S.A. Griffin memoir/Chris Oller photos
 Don de Fina, chapters 30-31  Jack and Adelle Foley, chapter 10  Gerald Nicosia, chapter 11  Naveed Ashraf, chapter 12  Chris Oller, chapter 13  Phillip Cousineau, chapter 14  Neeli Cherkovski, chapter 15  Susan Stone, chapter 16  Jean Mullis, chapter 17  Opal Palmer-Adisa, chapter 18  Kim McMillan, chapter 19  Jack Mueller, chapter 20  Dan Richman, chapter 21  Michael Eliopolous  Jami & Cathy Cassady, chapter 23  Floyd Salas, chapter 24 |
"(clichés are truisms
and all truisms are true)" My dear Mary, Tried to write this quite a few times. Have wrestled with these beat angels for weeks now. It has been a curious thing. My last attempt was just the other nite. Late nite, like now. The world asleep and a beautiful cool breeze comes casually on the crinoline sound of a distant train. Smoked a mighty bowl thinking that this will free me from my dilemma. People's peaceful peace pipe of peace protruding with plentiful pot. I puffa-puffa a big bowlful thinking that this will take me home and back. All it did was frustrate me, piss me off, and bring on a lonely paranoia as sometimes happens with this chronic hydroponic bud. Just gotta ride the wave. Surf the feelings that rush up against the marrow and find the bloodstream. Much like our man Jack hiding out in Ferlinghetti's cabin, I hide out behind my computer hoping like hell to remain undiscovered as the clouds of this interior storm pass slowly by. I must say that this Big Sur celebration was an interesting event. Tricky to talk about as it was most assuredly from the heart and well intended, however, nostalgia can be a cancer in the pulsating present. Hard to play the beatific "be here now" when everyone is reveling in the way back machine of then. Our trip up was laced with laughter and anticipation inside the luxurious cabin of my '60 Cadillac Sedan. Myself at the wheel, wife Lorraine riding shotgun, publisher Kelly and camera Jessie in the back. Made the trip, with stops for gas and a grub stop at tourist purgatory Harris Ranch, all in about 5 hours zippering up the 5 North: L.A. to S.F. Had just had the everything done to the old V8 hoss. Tuned, oiled and transmission checked. Gonna go in the way of those before us in great American Detroit steel. Neal at the wheel, Jack to the stars that guide them. Jack and Neal together forever. Just outside of Kettleman City my big white shark starts to moan at me... Shit! What the hell could it be? Sounded like the tranny moaning. Not good. Not good at all. A sporadic groaning and moaning that nobody hears but me 'cause I am tuned to the car like it is rigged to the road. Me, the car and the road; and we go on forever. I drive this sonofabitch fueled with high-octane hope and scads of spirit. It is always my job to get people and car there and back safely, no matter what. Soon the red idiot lite pops on. Then off. It's the generator lite. What to do. San Francisco here we come... right back where I started from as a youngster growing up in the East Bay of Richmond, Berkeley, San Leandro, Hayward, El Cerrito, El Sobrante, Pinole, Rodeo, Tara Hills, Castro Valley and ultimately a top floor at Haight & Central in San Francisco before moving on to edge of world Los Angeles where the next big wave comes presently before the fallout. But mostly the projects of Easter Hill on S. 26th St. in Richmond, home of the real bohemians. I saw my first beat vision as a child of 4 in the form of a daring young man crossing the street in Richmond. This was 1959 and he was wearing Levis with the cuffs turned up, black shoes, and a white dress shirt with the tails out and the sleeves rolled up. His hair was slicked back and he was smoking a cigarette. He was cool. It was as if he were the street and the sun. A locomotive blowing the sweet steam of youth for this child of 4 to capture as a man of 47. Regardless, this fucking car is gonna make it, and us with it. That's just the way it's going to be. Period. I can't quite figure it out, but we aren't losing power, no matter the sounds or lites and whistles, so we go. We go, we go... Gassed up in Castro Valley at Le Chevron across from The Chabot Theatre where I treated myself to Easy Rider for my 16th birthday. Called partner and pal James Stauffer and made plans for our happy troupe to land in Berkeley for a quick whatever and connection before landing at our hotel in S.F. James is a good guy. Met him on the former Beat L , which burned to the virtual ground around the late Jan Kerouac who died too young of a Jack attack, just like her old man before her. As for our trip to the golden gateway of San Francisco, I blame this all on Kerouac. My old friend Adam Boffi really. He gave me a bent and torn copy of On The Road many, many moons ago, and as Master Jack might say, I have been