and buxom dark haired German was hung-over to a point of near nausea, it was plain to see, while the strikingly beautiful Mediterranean woman who followed with identical ritual caffeine and nicotine prior to morphing into mere hired help, looked upon her morning world with a despise that was plainly remarkable. Clearly, she’d been the Queen of Sheba in a previous incarnation, and only hours before at that.

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The customer base had swelled to five in the meanwhile, an old German couple that epitomize the Britz neighborhoods had wandered in, he wanted only to sit down, she hen picked and badgered him across the vast seeming several meters distance of the pizzaria patio with obvious superiority of aesthetic taste for seating at identical tables. Sniping [her] and whining [him] for what certainly could not have been five minutes but in reality seemed five eternities, while making this life challenging decision, it sinks in why a recent poll of Germans not surprisingly discovered old people are more a social irritant in this nation than Islamic extremists.

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At minute 40 [approximately] my two bread rolls, one slice of cheese, four assorted slices of salami and diced various fruits had arrived, all the while the three waitresses had managed to look incredibly busy but in actuality had been gossiping, using the cell phone, smoking and commiserating, but above all, loving to hate a circumstance of rising from the dead against their will on a Saturday morning.

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The sparrows were not in the least interested in a slice of banana I’d inadvertently fumbled and landed on the patio surface where almost certainly a hung-over woman with a beautiful bum would have stepped on it. I thoughtfully retrieved the errant fruit about the time management had arrived. Dressed like a handsome young Don out of a Mafia movie, whether in reality or for stereotype or deliberate image sake, one could only wonder whether he’d stipulated ‘high maintenance’ & ‘I hate my life’ embodied in striking beauty, relating to contracts for employment or if this were purely a subliminal demand.

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Having finished my breakfast in a respectable 20 minutes from arrival on my table, not quite wolfing it down, but wanting away from the sparrows now threatening me like Hitchcock’s ‘Birds’, I drew an almost genuine if stuttering, uncertain smile of sincere wishing to express gratitude, when I tipped my waitress one Euro, as though she could not believe ..

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11

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Bailing out of Chicago in a hurry, the two dissolute derelicts leer at and hustle women in unending amphetamine psychosis, spend a night in a movie theatre, freak out a family they’ve caught a ride with and land in New York where Kerouac’s mom, predictably, denies Cassady residence. Cassady, quickly takes up with another woman, and is negotiating his 2nd divorce by long distance phone with Robinson who has just given birth to his 2nd child. At this point, Cassady has four abandoned children by three abandoned women. He is 23 years old. His ‘mentor’ Kerouac is 27.

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End of Part Three

Answer to the riddle at the conclusion of chapter three: Empathy and compassion are wasted on anyone who demands the narcissistic vanity of self-pity or validation through negative reciprocity, and otherwise knows no compunction or feeling. One who discovers selfcompassion both: abandons, and wastes no empathy on, any person trapped in malignant narcissism.

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Part Four !
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Cassady has a new baby on the way [#5] by his woman in New York, he works parking cars, short-changes the customers to augment his income. Kerouac has no qualms about partying on his stolen money. Kerouac leaves Cassady in New York. This writer is pleased to be approaching the end of a vile treatise on how not to live your life. Any possible enjoyment of Kerouac’s gift for writing has been long buried by his ‘ethics free’ amorality. Cad, jerk, con, creep in any combination, none of these can suffice to label the product’s author.

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Oddly, I will state here, Cassady is the book’s most sympathetic male character. Well, not so odd if you think about it, the kid had been raised neglected, had whored himself as a teen turning tricks for pedophiles on Denver’s skid row on account of having been perverted by his ‘mentor of promising but disadvantaged young men’ breaking down his heterosexuality. Cassady felt he could never make it among his western peers on account of this biographical fact. It had hung over him like a sword of Damocles in his subconscious. This explains his attraction to Ginsberg, Burroughs and Kerouac. They offered him opportunity at becoming something in his thinking, and when he realized they admired his western freedom in a sense of ability to take risks, an ingrained cultural trait actually intended to noble action in a

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recently dangerous frontier environment, he had been able to exercise this trait in a state of criminality, awe inspiring to the ‘domesticated’ easterners. That Cassady abandoned the Rocky Mountains reflected the fact he likely was at some level aware he might have been killed out of hand for his reputation acquired in ‘On the Road.’

