It might as well be me.
Jack Kerouac’s “On The Road” is freakin’ terrible.
Yes, I hear the collective gasps. I just don’t care. It is bru-friggin’-tal.
Someone, somewhere along the way decided it was a classic and everyone else was too confused by it to argue.
It is completely unreadable. I got through 3/4 of it.
Somewhat younger than Lester Young, also from KC, that gloomy, saintly goof in whom the history of jazz was wrapped; for when he held his horn high and horizontal from his mouth he blew the greatest; and as his hair grew longer and he got lazier and stretched-out, his horn came down halfway; till it finally fell all the way and today as he wears his thick-soled shoes so that he can’t feel the sidewalks of life his horn is held weakly against his chest, and he blows cool and easy getout phrases.
Seriously… what the fuck is that?
It reads like the ramblings of that drunk guy you see at every party. You know the one? He is just that much too drunk to interact with the others. And, if you let your guard down, he corners you outside the bathroom and tells you about how he is suing the lottery corporation because he hasn’t won it yet.
I met an old drunk guy one night who told me, “You know that Connie Chung? She’s a nice piece of ass.” But, that was interesting at least. (And, let’s be honest, not completely inaccurate.)
I really have better things to do with my time than read “On The Road.” I mean, it’s “best friend teen week” on Wheel of Fortune.
I feel better getting this off my chest.
Next time tune in so I can tell you exactly what I think of Newton’s “Third Law.”
I’ll show you an equal but opposite reaction, prick.