I spent my teen years in Vermont partying around a bonfire in fields, attending a high school with a severe drug problem and organized on a semi-democratic system. Of course, I read On the Road. Kerouac and his literary legacy were sacred to most of my wide eyed, Marx-ing, vegetarian school mates. For the energetic, experimental twenty somethings of the time, the beats ushered them into adulthood. Kind of. Sadly relevant, On the Bro'd is a translation of Kerouac's American classic that speaks to a much more recent generation of highfives and popped collars with references to The Situation, Oasis, Wild Wings, Facebook, flip cup, and Hustler mags. But then they strutted down the streets like total pimps, and I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after bros who interest me, because
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