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A prisoner of Kerouac’s work in a near literal sense, Cassady could never return to his community. Ginsberg’s 20 subsequent years ongoing infatuation for Cassady completed the tragedy of Cassady’s life. Cassady’s book title ‘The First Third’ perhaps indicated he meant the second two thirds [of his life] to be different but try as he might to grow up, settle down and make it as a family man with western values, a thing it would appear he’d tried to do later, he remained a prisoner of Ginsberg who could make or break Cassady’s ‘Beat’ reputation and that was all he had. So long as Ginsberg lived, Cassady would be Ginsberg’s psychological prisoner and Ginsberg outlived Cassady.

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It likely never crossed Ginsberg’s thoughts to respect Cassady’s wife or to consider what a woman might think when his married lovers had put their erections up his ass and subsequently went home to sleep with their wives.

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The American western character, at first glance, is paradox. But were one to spend a lifetime looking under surface, and I have done that, there are a few things can be clearly sorted. Our conservative libertarianism makes today’s so-called ‘Tea Party’ out to be the bigoted morons they in fact are. We are of a far superior substance to this. And here is what had happened.

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However one might like to think the western ‘gentlemanly’ values might be rooted in the White culture, this is plainly wrong. The USA was not populated primarily by ‘gentlemen’, but largely by the dispossessed, the enslaved (White indentured servants and Black slaves), the persecuted religious (who became the persecutors, the phenomena of inter-generational violence), people inclined to become wealthy through exploitation (the greedy) and diverse criminals (not limited to the penal colony of Georgia.)

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Subsequently, exclusive of the people making treaties to steal land and the related robber barons rise to power via capitalism’s dictum ‘Caveat Emptor’ and all of the greed and ignorance that had rushed west on the back of these phenomena, there arose a unique class of people from seeming nowhere, whether during earliest colonial times, that period of crossing the Blue Ridge to the early Ohio frontier or the later expansions which followed. There is no question we are the White Indians and our values came from the Native American community. Many Native males had died, many White men had taken Native wives and it is the children of these women who knew a contract is a man’s word, not to lie, cheat or steal and to lay down your life before compromising your ethics and these behaviors spread. This is the source of a profound respect for our women who in fact are strong, brave and principled. It had been as simple as that.

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Amplifying Neal Cassady as representative of the western character was not only a total misapprehension of reality, in essence it had been a crime. In fact the

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homophobia you see today had not existed in a widespread way, people were discreet, whether straight or gay, and modesty had been a virtue, a vestige of the ancient Native dignity, sans any puritanical repression and bigotry with its attending strictures as alien any man from the moon. Were there assholes among us? Certainly there were and that is exactly how they were perceived in our community. Not everyone has identical heritage.

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Kerouac takes the bus to Denver, waxing eloquent on his observations but by this time his “endless poem” is a tired rehash. He actually spends a week partying without mention of criminal behaviors, in fact one wonders how it is he manages to keep another Denver kid, just released from the pen, out of trouble. But this must be a brief respite. Cassady has sent notice he will be arriving with a car for adventure to Mexico, he has abandoned his [recently new and now pregnant] girlfriend. Kerouac writes as though this were an event takes him by surprise and then goes on to make Cassady out to be the god among men whose arrival one must prepare for. Frank Jefferies is a new side-kick.

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I did not observe gay-bashing among my peers growing up. At least not as a matter of habit, as seems more common these days. There was this exception to the rule and it is uniquely qualified. It occasionally happened, someone knocking a queer cold, lights out, for propositioning or making a pass at a country boy. It did not happen often in our home territory but it happened. It seems some of us are blips on this thing called ‘gaydar.’ It has happened to me, many times, particularly in the city and most of all in Berlin, but then I have lived here for the past two years, following on most of my life sometimes in small towns but largely the country.

