Kerouac may be a gifted story-teller, however the key here is ‘story.’ As sick as I am of picking through his lies, I have to resign myself to it, because we are only approaching the close of part one, in what is a five-part work. It’d be nice if I were able to simply enjoy the flow of his writing, as so many have, but as the Blues Brothers had noted, ‘this is a mission from god’ (note the small g.)

In chapter 13 there appears to be no threatening witness lurking with the possibility of blowing the whistle on Kerouac in his 2 weeks love adventure with Bea Franco [‘Terry’ in the book] and he fails to pin any truly boorish behaviors on a single soul. No parties such as Burford or Temko to call his BS for what it is and no need for preemptive attacks on peoples character accordingly.

Perhaps Kerouac had actually found his ‘people’ and behaved well throughout this episode, in which case he should never have left. But it jumps out he asks his mom for fifty dollars [thirty pieces of silver] to get him out of the circumstance, rather than applying the funds to get himself and Bea Franco set up to make a go of it together or keep any of his promises/plans he’d lavished on this migrant labor associated woman; pointing to his merely lying to get laid. He tells Bea goodbye and then collects his mom’s money that’d been wired to him and splits.

There is a truly pathetic side to Kerouac, one can only surmise any reason behind his running away from making intelligent, life fulfilling decisions or acquiring self-evident truth as a person. My instincts tell me this has to do with his patent closet homosexuality, a thing Kerouac certainly will never come to terms with.

In my actual acquaintances with male homosexuals, and it is not as wide experience such as you’d know from circulating in a gay community and therefore not definitive, I’ve repeatedly encountered denial mechanisms (liars) among the men. Not in every case, but more often than not. Very interestingly, precisely the opposite has been my experience with lesbians. Among lesbians, I have several very close and trusted friends who live by values demanding ethics and core honest behaviors. By contrast I have one close gay male friend and it has taken years for me to learn to trust him. Why?

Because of the individual gay male behaviors per se, those I have experienced. Assessing Kerouac, my guess would be, like Cassady, Kerouac was a natural heterosexual orientation male whose behaviors had been modified in his formative years by a predator, in Kerouac’s case, most likely a pedophile Catholic priest.

Kerouac impresses as a closet gay of that sort which had been created through a predator’s abuse, not via a natural homosexual orientation which I am firmly convinced is produced in nature, is not against ‘god’ and is best described as ‘it is what it is’ as in ‘life is a paradox.’

So, what is the point of insisting on artificial values, violently imposing monotheism’s social will to the contrary? Nature is way smarter than people. But Kerouac is completely hung up in his social-religious conflict, he has been shaped by a patently misogynist hierarchy, the Catholic Church, his mother is a long suffering saint to whom he can pray to for money at will, he’ll never amount to anything (in his mind) without his priest’s blessing but he cannot actually trust a priest, ever, so he substitutes his fraternity brothers approval (Cassady, Ginsberg) instead. He will remain a closet gay.

The man is a typical church production, in effect, a confused (inculcated by religion) misogynist with instilled un-natural (as opposed to nature’s produced spontaneous-natural) homosexuality he will never become comfortable with, in effect a perfect Roman Catholic Church wrecking-ball victim embodied with a naturally gifted mind. He will never know peace, normalcy or allow himself a fulfilling life with a woman he actually would become capable of loving.

I’m the only person I’m aware of, that could honestly state they’d had a ‘queer chicken’ dinner. Living in the country and raising chickens for both eggs and meat, and having grown up observing the same in my parent’s time, I know that roosters raised together typically will not fight, let alone rape each other. So, when the pervertrapist rooster had manifest, it was plainly an anomaly.

I thought about it, dropped the mean but entertaining fantasy of introducing the bird to a redneck cock-fight, and not being a homophobe, figured eating the queer chicken would not somehow threaten my orientation. So, the chicken’s head came off. That was something like 15 years ago. I’d only recently named the chicken Jack.

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