Blog Entry

Write like Kerouac...

Posted on: July 5, 2010 12:35 pm
...and I really dig that recliner, but it's damn near impossible to build motivation enough to get up out of it, to the extent that I'm in it all afternoon, even into the evening on some days, having first stocked up on plenty of Scotch with a pile of fresh Depends neatly stacked on the side, next to the draw string garbage bag, a strategy I learned the long, hard, dirty way...and, you know, checking out the channel guide, and picking the least obnoxious game of the moment, setting the Dolby receiver and the little infrared receiver that takes orders from the tiny remote I plug into my iPod with its 14 gigs of all my favorite music, because I know for sure that after eleven minutes (tops) of listening to the game commentators that sound like braying donkeys, but not as smart, or the infinite commercials yacking about trucks with "hemis", whatever the phluck hemis are, that I'll switch my ears over to Schubert's Death and the Maiden or some good old Savoy Brown (probably I can't get Next to You , if I know me, which I certainly do)... and I remember once, and this was in the early days before I had the system worked out to perfection, when I had to get up off the recliner and adjust the angle of the HiDef monitor, and wasn't that  a humiliating pi ss off, making me feel like an inferior fool, but, in reality it served it's purpose allowing me to go out to the kitchen for that ziplock with the nearly whole, left--over roasted chicken and a roll of paper towels, and certainly making for some real belly laughs later when I drunkenly hefted garbage bag full of messed Depends mixed with chicken bones and greasy paper towels, and threw it into the garbage can, under the amazing light of an old time full moon, outside...I was outside in the relative wilderness of my back yard, a freaky feeling, and don't think that I didn't thank god for the glaring halogens in my motion detector, security floodlights, or I'd have been out there in the dark, surrounded by all this natural shi t, like who really knows?...maybe moths, insects, tiny little mammals like voles, you know...
Category: NFL
Tags: iPod, Jack, Kerouac, voles

Since: Jan 8, 2008
Posted on: October 14, 2012 10:20 am

Write like Kerouac...

Kerouac's only play premieres in Massachusetts hometown

Legendary writer Jack Kerouac's only play, "Beat Generation" is coming to life in Kerouac's hometown of Lowell, MA from Wednesday October 10 through Sunday October 14.



hopefully I copied and pasted correctly

Since: Jul 19, 2009
Posted on: August 12, 2011 5:19 pm

Write like Kerouac...

Alright, I know this a year old, and I've been gone for about the same period of time, but I just wanted to say I appreciated the On the Road ness of this whole thing, Depends notwithstanding.

The stream of your consciousness is a bold, cold, refreshing stream for all the craziness out in blog land.  More please.

Bring it on back for the father of the mother.  I will start again, if you will.  In fact, I already have. 

Catharsis.  Help me find it and I will help you back.  Read Player One and we'll's been a bit.

Since: Sep 23, 2008
Posted on: July 30, 2010 2:50 pm

Write like Kerouac...

Was Kerouac a big fan of the the run-on sentence? His first novel, The Town and the City , was written in conventional prose. By the time he wrote Desolation Angels 15 years later, it was basically: One book = one sentence.

You actually have to suspend the conventional reading stategies to "get" the book.  Most poeple actually cannot find a mechanism to read late Kerouac stuff.

Bikini Ed Hardy
Since: Apr 27, 2010
Posted on: July 30, 2010 10:07 am
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Since: Sep 23, 2008
Posted on: July 17, 2010 8:53 pm

Write like Kerouac...

I took this chick (she took me) to Costco. We had lunch at aisles 13, 14 and 15. I had invited her up to my flop for dinner, and she was scared sh itless, even though she wanted me badly. I had her buy some halibut, some flour tortillas and a plastic vat of what appeared to be salsa cruda. I agreed to pay for the Sauza Hornitos and a too-big bag of limes, but she would have to wait a good, long while (***cough, cough***).

When we got up to my flop, she was appaled, and nearly bolted, but that simmered down really fast.

I had her pour us some tumblers of Hornitos, and pick out some music (which she had a lot of trouble with).

I heated up the George Foreman grill, crucnched some dried chiloptles into some mayo, and drank more than my share of the tequila. We chatted like we knew what what was going on. She was so uncomfortable, but I felt great.

I grilled the halibut, took it off the Foreman and heated the tortillas. Then  I made us tacos with the tortillas, fish, chipotle mayo and salsa cruda. We sat at the little breakfast nook, ate, talked, and drank more Hornitos.

