"I was a beatnik."

When I was a kid of 8 or 9 years old, I found one of my curious youthful obsessions to be that of the beatnik stereotype.  I had no real understanding of the Beats.  Never read or really knew about Kerouac or Ginsberg.  But the image of the beat(nik) as outsider or oddball connected immediately with my alien kinder mentality.

 

It's cheerfully ironic that a parody--or Hollywood portrayal of an outsider group, meant to lessen their impact--can actually inspire one to copy its outside and outsider attractions.  Thus it was for my pre-teen hep-cat identity.  I didn't know that the term beatnik was actually like a racial slur.  Credited as being coined by San Francisco Chronicle columnist Herb Caen, his dismissive term was a combo of  Beat and Sputnik, suggesting the new trend was a merger of Cool and Commie.  Like the later Hip or Hipster being turned into Hippie.  Or even the N word.  A slur, which ultimately embraces those named, rather than ridiculed.  Want to know why a President, Senator, or Reverend is assassinated?  A truth loving investigator is turned into a Conspiracy Buff.  Well sign me up, Daddy O Trotsky.  I'm an underage, card-carrying, cool cat! 

 

Once again, I have to credit that publication of subversive activity, MAD Magazine, for starting me On the Road.  Their artistic interpretations of the Beat Lifestyle, through the drawings of Mort Drucker and the masterworks of Kelly Freas, drew me into the dark coffee houses of Suburban Bohemia.  How many times did their beat parodies of square entertainment make wish to enter a smoke filled club, lit only by candles in chianti bottles?

 

As a pre-teen, of course, I never had the opportunity to enter a real or even unreal coffee house.  But as a child sitting in the back seat of my parents' car, we drove past them on our many weekend excursions.  In hyper-dull Orange County, the Coolsville establishments stuck out beside the Pep Boys stores.  I remember one called Dracula's Den, way, way out, Daddy, outside of Fullerton, near Yorba Linda.  And as we headed to the Drysville desert, there was one outside of Riverside called Diogenes' Lantern.  How prophetic was that?!  Hermes.  The Mercury Players.  The Nun of the Abode, the Nun of the Above...the logo for my Graven Images.  It all fits, dear friends.

 

Still, the full understanding of Being Beat was beyond my youthful ignorance.  My older sister hung around with Kool Kids, but not as anti-establishment as I would become.  But still, her influence was there: being four years older than me, she was in the Kookie, Kookie, Lend Me Your Comb crowd.  That 77 Sunset Strip vibe, I think.  I remember the fad of wearing Tikis, carved, wooden, on a leather bracelet around your neck.  Did this come from Hawaiian Eye?  Connie Stevens and Troy Donahue?  Surfside Six and Bourbon Street Beat.  Those ABC TV shows of the late Fifties!  So back to Mad Magazine to jive it up.

 

Being too young for the taste of coffee, I decided to open up a Beatnik Lemonade Stand.  Dressed like the Mad Magazine illustrations and inspired by Dracula's Den (was this in Brea?), King Kong's Korner opened for business on a small street in Fullerton.  I think I even had a melted candle in a chianti bottle.  How did I pull that off?

 

Not sure, Kats and Kittens.  But bella donnas in berets and black leotards with bongos and be-bop, these give me comfort.

 

I Dig You the Most.  With Love from Dreamsville on Cloud Number 8 (close to benign).  :)   

"China My China."

An admission of failing here: the real China of the past thirty years; the China of Business and Historical Warfare films and so forth...this China holds little excitement for me.  My China is the distorted one of the Occidental. The Romantic Version of the Western Merry Non-Celestial.  The revisionist interpretation of the returning Sir Richard Burton.  All silks and sandalwood incense.  Harems and Veils.  Limehouse and the Daughter of Fu Manchu.  Vegetable Egg Rolls and plenty of Hot Mustard.  And don't forget the Opium!   Not exactly PC.  But I care little of the criticism.  My papers are in order.  I'm on this train to Shanghai.

We're still progressive here, folks.  One of my most admired persons is a lady named Anna May Wong.  She fought against the Hollywood Tyranny Machine regarding Asian actors playing Asian roles.  I loved Myrna Loy, but look at how she played the Eastern femme fatales, while an authentic talent like Miss Wong could not.  And like another exotic dish, Josephine Baker, Miss Wong turned her back on the racist West and headed to Europe (or in her case, England) to perform to a more receptive audience.  Anna May would return on her terms for a while and break the stereotype.  Baker would call France home.  This entry is illustrated with a collection of my Anna May Wong cigarette cards and souvenir postcards from Europe.  You may remember the lovely t-shirt with her likeness worn by Dr. Wu-hu in a previous post.

So it seems my passion for the sensual delights and mystical aura of distant Cathay weaves in and out of different time periods, and real versus mythological images.  My business gives me the opportunity of viewing numerous films from China, but the majority feel like soulless imitations of Western Westerns.  I'm amused, but more so saddened, when I see Chinese directors who made revealing films of their country, then come to the U.S. and make comic book films.  The contemplative films of Asia have receded.  Action flicks over the interaction ones.

Cue David Bowie's "China Girl" song, or the one I used to play by The Korgis...I still enjoy the image of Tsai Chin, from Blow Up, You Only Live Twice, and all the Christopher Lee Fu Manchu films.  I bought her autobiography and will watch her persecute Richard Gere in Red Corner.  And speaking of that film, how about Bai Ling and her fall from grace?  Don't piss off The Maker!!!  From A films to being doomed opposite Michael Marsden.  (And let's not even BEGIN to get into the reason why so many Chinese actors play Japanese.)

Well, after all is said and done, I don't think much has been concluded here.  Except for a personal contradictory obsession with beautiful Chinese women (Playboy Playmates China Lee and Grace Wong), Western visions of the East, noodles, egg rolls and hot mustard, Fu Manchu, Charlie Chan and Mr. Wong.  The best Shadow adventures took place in Chinatown, New York and San Francisco.  All the exotic items were made of jade.  Manfred Mann singing "My Little Red Book."  Or was that Manfred Mandarin?

Happy New Year Celestials!  The Year of the Snake.

As always, I remain,
Your Obedient Serpent (fx: "sound of gong").