Portland to Butte. Two hobo panhandlers in back of bus on way out at midnight said they were bound for The Dalles—a small farming and lumber town—to beat a dollar or two. We rolled in the big darkness of the Columbia River Valley, in a blizzard. I woke up after a nap and had a chat with one of the hoboes.
Said he would be an old-time outlaw if J. Edgar Hoover had not made it against the law to steal. I lied and said I had driven a stolen car from N. I woke up at Tonompah Falls: hundreds of feet high, a hooded phantom dropped water from his huge, icy forehead. I was scared because I could not see what was in the darkness up beyond the hood of the ice—what hairy horrors, what night?
The bus driver plunged along over mad ridges. Then northeast through Connell, Sprague, Cheney wheat and cattle lands like East Wyoming , in a gale of blizzards, to Spokane. Visions of Montana. I saw clusters of houses homesteading in the wild mountain holes. We rose to the heights in the snowy gray; below in the gulch one single shack light burned. Two boys in a car almost went off the ridge avoiding our bus.
In Butte I stored my bag in a locker. A drunken Indian wanted me to go drinking with him, but I cautiously declined. A short walk around the sloping streets in below-zero weather at night showed that everybody in Butte was drunk.
This was a Sunday night—I hoped the saloons would stay open until I had seen my fill. They close at dawn, if at all. I walked into one great old-time saloon and had a giant beer.
I could not take my eyes off him. Ah, dear Father.
On the Road
I saw old-timers sitting around in an old ramshackle inn in the middle of the snowy prairie —playing cards by old stoves, at noon. A boy of twenty, with one arm missing, sat in the middle of them.
How sad! But how protected he is by Montana. Nowhere else in the world would I say it were at all beautiful for a young man to have but one arm. I shall never forget that boy, who seemed to realize that he was home. You can have your Utopian orgies: I should prefer an orgy with the Montanans.
Spain... on the Road Again
From Montana to Minnesota. The mad bus driver almost went off the road on a sudden low snowdrift. Another eastbound bus was stuck, and many cars. The cause of the congestion was a small panel truck carrying slot machines to Montana. Eager young men with shovels came from the little town of Dickinson, most of them wearing red baseball caps, led by the sheriff, a strong joyous boy of twenty-five or so. Some of the boys were fourteen, even twelve. I thought of their mothers and wives waiting at home with hot coffee, as though the traffic jam in the snow was an emergency touching Dickinson itself.
Where in the effete-thinking East would men work for others, for nothing, at midnight in howling, freezing gales? We in the bus watched. Once in a while a boy came in to warm up. Finally the bus driver, a maniacal and good man, decided to pile on through. He gunned the Diesel Motor and the big bus went sloughing through drifts. We swerved into the panel truck: I believe we may have hit a jackpot. Then we swerved into a brand-new Ford.
Finally, after an hour of travails, we were back on dry ground. I wish that I had been born and raised in Dickinson, North Dakota. The trip across sunny, flat Minnesota was uneventful. How dull it was to be in the East again: no more raw hopes; all was satisfied here. The sad fact about the modern American small city like Poughkeepsie is that it has none of the strength of the metropolis and all the ugly pettiness. Dismal streets, dismal lives.
Mystery auf HISTORY
Thousands of drunkards in bars. But out of this wreckage rises a veritable Cleophus—the Negro I met there this weekend. The future of America lies in the Negro like Cleo. I know it now. It is the simplicity and raw strength, rising out of the American ground, that will save us. Then finally the book will come out in print, in a big black volume, indicative of the darkness and solitary joy that went into its writing.
Meanwhile, I have great ideas for my future Hollywood career. In the past week, Bill, Allen, and Huncke were all arrested and put in jail—Bill for narcotics, in New Orleans, the others for robbery and etc. For the first time in ages, I want to start a new life. We—the whole family [Kerouac; his mother; his sister Nin; and her husband, Paul]—are going to move out to Colorado within a year.
A fun night - On the Road again Part #3 - Callieslife Adventure
The Kidsongs kids sang this song in their video "Country Sing-Along". It was released as single, but failed to land on the chart. Conan O'Brien performed the song as "My Own Show Again" during his Legally Prohibited from Being Funny on Television Tour , changing the lyrics to reflect how he couldn't wait to return to hosting a television series after leaving The Tonight Show earlier in the year.
Phish performed the song during the encore of their show on August 6, , closing out their record-setting night "Baker's Dozen" residency and 52nd show played at Madison Square Garden. From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Top Adult Contemporary: Record Research. Retrieved Rolling Stone. Retrieved April 14, Retrieved 19 April They were stuck in the ice and snow, until spring awakened warmth and new life.
The snow started to flurry harder and I shivered in my thin, wool coat. Dejected, I turned and walked back to the hotel, wiping away tears. At the same time, the sun warmed my face and the crisp air felt refreshing. I gazed out at the river. No ducks. Instead, a lone seagull flew overhead.
I chuckled a bit at the memory of the ducks in Aurora. They might have been cold, but they were swimming.
On The Road Again - Part Three
They were surviving. There was nothing else they could do, but keep on. Sometimes they can be warm and gentle. I think even the ducks know this.