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Gone but Not Forgotten

He was a rebel without a cause but he caused a lot of rebellion with his smirking smile and smiling smirk. He was the icon of our misunderstood youthful fears and he never lived to see the whole bygodwe’regonnachangesocietywithlonghairandfreelove andallthemaryjanewecanmuster.

He just put his hand prints and name in concrete at Grauman’s Chinese. And then he drove his Porsche Spyder without the benefit of belted restraint through the canyons and the Hollywood hills and out of our view forever.

Though he was a giant in his own world, he missed the rest of our world in the Gulf of Tonkin, didn’t live to see Woodstock or Kent State or the Chicago Seven, or Angela Davis, the Black Panthers, or Elridge Cleaver. He prelived the Age of Aquarius with his longer than crew cut, shorter than Hair hair. They marched without him on Washington and in Selma. He rolled up his tee shirt sleeve for his smokes—not a Marlboro man—he spoke incoherently for us as he reclined on his car on his way East of Eden, losing-winning-losing the race on the bluff overlooking the Pacific.

Where do guys like him go after all is said and done? Is he raising hell in heaven or is he using his upturned middle finger to demonstrate for peace in hell? Anyone got a dime for long distance? Damn I miss James Dean.

Story by:

James Stark

submitted at 8:30pm

30 April 2009