As a boho ’50s fetishist (the aesthetic, just to be clear), I find this to be kind of a weird thing:
But maybe not. We, the endless nostalgia machines in the age of Occupy, are now re-imagining the last time anyone can remember where we really gave the finger to a guy in a suit.
Maybe I’m just touchy because the rest of culture has exposed my own warm-hued high school fantasies: rock star poets! Fuck the man! Rugged rebellion!
What would Kerouac think? Eh, he’d probably love it. Talking to Nick Flynn about his new movie made me realize how rad it would be to see your memoir translated to the silver screen. At least, I guess, if it’s done well. Let’s hope that On the Road doesn’t screw up fucking Kerouac. If so, we’ve got bigger problems as a culture that I choose to not think…
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