bent to it ever since. I was stunned by this book and forever changed. I related, heavy. And now, all these years later I am on the road to Big Sur and Washington Square Park. My wife and friends in tow. The Cadillac complaining about the way I run her like a champion racehorse. Speed. My dear sweet Pegasus who carries us forward on this poetic quest enabling the need for speed and motion. The perpetual way we make ourselves over and over till the curious end of our new beginning. But Mary, this is what has puzzled me lately. Altho I will admit in the beginning, relating heavy, as I copped to earlier on, to Kerouac's words and Neal's spirit, I went off in search of the golden fleece of beat but realized long ago that there was none. In everything, I have never laid any claim to actually being "beat". I give that to them that came before. They that blazed that path in the postwar cultural wilderness of America gone with the bomb. Gone with the wars to end all wars and bloody progress of the now gone 20th Century. I don't know what I am except that I am. These past few years I have been trying to stay out of the light in fear of the incurable hype that kills. This media driven era of the Hip Hype Edge Generation that loves to believe that all that glitters is indeed, gold. In my journey these past years, I have encountered one person who spoke true to me, beat. Real live old time beat artist Arthur Monroe, curator of Oakland Museum who stopped me over the telephone by saying, "You have to ask yourself what is it that would cause a person give up everything to go live on a mountaintop to be beat." He had me. I had found the answer. Like everything else, there aren't any. There's no place like home. Click your heels three times, you're there. During the course of attempting to put together Holy Fools with James I had many conversations with Arthur. This particular comment rang the bell. My quest was over, and since, I have been trying not to go, go, go... but rather simply be. And so now, it has begun to call to me, and here I am and here we are. San Francisco for the reading of Big Sur, and where are all the old school beat daddies and chicks? Were they not invited? There were a few. Floyd Salas was there holding court. Giving up stories about old Mad Jack Micheline taking a shot in the breadbasket for overdue rent. The Cassady ladies, Neal's daughters Jamie & Cathy were there with their husbands. John and mother Carolyn were east in New York with Brian Hassett. Wished that I could've been two places at once. The Cassady gals set up a table displaying some great Neal stuff for sale. I introduced myself and told them how I'd recently hung out with brother John in L.A. back in April for a like event, the reading of OTR for the 50th anniversary of the completion of the sacred scroll. John played guitar and held up the bar. Told great stories about how Daddy Neal would take a fly and stick him under some object and the fly would make it walk about, and even so to this very day conjured with the father/son magic of memory long in the terrific tornado of time. The vortex of the soul washing up against the continent of the heart. Of course, stalwart documentarian Kush is there with his video cam taking in every moment. Ianthe Brautigan arrives with husband Paul, lifetime friend Cadence, husbands and friends and a picnic basket full of goodies - wine, food and laughter. Was great to see Ianthe and Paul and meet all of their friends. They are truly good people. Ianthe introduced me to Floyd, who introduced me to Jessica Loos who also had some great Micheline stories to tell. Elevators and sex. Guess that she is writing a book about her experiences with Micheline. Can't wait to read it. In the end, that is ultimately what brings us to these events. Not just the great spirit and idea of beatitude, but the stories. Most everyone here was or is a storyteller looking to hear or tell. Something to write about. Something to take with them. I found this in Ianthe's wonderful book You Can't Catch Death where in one particular chapter, she talks about her father sitting around with all the other great storytellers, drinking, laughing and carrying on long into the nite with one good story after another. That's what brought me here. A good story. This time it is the story of Big Sur and how Jack and the bottle spent some time with the story of the waves as the legend of his life washed thru him. Proudly so, I was to be Chapter 35. Felt like a refugee from Fahrenheit 451. "Hi, I'm chapter 35. Would you like to hear Jack Kerouac?" But I would never get a chance to read. This was a book event given in to being a mini music fest. When we all arrived, on time and eager to begin, the band was setting up. It was an incredibly beautiful blue day in The City. Days