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You see the fags lock in on you with the eyes of an infamous queer chicken. Totally misreading my relaxed

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Native heterosexuality that is comfortable in a tribal or ethnic style and possessing no aura of machismo, I’ve stopped gays in their tracks, I must have a nice ass. They take a certain posture when looking at you, as though a Bonabo chimp looking to establish dominance with sex.

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When I was younger, I more often than not would simply notify these predators, who indiscriminately fuck in park shrubbery and men’s rooms, when approached, that I am not gay. I’ve never been inclined to be mean, and despite this, it is amazing how offended some of them can become, seeming to believe they could not possibly have been wrong in their assessment. Once in awhile I’d said: [to the more persistent or unbelieving] “Fuck off.” These days, I mostly give an expressionless ‘stick game stare’ or at most slightly roll my eyes with a pained/sardonic look and it seems to work but not always. By far and away the most rewarding experience had been when a fag had been passing on a bicycle, caught a glimpse of me and hit the brakes. I was enjoying this amazing street performance by some Russian musicians playing classical symphony with accordions and this guy parked his bike, and almost ran to my bench to sit down and lick his lips with the expression ‘connoisseur, eh?’ I simply nodded and then began to look at a lovely woman and did not take my eyes off of her until he sorted out what I was doing. When it finally dawned on him, the idiot ran for his bike like a soldier running for cover under fire.

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Cassady shows up and Kerouac makes him out an angel with devil fits of madness. He describes a stupid show amounting to a fraternal order’s reunion of college drunks and then sets out to document his god Cassady’s peril: “that night when we all went out and repaired to the Windsor bar all in one vast brawling gang, Dean [Cassady] became frantically and demoniacally and seraphically drunk.” The western bar scene is idolized for pages, but I assure you all, you can do it once and it can be a case of ‘been there, done that.’ But Kerouac can never get enough of it. The he paints a hand-wringing scene of Frank Jefferies grandfather begging Jefferies not to go off to Mexico with these clowns, as Kerouac comes across as a sanctimonious hypocrite. He has waxed eloquent about his ‘boys’ throughout, on and on, in ways one senses he is incapable of treating women, with spurious and brief attention to women except when he out and out hates them. He goes into men’s room graffiti. They ‘blow’ out of town enroute to Mexico.

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I’ve been in Europe (exiled) for five years. Over three of those years have been spent in Germany with its fixation on all things Native American. There are plenty of Disneyland events going on over here, and I’m not talking about Paris.

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I suppose it would have been easy to prostitute my 24 years learning with some of the last great masters of American Indian knowledge, Blackfoot, Plains Ojibwe

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and Cree, but the culture has been so maimed by modern Indians only half-trained, already, I could not bring myself to dirty it any further. But one thing we can note here is, contrasted to the male chimpanzees chronicled by Kerouac and its epitomized western culture’s male behaviors, our Native intelligence, based in premonotheism (matriarchal) philosophy, looks pretty damn superior.

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Now, presuming I had opportunity to teach a group of Germans and we all were seated on the ground in a circle. Knowing my background, German mentality being what it typically is, they’d all be looking at me in awe as though I were a god and I’m in the same moment thinking “If you think you are important, you don’t belong here, these folk all think I’m important, so maybe I don’t belong here”

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With all these expectant faces peering at me, I hate to tell them the truth but they are here because their own culture is failing them, so let the pain sink in. “Our lesson today is short and simple. Here is a one cent coin. Pass it around the circle, I wish for each of you to actually take a moment, only that, a moment, to contemplate the power of this tiny bit of copper. No questions please, I will explain when the little penny has returned full circle”

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Who knows what one might think? Power? A single euro cent will buy you precisely nothing!

