David Fewster

ON THE ROAD, LIKE A BUNCH OF GODDAMN IDIOTS

Jack Kerouac, Neal Cassady and Allen Ginsberg

could drive from San Francisco to Denver to New Orleans to

the Pyramids of the Sun and Moon to New York City

and back

in a 1946 Hudson with $1.32 of gas money between them

while my 1989 VW Fox

bought in 1996 for $3400

couldn't even make it to Wenatchee without snuffing out

like a lightbulb sold 12-to-the-pagage at the dollar store.

What's up with that?

Crammed into the cab of the AAA tow truck,

I think of my copy of Gregory Corso's "Gasoline"

in the trunk of the dead car.

If only I could refer to it now for guidance and strength--

Surely the Beats can show me the way!

The Beats, the Beats, it's all with the Beats--

What is our fascination with these losers?

Sure, they had great luck with cars,

but most of them croaked by the time they were 40.

Show of hands--I'd rather

A.) replace an ignition control module for $325.

B.) lie dead on some freezing railroad track in Mexico.

And the B's have it! And 'b' stands for Beat

and who can blame us--what else is there to read? When

in the 60's Kurt for-Christ's-sake Vonnegut

was considered the greatest author on the planet,

then we got Tom Robbins with his endless maudlin metaphysical

whimsey mixed up with a 14-year old boy's sex fantasies

followed in the 80's by the Ivy League brat pack and

their rows of novels blatantly ripped off

from "Catcher in the Rye"

about how rough it is to be a misunderstood trust fund kid--

Of course we all want to be neo-beats

and hang in cafes declaiming poetry

and swill espresso and Old Grandad

and smoke cigarettes five at a time

and attract young, nubile lovers

and get on MTV.

We all want to behave like rock stars

without bothering to learn to play instruments

or even maintain the dignity of getting carfare for our gigs--

That's what being beat in the 90's was.