like these in North Beach, or anywhere in San Francisco, are to be treasured. Days like these are a blessing. The gig was to lift off at noon. As I said, when we arrived, the band, The New Monsoon, was setting up. We all quietly surmised that they were there to back up the readers, however, there was a helluva lot of equipment. Took them nigh on an hour plus to set up. We were all more than anxious to get rolling and spill the contents of Big Sur onto the grassy carpet. Then there was a brief goodyado and the band began to play... and play, and play. An entire set. Mind you, these guys were pretty danged good, kind of a cross between The Allman Brothers and The Dead, and if I were having a shot of my favorite single malt, or was inhaling some of Prez Bill's evil saxophone weed, hanging in some properly darkened club somewhere or the other, I'd be happy as hell. I like The Brothers and The Dead, and I liked The New Monsoon. But I am not in a club somewhere sighing love sighs. We are not sweating and dancing. We are in a park in San Francisco, here to read from the most holy Kerouac. Band played a 45 minute set. By the time they finished, it was about 2 p.m. The opening words were finally being laid upon us all. Welcomes and thank yous over and restaurateur Ed Moose from across the street steps up to the microphone. Somebody shouts, "About god damned time!" There is a smattering of weak applause as a show of support; he smiles and begins... "Chapter One: The church is blowing a sad windblown "Kathleen"..." We are off and running! Finally. Things begin to flow. There are about a hundred or so gathered on the grass of Washington Square Park. The homeless saints and park regulars are mixed in with us there to pay tribute. Our being there confuses some of the inhabitants of the park. There are a number of folks who have copies of the Big Sur hymnal following along. Mostly they are the recent Penguin reissues, but there are a few hard core types with yellowed and much loved Bantam firsts. There are people laying out dough for the concessions that include books, tapes, T-shirts, posters and any and everything that might be beat. The Cassady sisters have some cool Neal stuff including an incredible likeness signed by Carolyn of Neal's face made out of the words of the inspirational Joan Anderson/Cherry Mary "Great Sex" letter. The head of Neal, most holy fool, The Holy Goof whose bop prosaic rhythms set the beat wheels in motion. The Great Driver who indeed, drove his way thru not just national, but world history. Most of the early readers do the cliché thing of course; they read, and then leave. What's new? They were there to be heard and seen, not see and hear. Their loss. They will have no stories to tell. They will only talk about themselves. They will not be privy to the beautiful diamonds produced during the course of the day which is getting longer and longer even tho the chapters are moving along quite nicely now. Adelle and Jack Foley do their tag team counterpoint with Chapter 6, followed by chief fool James Stauffer on 7. 7 is one my faves. There is much in there for me, "the paper bags in my garbage pit say 'We are man transformed paper bags made out of wood pulp, we are kinda proud of being paper bags...'" James does a damned good job of laying it out for us. I forget who read your chapter Mary, but after Chapter 10, we took a break so that Monsoon could play another 45 minute set. It was getting rather late. I am beginning to wonder, why doesn't anyone just tell them to chill out? Be merciful. This ain't supposed to be a music festival. Not only that, Jack never dug The Dead or The Allman Brothers. He was a God fearing jazz lover. A drinker of wine and words. A song himself with the back and forth of the waves speaking low and soft, calling him home and us here. At the very least, the band could cut their set short... but not today. The sun is pushing across the park, and people are shifting, following the sun or the shade. By now, the shade. On the other side of the park is one of those new Parisian toilets that eats quarters, cleans itself, and looks like it's going to take you to the moon in the course of your visit. The thing speaks to you and when it is ready for you to enter and do your thing, the doors open with a Star Trek like whoosh. Everyone is talking about it and bumming quarters for the experience. The public toilet is the hit of the event. It is a great distraction and speaks to us of Henry Miller in Paris. Lorraine wants to take me across the street to check out the beautiful Catholic church where she has attended mass earlier. We go in, and yes, it is beautiful, sacred and fitting for such a day to pay homage to Ti Jack. Inside there are candles. Some are 50 cents, and some are 2.50. This don't make a whole helluva