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So the 15 people take 15 minutes to appear all serious at what would ordinarily seem a ridiculous proposition, as the little penny passes hand to hand, some finger it, other bow their heads in meditation over it, but hey, I’ve all these years training so best behave as though in the presence of a god .. but just now they’re about to discover a devil-

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They much pondered bit of copper has finally been passed back to me and I look everyone in the eye, one to the next, holding up the single euro cent between forefinger and thumb while saying:

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“In Quantum Mechanics, once two particles have been associated, they remain forever associated, no matter whether you separate them by a universe in space and time. We have always known this. It is why we, Indians, had been taught to be careful in our thoughts, and cautious in our associations and physical items such as pennies are in fact associations

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“Now, just imagine this were a large old penny such as were known 100 or more years ago, and I had taken it off a dead man’s eyes only this morning. In that case, each one of you would now be associated with that act, as well the dead man’s life, and even the cause of his demise

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“I want you all to go home, look at and consider the source of your belongings, and know why the Native spiritual name for money translates literally: “The leading trouble maker”

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The ancient Native view concerning the ‘web’ of life is precisely like this: We construct reality through two phenomena, primarily, our actions and our associations. Our associations tie us to the web, our person represents the intersect where the several or many strands meet and as such, our actions influence our associations, no different to our associations influence our encounters or ‘luck’

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How one behaves and what one associates with, determines the direction and quality of everyone’s life, without exception. To construct a web which will resonate health requires self discipline incorporated to intelligent choice of associations and related energies. This is because everything you do, and everything every member of your ‘web’ does, impacts and resonates throughout your web

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The theoretical physicist Bernard d'Espagnat states: "The doctrine that the world is made up of objects whose existence is independent of human consciousness turns out to be in conflict with quantum mechanics and with facts established by experiment"

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He might as easily have said ‘Plato was wrong’ when Plato described with his ‘objectivity’ why the common man needs an autocratic class of ‘objective’ rulers: “He lives from day to day indulging the appetite of the hour, and sometimes he is lapped in drink and strains of the flute; then he becomes a water-drinker, and tries to get thin; then he takes a turn at gymnastics; sometimes

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idling and neglecting everything, then once more living the life of a philosopher; often he is busy with politics, and starts to his feet and says and does whatever comes into his head; and, if he is emulous of any one who is a warrior, off he is in that direction, or of men of business, once more in that. His life has neither law nor order; and this distracted existence he terms joy and bliss and freedom; and so he goes on”

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I put Plato’s error into his context of ‘objectivity’ in relation to what Edward Bernays had accomplished with propaganda vis a vis consumerism and modern western science shaped in Platonic philosophy, the ultimate ‘objectifying’ or assigning Plato’s belief in human consciousness existing independently of our intuition and related surrounding objects (nature) as the ultimately destructive equation:

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When Plato 'objectified' man (our thought process), he set in motion events that culminated in a personified modern Europe represented in Edward Bernays. You cannot set man apart from, or set man above the natural environment without experiencing negative consequence; the isolated narcissism shaping Western reality resulting in destructive behaviors to include science an unconscious necrotic religion expressed through symbol of malevolent technology.

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In this case, Plato's base 'appetite' has returned mutated from exile to 'consume' his Republic via consequence of consumerism and dying environment.

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Now, consider I’d arrived at this insight via illiterate Indians (however fluent in their language and oral traditions) primarily, with a bit of lovely insight into Plato provided by the Africa centered scholar Marimba Ani. The bottom line is, most pre-Columbian Native American cultures (the non-hierarchal ones) had been living a practical philosophical knowledge based in advanced understanding of Quantum Mechanics (following timeline established in linguistics and genetics) for as long as 40,000 years prior to Plato and modern scientific theory.

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After the pedophile Socrates had been executed for “corrupting the youth of Athens”, his ‘most favored’ student, Plato, went on to establish a school. When Plato had then given Socrates’ definition of man as a “featherless bi-pedal” the cynic Diogenes brought a live, plucked rooster to the next session and proclaimed: “here is Plato’s man.” I’m guessing the ‘greek’ Plato experienced an erection at the sight of the naked chicken’s ass. All these many 2,500 or so years later, quantum mechanics is proving Plato wrong and female intelligence right. Western science is pretty damn slow.

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Five pages of sagebrush rendered holy, leering at girls and cooing over boys, Kerouac, Cassady and Jefferies make their move from Denver across Texas into Mexico, crossing the border at Laredo. They marvel at a different universe populated by Brown people.

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I've had a number of people over these several years tell me 'the world will change when people change themselves.'!

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Many people are not equipped to change their personal world, and what I am getting at here is, most people in the 'larger' world are not afforded opportunity at social justice but are indentured to a system of practical slavery where institutions are corrupt and serve a wealthy power elite. This is particularly true in poorer nations, which are exploited by richer nations.

