It seems likely that Maynard G. Krebs, the beatnik, on The Dobie Gillis television show
must have had the reverse intended effect on me. I was at that impressionable age.
While the Stanley Straightarrows of early-60's suburban America laughed and derided
this kooky, bumbling, non-conformist, lazy, confused & excitable caricature of a spoof
on beatniks, there was a young army of us reprobates who quietly identified with his
plight. Maynard's lifestyle of bongo's & sandals & girls in black leotards
looked good to me. But then, Soupy Sales and MAD magazine were my bread & butter
those days, as well. And his idea of taking a date out to listen to the train pass
on the edge of town at night under the stars is still near & dear to my heart.
(The listening part was stressed over the watching, though, it was important to
"dig" both sensory experiences). And now, to this day, I am continually
warding off the reviewers who insist I am of beatnik aesthetics. Sure, I've been
known to wear a beret, sport a goatee, strap on the sandals, chase girls in black
leotards, travel around the country on Greyhound buses, listen to jazz and bongo's, drink
jug wine (no no more with the vino, tho), and watch clouds. But, other
than the fact that I prefer composing quick spur of the moment narrative
poems, somewhat spontaneously, I'd like to say that my similarity with the
Beats is slim - Mark Weber, 27 Feb. 1996.