lot of sense to me, and this whole deal doesn't hang well anywho. There is nothing more sacred than the green of the trees, the cut of the grass and the great cyclorama of the blue, blue warm San Francisco day. Nothing. Love is sacred. Eyes that hold these truths, sacred. The heart is sacred. Light giving love, love making light. All light, sacred, sacred, sacred. So, after another 45 minute set, the band is finally done, and of course, have to immediately begin breaking down. Now we are really wondering how we are going to bring home this task of the 200 or so pages from Big Sur 1961 to San Francisco 2001. The readers are back. We are hanging with Ianthe and her crew. They do have some good red, good folks and good food. Good times. Turns out that they are all chefs. Not only that, they got a cool red dog that likes fancy food too. What smart dog wouldn't? Ianthe has kinda become our hostess and begins to introduce me to some interesting folks at the party. It's a good thing. I get to hear more stories. As the day wears on, so does the crowd. Homeless folks are napping, followers are following, vendors are vending and are all beginning to speculate. 6, 7, 8 p.m? How long will it now take to make it to the end? Will Michael McClure show up to read Sea? There had been talk that nobody was going to read Sea, but that would be blasphemy! This is where Jack meets the music of the vast Pacific and is washed clean, baptized in the knowledge of the extraordinary miracle of simply being alive. Altogether, the band has cost us about two, two and a half hours. Some of us are getting a little pissed on top of a little stoned. Not a good combo for some. More readers read... things move. The Cassady Sisters are up and here comes great father Neal as they read chapter 23 in tandem, interjecting asides about who is who and seeming to have as much fun reading to us, as we are listening to them. Right about this time I look up to the stage. "Fresh guitars." "What?" somebody asks, "Fresh guitars? Whaddya mean?" "Look up on the stage, they are putting up fresh guitars. They aren't breaking down, they're setting up another fucking band." After a number of us complaining to the organizers about how much music had been booked at this non musical event, and how way overtime things had become, we were told that the band was only going to play two sets, which they did. But nothing was said about a second band. Fuck! There are some great readers warming up in the bullpen tho. Floyd Salas is coming up followed by Jessica Loos, but the notorious and predictable San Francisco fog begins to hustle in on hungry haunches eating our perfect blue, blue sky and sending a cold chill over everything. The crowd is begging off. It is now after 6 p.m. and the shadows are long like the day. Ianthe and her pals retire to Cadence's apartment somewhere close by to keep warm and will return later when it is closer to their time. More than ten chapters remaining to be read, and another 45 minute set by the next band who keep proclaiming how they are here in the "spirit of Jack Kerouac" as we begin to scream at them to get the hell off the stage so's we can finish the task at hand. The crowd is now down to about 30 maybe, 'cause the formidable fog continues marching over the park. Finally the second band is finished, and they weren't quite as good as the first, which only upsets those left to read even more. Again, if times and places had been a bit different… but they weren't, and they did. There is no bigger sin that a performer can commit than to bore one's audience. I am between a rock and a hard place. What to do? I am concerned that my whining moaning machine might not make it back to L.A. if I don't get rolling. Between the generator lite going off and on, and my concerns for the 41 year old transmission, I'd better be making tracks if I want to get lovely Lorraine to work at the Huntington Library, Jessie back to her son Aubrey, and me back to my son Spencer in time to pick him up from school in Sherman Oaks by 1:45. They have all been ready to jet for a while, and have told me so. Lorraine smiles and sez jokingly that she wouldn't have come if she knew she was going to learn to hate Big Sur. Their votes have been cast. It is on me now. I decide to wait it out long enough to hear Floyd and Jessica since they were so cool and both had such great stories about Jack M. I like them. They are kindred. It was worth the wait. Floyd was great, but Jessica, full of piss about the delays and more than anxious to read, gets up and slam-dunks the crowd. She takes the book by the horns and squeezes it for all is worth, and more. She rocks & rules. She is the queen of the day. She takes all that sweet pure energy and gives it all to Jack. Gives like the sea, like wind and the sound of