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In these poorer circumstance and nations there is little opportunity to explore, learn and develop the self outside mere struggle for survival, and to some extent it is also the case in the poor of the rich nations, as well in some respects is also true of a middle class citizenry locked into perceptions perpetrating imbalances in our larger human universe. Let's not deceive ourselves with any thought that, for most, there is some voluntary individual

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path to social equity and attending world change through personal enlightenment.

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Quoting Aldous Huxley's character Phillip Quarles in the great novel and social essay 'Point Counter-Point'! : "Drill and uniforms impose an architecture on the crowd. An army's beautiful. But that's not all; it panders to lower instincts than the aesthetic. The spectacle of human beings reduced to automatism satisfies the lust for power. Looking at mechanized slaves, one fancies oneself a master."! !

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In any society so organized, for people to change the world through individual self-introspection, a spell must be broken relating to the privileged vis-à-vis the indentured and manipulated minion.

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In fact people who change themselves do appear to change the world, at a minimum, it would appear they change their personal world. When this idea is adopted by the privileged of the richer nations but also coupled to the practical discarding of engagement and working for world improvement through equilibrium found in social justice, and has abandoned endeavor towards providing like opportunity for personal enlightenment to all, it is narcissist in the extreme and is in its own right both a victim of, and propping up, Huxley's 'automatism.'

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"At this very moment,... the most frightful horrors are taking place in every corner of the world. People are being crushed, slashed, disembowelled, mangled; their dead bodies rot and their eyes decay with the rest. Screams of pain and fear go pulsing through the air at the rate of eleven hundred feet per second. After travelling for three seconds they are perfectly inaudible. These are distressing facts; but do we enjoy life any the less because of them? Most certainly we do not" Aldous Huxley’s character Mr Scogan in 'Chrome Yellow.'

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Whether the yogi, the psycho-analyst, the gossip columnist, the mainstream news reporter or the educator, professionals of every stripe in western ‘law abiding’ industrialized nations, all of them, and every other person of affluence from the middle class to the 1% at the top of this food chain, each one of them enjoys their standard of living beyond the “perfectly inaudible .. screams of pain and fear” the diamond, gold, petroldollar & other diverse concessions of every imaginable import, exact from the abused Brown peoples of this world to feed the vanities and self-indulgence of the automated and insulated White peoples of this world .. and no amount of personal change is going to change this fact short of surrendering narcissistic vanity and devoting oneself to social justice in hands on or practical terms.

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South of Monterrey, on the road to Mexico City, the conversation is eloquent and lecherous. Cassady moans over young girls “Oh man, I want to stop and twiddle thumbs with the little darlings, but notice the old lady or old man is always somewhere around.” With eyes wide open at a different universe, Kerouac’s amphetamine damaged mentality imagines the degenerate Cassady has discovered home: “He was sweating. His eyes were redstreaked and mad and also subdued and tender- he had found people like himself.” Kerouac indulges in a delusion he is familiar with the Mexican ‘Indians’ nature.

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Having purchased marijuana and arranging whores, Cassady is inspired to eloquent speeches while fawning over a pimp’s baby. They visit a brothel with sex slaves as young as fifteen years old, and knowing Kerouac’s propensity to lie when he needs to cover his ass concerning their more base criminal acts, likely the girls were actually closer to twelve. Cassady and Jefferies trade underage girls around among themselves, taking turns fucking them. Kerouac claims he could not bring himself to do it and stuck with a thirty year old prostitute, anyone who’d believe that is naïve in the extreme, this is the man responsible for the entire sordid affair, the inspiration, the instigator throughout. The vehicle for criminality On the Road, Kerouac ever excuses himself.

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At The Bless God Café On the Akazien street Lies a view Of the Apostle Paul

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At the Bless God Café The windows are clean, large.. And politicians revel In caffeinated gossip. Across the way, Dogs lift legs On the cornerstoneWhere inside, boys Long to be baritones.. For the Apostle Paul. The circumcised belfry Erect, Orgasms Noonday’s song: THONG! Pulling the ropes THONG! The priest imagines THONG! The little boy’s hands on

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THONG! Bulge beneath his

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THONG! Cassock untied THONG! Bleeding Jesus’ THONG! Silence forgives THONG! Raped mouth THONG! Sweating Temptation THONG! Guilt possesses children THONG! Beneath his spandex THONG! A dog’s nose Knows jism’s Deservedly lifted leg.. In the view from: The Bless God Café.

