ODE TO LOUIE LOUIE - JOURNAL POE 1981

ODE TO LOUIE LOUIE "Ah, Louie Lou-ii oh no...." Maybe 1964 or 1965 I don't remember those days to good these days, but I was in the Boy Scouts of America Trying to get a merit badge for swimming. Camp Adams Pond New Hampshire

The counselor shouted "20 laps, one underwater." "The counselors were strange. I was twelve. I knew nothing. About front seats of cars Steamy showers Dark woods

The counselor didn't know my name I din't know his, I knew LOUIE LOUIE Everyone in America knew that song.

We listened for someone shouting a mute 'fuck'. I didn't know what fuck was. Playing with Barbie Dolls held no answers. Ken dancing with Barbie to the Kingsmen.

At the camp was a boy with one leg Cancer got the other one John was strong. Not a good swimmer

He swam singing LOUIE LOUIE We sang with him He said 'fuck' at the right part We laughed He swam underwater and came up saying 'fuck'.

Radio stations across America played the song. 50,000 watts. It was a big hit From coast to coast LOUIE LOUIE was a teenage secret The counselor knew nothing. Adults knew nothing We kept a secret from coast Block Island to Monterrey

John knew the secret He told me what 'fuck' meant He told all of us So now as then

"Louie Loui-ii I gotta go Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah In the midnight hour 'Fuck'

Boy Scout Shota

In the summer of 1962 my brother and I set out  with a large contingent of fellow Boy Scouts for a Sixty-Mile hike in emulation of JFK's call for a physical resurgence of youthful health. We departed from Adams Pond Camp south of Ossipee, NH and tramped through burnt forests and passed fields filled with tall cornstalks. The only memorable campsite was atop Evans Mountain next to a supposedly haunted house surrounded by blueberry fields.

None of us was older than twelve and the next day the temperature rose into the 90s and the scout masters promised their weakening troops a swim at New England's most beautiful pond. We picked up our pace and ended up a muddy hole rimmed by thirsty cows. The scout leader shooed away the cattle and the oldest adult explained that tradition required a naked run around the pond.

The boys from South of the Charles River rejected this demand.

"Then you get no food tonight."

"Fuck you then," said a Eagle Scout from Southie.

The rebels outnumbered the obedient, but the leaders and their adherents stripped off their clothes to trot around the waterhole.

We went into the pond wearing our shorts.

That night we ate nothing.

The Scout Leaders and their followers sat around a bonfire and ate fried chicken washed down by 'bug juice' or Kool-Aid. None of the rebels joined them. We slept together with the older boys standing guard. 

The next morning we rose before the dawn and trekked to the nearest road.

A farmer in a big truck stopped for us and asked, "Are you boys on that 'hike'?"

"We were," said a boy from Dorchester.

"I thought as much. Jump in the back and I'll drive to Adams Pond." He looked over his shoulder, as if the Boy Scout Leaders might stop him from aiding thirty-plus boys. 

As we approached the camp, the oldest boy from Southie warned, "Don't say nothing. Those motherfuckers will get you or us. I wish we could stop them from hurting our fellow scouts, but no one will believe us. Be prepared."

1962 was almost sixty years ago.

Not yesterday, but I still see the young boys running naked around a dirty pond.

Fuck the Boy Scouts.

ps the last entry in the Boy Scout Handbook was about 'noctural emissions'.