She stayed the night. It was the best night of her life. She'd send me christmas cards if she knew my address.

She was pretty cool, but nothing you'd get stuck for.

Since: Sep 23, 2008
Posted on: July 11, 2010 9:50 pm

Write like Kerouac...

Every block in the village had either a gin mill or a mom-and-pop deli at each corner. There were also lots of little, moldy-stale, cobweb-encrusted storefronts that sold odd sh it that no one could ever find a reason to buy. If, for some strange reason, you walked in the door, a bell would jangle, and about fourteen minutes later an old hag with a face full of warts and a hairdo from hell would hobble out from her humble residence into "the store" to glare malevolently at you. I still believe in witches.

The houses in the village were all alike except for their state of dilapidation. Almost all of men of the village worked for "the railroad". No one knew what they did at their job, least of all them. They never left the job to go home until they had fortified themselves at their personal gin mill. These places were actually social clubs, and had curious, neon names like: Snow Balls', The Red Fox, The Dew Drop Inn, etc. Guys from one bar never ventured into any of the other bars. These gin mill, social clubs were the vortex of political power during village elections. Victory came incredibly cheaply.

Families lived in the village generation-after-generation. If a kid graduated from the local high school, went to college, and "moved away", the parents were shunned as what the real people called elitests.

The epitome of life in the village was The Fourth of July. Each railroad worker had been stealing "red lights" (warning flares) throughout the year. By the time the 4th rolled around, each patriarch had a peach basket heaped with stolen red lights. When Ra's chariot dipped below the horizon, the baskets of patriotic fervor were unhidden and brought to the curb of the street. The caps were twisted off, and scratched to ignite the flares. A dozen blazing flares unerringly proved the patriotism of each family on the block. As individual flares expired, new ones were lit in replacement, until everyone in the village was too drunk, or had run out of stolen flares. The smell of sulfur was the smell of the greatness of America, the village, and all that was right and good with god.


Since: Sep 23, 2008
Posted on: July 10, 2010 3:29 pm

Write like Kerouac...

I vividly remember the Greyhound trip to Cleveland to pick up the new GTO from the Pontiac dealership that owed my uncle more than the owner's life was worth. I got a great deal, by the way.  I had never ridden on a Greyhound bus, and as I walked down the aisle, I checked out the faces of the passengers. It was Felliniesque. I almost backed out, except that I badly wanted that car, being a shallow college punk with nothing better on his mind. Then the angel looked up at me from a window seat, and gave me sort of a tiny, coy smile. I returned the smile, and took the seat. Turns out that she was from an old fashioned Greek family. She was twenty. She was married. She was slightly pregnant. She was gorgeous with no makeup and frumpy clothes. She was nice. She was interesting. She was no kind of flirt, or anything even close. We traded small talk as we watched the dead weed stalks in the snow fields recede. I made her laugh. She made me warm. After way too short a time, she fell asleep with her pretty head on my shoulder. I was thinking all kinds of sh it, because I wanted her. I took and held her hand, and she nuzzled me up, no doubt thinking that I was her husband.

When the bus pulled into the station, and the offloading commotion began, she woke up to our separate realities. We fumbled for our sh it. I stepped out into the aisle, and held the space for her to step out, like I was a gentleman or something. I followed her off the bus. She turned to look up at me and said goodbye and wished me luck. I just smiled back at her, but it wasn't a real smile.

I took a cab to the dealership, and picked up the GTO that used to be my dream at some forgotten time in my past. I did the paper work crap in an absent-minded daze. It was a depressing gray, slush-and-salt on the road day. I couldn't run the GTO. I didn't even play any music during the monotonous ride down the Interstate.

I hope she's had a wonderful life.

Since: Jan 20, 2008
Posted on: July 9, 2010 9:32 am

Write like Kerouac...

Stream of Consciousness..., Ken Kesey, James Joyce, Molly and her sexuality, Dublin, Well Done F & L!,...  

Since: Mar 13, 2008
Posted on: July 8, 2010 12:59 am

Write like Kerouac...

Naked on a bed.  Beer in one bottle, baby oil in another.  Thank uncle Sam the bottles aren't shaped the same way.  Free internet images are randomly spoiled by Instant messenger score updates and Trend Micro Internet security.  Another pop up ensuring a pop down.

They never had this problem at Big Sur.  Delirium Tremens haven't even set in yet.  I've rejected the cure before even starting one.  Nine hours until prompt government regulated alphabet relief.

Since: Feb 17, 2010
Posted on: July 7, 2010 9:48 pm
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