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Pushing on to Mexico City, these pedophiles admire ever-younger children. Kerouac attempts self-ablution with: “They were like the eyes of the Virgin Mother when she was a child. We saw in them the tender and forgiving gaze of Jesus.” They arrive in Mexico City and Kerouac gets fever and dysentery, bed-ridden. Cassady deserts the deserving bastard and drives back to the USA without him. It never occurs to Kerouac, he’d brought this on himself. These are people who never grew up.

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When the ‘Beat’ writer’s, who worshiped Kerouac and his ‘On the Road’, had moved into the sixties and taken up the anti-war cause to en-noble themselves, all of America, indeed the world, suffered a consequence.

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The criminality, the immorality, the utter lack of ethics, the misogyny, all associated with Kerouac’s now wildly famous work, serves to drive away countless people, law abiding people, modest people, old-line conservatives particularly, from making common cause with liberals and progressives against the military corporate-industrial war machine that has overtaken our lives, essentially handing a victory to greed and the religious right.

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I am aware there must be many fine gay men in this world undeserving of the sobriquet ‘fag’, men who do not exercise habits of pedophilia or hunt down oral sex from strangers on park benches, but these people need to understand something. Allen Ginsberg’s ‘cock-breath-inyour-face-blow-job-evangelism’ becoming associated

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with the anti-war movement must be, in fact, how many natural allies had been turned off.

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The openly gay community needs to stop shirking responsibility and separate its venue and agenda from that of the anti-corporate/anti-war cause and make room for those more modest people turned totally off by the likes of Kerouac, Ginsberg and company. So long as Ginsberg’s political heirs are mixing the anti-corporate/ anti-war agenda with liberal homosexuality and its associated lifestyles in the public consumption, alliance with the more conservative elements is not going to happen and the battle never won.

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Democracy Now!

Democracy Now: Today we interview Glenn Beckwald on the Obama administration’s openly gay foreign policy and the war in Liberacestan. Glenn has been the most effective liberal anti-war shill or, alternately, accused of being the most effective possible shill for the witch hunting, child torturing closet-gay neo-con agenda when it comes to the closet gays exercising impunity in the public eye, a necessary propaganda ploy in our homosexual nationalist culture, to make certain people feel by merely donating, rather than demonstrating in the streets, they are doing more than wringing their hands and shedding a tear or two, to fight the fascist-closet-gay war agenda.

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DN: It has been stated the liberal openly gay agenda you support has in fact propped up the neo-con closet gay agenda you oppose, or restated, all things being equally

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gay in our interventionist policies, the closet gays’ claim transparency is a threat to National Security, and this is the gay issue which most turns you on. How do you respond to that?

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Beckwald: Flamey, nothing could be further from the truth. The closet gays suffer immense moral turpitude and for anyone to claim my open ‘gayness’ could in any way prop up the closet gay agenda is simple non-sense. The only healthy culture is an openly gay culture and I’ve not heard any liberal or otherwise credible source claim ‘in the closet’ is a good thing. Herein lie the problem: until the closet gays are outed, and these most insidious of National Security secrets are revealed, our nation’s policies will be dishonest. A national security policy kept in the closet is not a healthy national security. It’s simply not possible for my openly gay position to prop up the closet gay agenda.

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DN: Bacha Bazi, also known as bacchá, is sexual slavery and child prostitution, in which prepubescent and adolescent boys are sold to wealthy or powerful men for entertainment and sexual activities. This business thrives in Liberacestan, in fact our military aid has put many of these boys into Liberace army mascot uniforms. Some of the individuals involved report being forced into sex. The authorities have been reluctant to crack down on the practice by military commanders. Your organization ‘Reweinerize Liberacestan’ has made this a ‘seminal issue’ by demanding the boys be volunteers, paid equitably, and the pedophile commanders come out of the closet and demonstrate authentic gay pride by legitimizing their homosexual child concubines with legal same sex

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partnerships. This should temper the exploitation of these children, correct?

