Kerouac and the Sixteen Dollars I'll Never See Again

      I probably should have checked Yesterday's Books first, but since they don't have a Starbucks grotto I bought "On The Road" for a book club at Barnes & Noble while chowing down on a dense bran apple muffin. Sixteen bucks, paperback. I'm stuck midway through the book, which is worse than I remembered and showing no signs of developing into anything other than word vomit in travelogue form with very occasional jazz references thrown in. I keep reaching the ends of paragraphs in a literary blackout, no idea what I've read or how I got there. Still, I aim to finish it, and whether or not I have any idea what I've read is irrelevant. Even if all I can do is make a stroke face during the book club discussion, I'll have earned that right honestly. Not so honestly, I'm being quite careful not to damage the book at all, in some misplaced hope that I'll be able to return it when I'm done. You know, like a library. Worst case scenario, Yesterday's Books won't buy it from me and I have to foster it until I can find it a suitable home. C'est la vie. I've half a mind to pick a Sylvia Browne title when it's my turn to choose our reading, just for revenge.