We got bored. I decided to spend a buck on beer; we went to an old saloon in Stuart and had a few. There he got as drunk as he ever did in his Ninth Avenue night back home, and yelled joyously in my ear all the sordid dreams of his life. I kind of like him; not because he was a good sort, as he later proved to be, but because he was enthusiastic about things.
I'm listening to the On the Road audiobook which I'm greatly preferring to reading it. There's something raspy and authentic about the narrator's voice. It's like a voice from the late 50's or early 60's that's sitting down on a park bench with a black coffee saying, 'come over her son, I've got a story to share.'
Kerouac's vocabulary and description are so strong and dense that I should be listening to it at half speed instead of my normal time and a half.
Overall the book feels authentic and real. It feels like something unfiltered and refined only for authenticity. It's a glimpse of time when:
I ate another apple pie and ice cream; that's practically all I ate all the way across the country, I knew it was nutritious and it was delicious, of course.