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Beckwald: Absolutely Flamey. This a cornerstone of ‘Reweinerize Liberacestan’ policy, to raise awareness and impart democratic values to what has been to now a hopelessly backwards culture. The sooner the closet gay commanders become comfortable with their sexuality in public, we all can begin to kiss and make up, the Taliban commanders, American neo-con generals and Karzai’s war lords can all find common ground. Male sexuality is SO misunderstood and when repressed it leads to ALL sorts of malevolent behaviors which manifest as being SO angry. The sooner Liberacestan is openly gay, there will be no need for wars, we will have created heaven on earth, heck, I might live part time there!

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DN: This past week in Philadelphia, three priests and a teacher were charged with raping boys. Their supervisor, Monsignor William Lynn, was not accused of molesting children but of endangering them. A damning grand jury report said at least two boys were sexually assaulted because he put two known pedophiles in posts where they had contact with youngsters. Comparatively speaking, is there not a conflict, to describe Liberacestan’s homosexual pedophile culture as backwards? It’s not like this is some isolated incident in Western culture.

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Beckwald: Flamey, this is not only a crass intrusion on Church affairs in violation of the wall between church and state, this is a nature versus nurture thing. Without openly nurturing homosexuality in children, how would the misogynist western culture's males ever be able to

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express their true sexuality without hate and consequent wars? Homosexual pedophilia should be decriminalized, otherwise we must criminalize ALL male hierarchal order based in masculine narcissism, and all associated judeo-christian derived misogynist/homosexual religions which are behind aggression and war. You know I live in Brazil, where these problems don’t crop up for the Catholic Church and there is a wide open gay culture where it is SO easy to find and live openly with your male same sex partner. When pedophilia is decriminalized, the Church as well, will be free to come out of the closet, stop inspiring torture, inciting wars, et cetera and the Pius X Society will surrender its fascism for free love with children. This is why ‘Re-weinerize Liberacestan’ is in the forefront of the fight against fascism with raising national awareness of how Bacha Bazi could be a force for peace and why it should come into the American public eye. The sooner we legitimize these boys sexually comforting the closet gays in American minds, including our neo-con generals, the sooner there can be peace. This should be a prioritized focus of the USAID programs in Liberacestan, it would be so much better more American tax dollars are stolen from there, than current expenditures on CIA drone missiles fed bad targeting information through closet gay mercenary contractors like Iran-Contra associated criminal Michael Furlong at Strategic Command, resulting in murdering entire families.

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DN: ‘Re-weinerize Liberacestan’ associated experts express a sentiment we should be very gentle in liberating the closet gays. Is this why you’ve not gone after the individual generals with your resources, those

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generals involved in crime personally, hands on? For example Colonel Ann Wright has documented numerous cases of raped and murdered American women soldiers who’d the misfortune to be assigned to corrupt commands in Iraq, including rape and murders of women assigned directly to General Petreaus command. Why not help Colonel Wright on this issue with your tremendous organizational resources? Why not go after the individual commanders and push these identifiable corruption associated rapes and murders that can be tied to top commanders into the public eye and mainstream news? Or for that matter, the epidemic rape of our women soldiers overall? Wouldn’t this be a powerful tool to get a real examination of the war on track and public outrage demanding answers and the wars shut down?

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Beckwald: Many liberals don’t understand how these things must be finessed, Flamey. Yes, we must be very gentle liberating the closet gays, because as soon as we start naming names to specific crimes, the closet gays become paranoid and come after us. Just more violence and you know that it is the violence we are against. Especially violence against us. For instance, we are perfectly aware since 2008 specific war crimes can be tied to specific closet gay commanders in Liberacestan, but if we push neo-con "C Street" associated individuals like Generals Petreaus, McChrystal and Odinero into the spotlight, the chances of them ever coming out of the closet on their own, as gentle and beautiful, openly gay people, are practically nil.

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Part Five
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The 4 " pages comprising part five of ‘On the Road’, are not worth writing about.

END

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