From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin-Rock And Roll Is …, Take Three

Rock and roll was (is) big, sweaty cities, hot time summertime and the living is easy cities, New York-sized outlandish skyscrapers to the stars (if you could see them out on those lonesome canyon walls) cities, Chicago big windy, sloppy hog butcher to the world (reeking of stinks, animal stinks, vegetable stinks, two in the morning whiskey stinks) cities, seven hills rolling to the golden pacific wash and Japan seas great American west night San Francisco (visions of endless North Beach- City Lights Bookstore-Hungry Eye –black bereted, black stockings, black chinos, black, hell, black everything down to those midnight sunglasses worn 24/7/365 beat, beat down, beat around, beat six- ways-to- Sunday beat, but beatitude beat too, Kerouac on the road beatitude beat although undiscovered,  Howl , beat)cities, sprawling sun-sweated, be-fogged, brown hills and all swish and swirl coreless arroyo Los Angeles ( searching for perfect Malibu waves, for Venice Beach muscle boys, for bikini-ed tanned golden girls, and, and Hollywood angst , Rebel Without A Cause angst, Blackboard Jungle angst,  max daddy Asphalt Jungle angst, hell again, just cruising Saturday night Hollywood Boulevard (and Vine, okay) looking for a walking daddy cities.
 

Be-bop cities okay, kids be-bopping, doo-wopping, do-langing, sha-sha –sha-ing (if such a  sound is possible) acting like king hell king long gone walking daddies and mamas (okay, okay chicks, twists, frails) sitting around Washington Square , Central Park, Union Square, Lincoln Park, Grant Park,  Russian Hill, Telegraph Hill, Golden Gate Park, Venice Beach, Santa Monica Pier, Malibu surf run, name your square, park, hill, beach, run, what the hell is a surf run (perfect wave, huh), or be square,  be-bopping away, waiting, waiting impatiently, waiting out of their shoes, blue suede Carl Perkins stolen like a thief by Elvis shoes or not, maybe fearful Pat Boone, Pat Boone!!! white bucks, whatever,  waiting impatiently for the big freeze red scare (hell, no far away, big freeze red scare right down in big city New York Foley Square and dead commie Rosenburgs, stalinite jews for god’s sakes, why did they do it, Hollywood Ten cinematic villains writing up some Malibu nightmare scenes to scare young children, future golden boy perfect wave surfers, to death, Chi town Wobblies turned red never getting over Haymarket 1886 and doing hard time in Joliet, Longshoremen Harry Bridges and golden gate breach) cold war night to turn warm and  provide some fresh air to breath, to breath a not parentcoppriestteacherauthority, not air raid shelter, head down, ass up breathe.

Clapping hands by twos and threes as some bopping horn, or better sexed-up sax (not some old time, teen old time, tenor or alto Johnny Hodges/ Lester Young/ Charlie Parker/Dizzy be-bopping thing but chained, chained hard and fast to that riffing guitar), parent wary too sexed-up sax that made junior toss in his bed at night and sis, well, made her, cool and collected, toss a few sweaty wet nights too, make of that what you will, always sax wails, whales, wales, away with that big beat, beat down, beat around, beat six- ways-to- Sunday (the day exactly), some guitar riff out of Les Paul or some jazz Charlie Christian saint, maybe some Ike Turner Rocket 88 turbo-blast, trying to make sense of that off-beat Bill Haley and the Comets Rock Around The Clock beat that framed, hell, beat to hell that  silly Asphalt Jungle  j. d. (juvenile delinquent for the clueless squares, jack-rollers, corner boys, whip chain-slashers for those in the know also looking for that freeze to thaw in their own coping way) movie seen down at the Majestic on that cool off Saturday popcorn afternoon.

Stag (stag, meaning no girl, not solo, but with full corner boy regiment, white shirted, maybe white tee-shirted, black chinos, some Thom McAn mother- bought shoes, ugh, slick-backed hair, and wisp of Elvis king sideburns, (wisp, just like wisp beards, later, damn, and corner boy laughs and fag-baits) in tow, the crowd from 42^nd Street hangs, Division Street hangs, Post Street hangs, and yah, again Hollywood Boulevard hangs), later, intermission later, seeing she, Public School 63 (or name your school la, la, la, do I have to do all the work?) sweet Madonna and then to Eddie Cochran Sitting in the Balcony, Zooey (maybe jewish and no madonna, no frozen irish Catherine Madonna, Muffy wasp Madonna , Rita italian Madonna , Greta german Madonna thing, thank god but not caring not caring a fig just following that Zooey  ivory bath soap, could it be perfume smell, that has hooked guys, smart guys too, guys who know up from down, since, well Adam), and off to private upstairs balcony screenings.

