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~Donated Stories~ If you would like to make a donation of your own please Click Here. This latest story was donated by Sal Trento A 2004 Beat Story As I swerved and speeded through traffic on Cross Bay Boulevard, John Allen Cassady said to me " You drive like my father". That was kicks, man, and at that moment I let out a Whoooohoooo! The fair haired lad and I then had a slice of good NY pizza before heading back to the Beatmobile for a presentation later that night for the Rockaway Artists Alliance. This was one stop on the cross country tour of the Beat Museum on Wheels that I had arranged, being a beat aficionado after playing Jack Kerouac in an Off Broadway musical. John Allen and Jerry Cinimo had dinner at my place and wound up crashing after we watched the final Presidential debate. In the morning, the three of us got on bicycles and pedaled along the Atlantic Ocean a few miles back to the Beatmobile. Road manager Garland Thompson subwayed in from Manhattan and joined us later and everybody dug their program on the outdoor Moon stage as the wine flowed and the crickets chirped in the October American Night. This Story was Donated By Greg Newberry I just met John tonight in Hamilton and told him a bit
of the story of my travels and that I'd encountered a couple on the road
with a litter of pups. Since I was living on the road in a van and the
pups were born on the road, I picked one out and named him Cassady. He
was an amazing animal - so human-like that I believed he was Neal reincarnated.
On the back of the card I gave John, I described myself as the "owner"
of Cassady the dog. That wasn't the right choice of words. I never owned
him. He was my partner. My brother. I've had dogs my whole life, but none
even remotely like Cassady. I made a pact with him when I took him from
his mom and the rest of the litter. In honor of his namesake, I would
never fence him in. I would never put him on a leash. He was free to come
and go as he pleased. He chose to stay (although there was the occasional
trip to the pound to bail him out). I traveled from New England to Texas
and back. Several times. I took up jobs in construction so he could hang
out on the job site. He took to climbing ladders. One time he climbed
out on the roof of a home under construction and watched us work. He was
a cross between a lab and weimariner. He looked like a heavy, chocolate
weimariner with a full tail. I'm a good swimmer - but he could swim faster
than me. I once hitchhiked from Cincinnati to Dallas with him, which was
over a thousand miles. No leash. Only a quarter in my pocket. He was a
handsome dog and I wound up getting a lot of rides because he stood so
proudly on the side of the highway. We got rides from people who'd never
picked up hitchhikers before because Cassady was too cool to drive past.
My friends would call and ask about Cassady before they asked about me.
He was as close to being a person - a really cool person - as one could
ever imagine. We racked up thousands of miles together. I eventually settled
down and bought a house with a fenced-in back yard. The fence was six
feet tall. I got a real job and one day, the first day I couldn't take
him with me, I put him in the back yard. He looked at me as if I'd broken
our pact, which I had. And immediately jumped the fence. He went over
it like a gazelle. He ran around to the front of the house and sat on
the porch and looked at me like, "I'll just hang here." And
he did. After 13 years and a failed marriage, he came down with a kidney
disease. I owned a 1970 Lincoln Town Car in mint condition with leather
seats. He finally was in great pain, and I knew I had to consider putting
him down. So i took him for one last ride. He usually sat like a passenger
in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead out the window. (He was
too cool to stick his head out the window like a dog.) This trip, he spralwed
across the seat with his head on my lap as I drove. He took a deep breath
and was gone, choosing to die as he was born. On the road. My father has
a piece of property on the Ohio River about 3 hours from here. I kept
on driving and buried him atop the banks of the Ohio, so he could always
run with the river. It was the best I could do for the best friend I ever
had. I wish you could have met. This story was donated by Christopher M Schiavo Hawthorne, NJ, USA on Wednesday, August 25, 2004 My Nite with Corso Once at a Beat revival in NYC I sat at their bar and drank
with Gregory Corso. Him in his poneytailed white hair was striking. Unexpected.
We drank and small talked I didn't let him know I knew who he was, that
I could extend my evening perhaps longer and I could get more out of that
inflamed crimson mind of his. My friends had previously been in Hunke's
rather Spartan-like apartment drinking Heinekens and listening to to others
and reading their own poetry. Thus I felt at home next to Gregory. Too
I had corresponded with Ginsberg regarding Kerouac's thoughts on describing
The Beats as "aeroporgite" I wanted to know what Kerouac had
meant by that. With all these shared moments in mind I finished my relationship
witht The Beats that evening. Corso and I drinking at the bar like I said,
I saw Lawerence Ferlinghetti going towards the Men's Room. I shouted as
Gregory laughed, "Hey Ferlinghetti, get off my man's (Kerouac's)
back!" Referring to his comments that at Six G!
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