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.