Later, maybe four o’clock later, strolling (got to learn how to get the hang of that damn thing, the stroll, no not the dance, jesus not the dance, the walking in such a way that it takes half an hour to get Zooey homeward rather than the ten real minutes it takes, if you want to hang on to Zooey, boy) off to Schrafft’s corner lunchroom ( Harry’s Variety, Doc’s Drugstore, Hayes-Bickford, Friendly’s, Brigham’s, Howard Johnson, okay) and quarters for jukebox, endless cadges; play this and that six, twelve, infinite times. And our father, Elvis, Elvis, all shakes, shiver, making girls, making Zooey (he heard, heard from the corner boy grapevine, really the corner boy Be-Bop Kid’s sister who overheard that blessed news at one Monday morning before school girls’ “lav” talkfest when they were discussing, ah, discussing what made them “wet”) sweat (and Zooey, cool fragrance bath soap smell Zooey does not sweat even in sweaty New York/Chi Town/Frisco/LA LA land cities) and do things up in cloistered rooms (so he heard, a separate corner boy sister’s wisdom as source) while they (boys “they” in case you didn’t figure that out) ran the clerks at Mr. Sam’s clothing store ragged looking for just the right look, and old Mr. Mack at Doc’s Drugstore too benefited selling combs, gels, and six other things, except correctives for two left feet.        

Rock was (is) small Podunk towns, every boy knows every girl (and maybe desires each and every one and the reverse too although that would cause a scandal in monogamous protestant-driven podunk), small , sweaty towns and villages, hell, one street main street crossroads down in dusty Texas, pass throughs for Greyhound buses and oil tankers, summertime and the living is easy crossroads, Podunk outlandishly named towns, Boise (big, two-hearted rivers and endless forests between jukebox locales, jesus, and those bad ass city corner boy thought they had it tough), Helena (and old time whiskey dreams filled with unfulfilled gold dust dreams), Ponticello (big-hearted in its own way), Big Sur (sleepy town before the invasion), Olde Saco filled with raven-haired, smooth-cheeked French-Canadian boys calling out the songs in patois French (no Arcadia here), be-bop (okay, half  be-bop towns, dusty old towns soon, how soon, to be de-populated by every boy and girl and off to the big sweaty rock and roll cities). Kids sitting around the village green, the fourth of july bandstand, the monument to the civil war, maybe on ocean edge towns down some salty beach fighting off King Neptune for some sea wall space or some hidden Seal Rock lovers’ lane fighting off some enterprising  corner boy (senior set) in his father’s passed- on car, be-bopping away, waiting, waiting just like big sweaty city waiting ,for the big freeze red scare (hell, no far away, they ran those pink, red  NAACP guys, white guys, students making strange noises about black was right if white was right, right out of town, right onto those Trailways buses, one way, pronto) cold war night to turn warm and  provide some fresh air to breath to breath a not parentcoppriestteacherauthority, not air raid shelter (or under old time mahogany inkwell desks for real Podunk towns), head down, ass up breathe.

Clapping hands by twos and threes as some bopping horn, or better sexed-up sax (not some old time, teen old time, tenor or alto Johnny Hodges/ Lester Young/ Charlie Parker/Dizzy be-bopping thing but chained, chained hard and fast to that riffing guitar), parent wary too sexed-up sax that made junior toss in his bed at night and sis, well, made her, cool and collected, toss a few sweaty wet nights too, make of that what you will, always sax wails, whales, wales, away with that big beat, beat down, beat around, beat six- ways-to- Sunday (the day exactly), some guitar riff out of Les Paul or some jazz Charlie Christian saint, maybe some Ike Turner Rocket 88 turbo-blast, trying to make sense of that off-beat Bill Haley and the Comets Rock Around The Clock beat that framed, hell, beat to hell that  silly Asphalt Jungle  j. d. (juvenile delinquent for the clueless squares, jack-rollers, corner boys, whip chain-slashers for those in the know also looking for that freeze to thaw in their own coping way) movie seen down at the Bijou (imitation big city Majestic, really doubling for Sunday morning pancake all you can eat, bring the family socials too, doors open at eight, eight in the morning, jesus), on that cool off Saturday popcorn (popcorn addicted same as in sweaty cities) afternoon. Stag (ditto, cities, maybe corner boys, maybe from some innocent when you dream Mama’s Pizza Parlor corner, closing when main street closes at 9:00 PM , maybe no), but later, intermission later, seeing she, Olde Saco South Junior High School, for example, she (no blank big city Public School X number here) sweet Madonna (same as big city on that) and then to Eddie Cochran Sitting in the Balcony, Betty (or Jane, Mary, nothing as exotic as big city, maybe jew, big city Zooey) and off to private upstairs balcony screenings.

Later, maybe four o’clock later, strolling (got to learn how to get the hang of that damn thing, the stroll, if you want to hang on to Betty/Jane/ Mary, boy) off to Doc’s corner drugstore and quarters for jukebox, endless cadges, play this and that six, twelve, infinite times. And our father, Elvis, Elvis, all shakes, shiver, making girls, making Betty (he heard) sweat (and Betty, Zooey-like, cool Betty does not sweat even in sweaty summer midday corn-picking fields) and do things, universal do things, private girl things, up in cloistered rooms (so he heard, though that same universal Monday morning before school  “lav” talkfest- and lie-fest) while they (boys “they” in case you didn’t figure that out) ran the Sears catalogue (and Ma) ragged looking for just the right look, and old Doc (Doc Andrews and no doctor but just a guy who crushed pills and  sold liquor as medicine for what ailed people to get by) and his fuddy-duddy drugstore with odd medicines for sick people what-a- drag- to- be-old-and- it- ain’t- never- going- to- come- to- that- for- me  benefited selling combs, gels, and six other things, except correctives for two left feet.        

Rock was (is)…