Cheers

In April we stepped off the people mover and traveled to the East coast for a refreshing journey. Boston was dreary and somehow forsaken by our dear Lord but Lowell Massachusetts, birthplace of Jack Kerouac, was warm and alive and soft-serve picturesque.

Gormly's was hole-in-the-wall greasy and good with all of the charm a small town American diner could muster on a gray May morning. We ate leisurely and then strolled about the town of factories, books and baseball.

I am not a writer, I post pictures and riff on them, complete with bad structure and grammar. I do, however, have great respect for those who can weave a story, maintain continuity and dazzle with great command of language. I am a huge fan of Kerouac and have read most everything he has written, some multiple times.

Who cares? I know- I'm way late on the wagon and this sort of fandom was abhorred by Kerouac. My vague point is that he took the action of writing and finding a publisher and having books for sale. To what end? So some jamook and his wife can travel 800 miles to see the very house in which he was born? Precisely.

It's all a matter of perspective.

Who are you? Whoever you think you are. I am the same.

Cheers.