train whistles and church bells on a Sunday afternoon. She gives and gives. She shouts and sings, she makes the book come alive. What we came for, the living, not the dead. Now I can leave. I have heard the power and glory of the waves come pouring out of Jessica Loos. The crowd loves her. She has channeled Kerouac and we are all vindicated. Some came from as far off as the dust and heat of the Lone Star state of Texas. I have come from Los Angeles, City of Angels. And now, it is time for me to go. I know this. My instincts are screaming at me, "Now!" So be here now I must. It really doesn't matter to me if I read. Hell, I got what I came for. Friends, wine, sunshine in San Francisco in August, and stories. Stories to hear and stories to tell. It is all good. So, we say our fare thee wells, make tracks for the '60 Caddy, and head south gathering the last lite of day as we leave the gravity of San Francisco and the bay. I don't know how, but we're gonna get home. I figure we'll take the 101 South and avoid the murderous climb of The Grapevine. Don't want to do in my noble chariot. So off we go in a minute and a huff, and for the first hour or so, everything seems like it might be all right. The sun sets and the terror begins just south of Redwood City. Looks like my generator is going, and sounds like the transmission is in cahoots. We stop for some Mexican around Salinas, and when we pull into the parking lot, it sounds like Beelzebub is under the hood with an awful death rattle. More like a bucket of death. I check under the car for fluids, and there are none, so the transmission must be fine. What to do, what to do... We speak of our trip back in legs, heading south. Maybe we can make it to Santa Barbara, but we are wise enough to know that we must not be too optimistic and agree to take it one leg at a time. Jessie and Kelly have a cell phone, so that is some comfort, but not much. As for myself, I will never leave anyone, or the car behind. I can't, it's not my job. By hook and crook, we indeed limp into Santa Barbara about 2:30 a.m. The gas tank's on empty, and the car is making loud hideous noises. The battery is drained and we barely have lights. We find the only gas station open in Santa Barbara and fill up, get a kind hearted taxi driver to juice the battery for us, and we are off, but not for long. We hit a foggy and desperately dark stretch of the 101 South that runs along the ocean and we barely make it to Ventura. In Ventura, we are fucked. Make the call to AAA, and a young, long, tall local boy with buzzed hair and sleep in his eyes shows up with his flashy flatbed to tow the Cadillac to wherever we wish. Lorraine has AAA+, so we can take our winged beast as far as 100 miles, at no extra cost. I joke with the driver and ask if we can ride in the car if we decide to have it towed to L.A. He very soberly responds, "Not if you want me to lose my license. But you can ride in the cab if you want." The gods are with us. Not very comfortable gods, but they are with us nonetheless. The car gets loaded up onto the bed of the tow, and we all cram into the cab of the truck with Lorraine in my lap, and Jessie almost straddling the stick shift, Kelly next to her. As we roll homeward bound, we make feeble attempts at small talk with our young tow truck savior. At one point Jessie asks, "So, do you ever go down to L.A.?" "Not if I can help it", sez he. Far as he's concerned, everyone in the Sodom and Gomorrah of tinselville is a weirdo. We sit uncomfortably tired and quiet the rest of the way home, thanking all our lucky stars. The Sisters wink. By the time we get into Los Angeles, it is 5 a.m. The car is dropped off at the mechanics up the street from where we live, and all are finally, safe, sound and asleep. All's well that ends well sayeth The Bard. About a week later, I get an email from Ianthe telling me that Kush read Chapter 35 for me, and Michael McClure showed up to read Sea with about 4 or 5 people huddled like "frozen Popsicles" in the cold and dark. Michael's wife held a flashlight over the book so he could read, while the SFPD tried to hustle him off the stage and everyone out of the park. Ianthe said that it was beautiful, touching and that Michael was appropriately, masterful. It was 8:30. The gig had taken 8 1/2 hours beginning to end. Turned out my transmission was fine, but my generator was toast. 170 bucks later, and my trusty steed was back in action... "Farewell Sur- Didja
ever tell him Say yes. Say yes to the sea. Say yes to chaos. Say yes to eternity. Say yes and let it all go. Go, go... to the sea. To the waiting open arms of the sea. You and me... you and me... the sea. Yes. Let us be. There is light. Hope that you are doing well... we are trees. Best of all, |
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