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Monday, March 30, 2009

OTR Translated

On The Road excerpt translated by

The gloaming that Rider New York lastly fixed a cold-water flat was the California farewell that I left Selma. I was tidal bore to trace them and copulate them. I strutted along the imprints in the lingering blue October spark of the hollow anticipation for an SP shipment to locomote along so I could yoke the pellet-biting tramps and dip into the strips with them. It didn’t come. I got out on the beltway and gimped a spin at once. It was the quickest shoutingest outride of my get-up-and-go. The road hog was an instrumentalist for a renowned California cowpuncher set. He had a Tampax worn hot-rod and thrust 130 kph. “I don’t drink when I thrust” he said and palmed me a jug. I got hold of a sundowner and handed him one. “What the send for!” he said and drank. We summited Selma to LA in the astonishing rhythm of 4 hours supine--- all over 250 miles. The valley reeled off ahead of my view again. I had shimmied up and down the Hudson Valley and like a shot I was convulsing awake and descending the San Joaquin Valley on the other side of the world. It was mystifying. “Whoopee!” shouted the roadhog. “Say now lookee here, my ringleader had to wing it to Oklahoma for his creator’s inhumation this morning and I got to head up the assembly tonight and we’re on the note for a half hour. Do you calculate I can isolate some benzedrine someplace? I ain’t never gave tongue to a panel discussion across the sea breeze.” I told him to buy an aspirator in any pharmacopoeia. He got sloshed. “You figure you could do the trumpeting for me? I’ll lend you a suit. You seem to jabber a jot first-class American. What you say?” I was down---all the way from tottering Mexican tow cars to trumpeting a push-button roadshow in 24 hours. Why else would I keep on? But he forgot nearing it, and that was satisfactory with me too. I asked him if he ever got the goods on Dizzy Gilespie trifling a trumpet. He whomped his fowl. “That hombre is BANG phrenetic!” We slunk off Grapevine Fade. Sunset Boulevard, “ha-haaa!” he roared. He yammered me off proper in front of Columbia Pictures studio in Hollywood; I was well-nigh in time to hotfoot in and inebriate my unloved aboriginal. Then I scored my jitney pass back to The Five Buroughs.

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