The road trip is a popular theme in American literature. Ever since Lewis and Clark chronicled their expedition of 1804, America's appetite for the genre has been insatiable. But there's more to a successful story than the mere nuts and bolts of a travelogue; it needs soul, character, and - above all else - tension to keep the pages turning. Here are two that hit the mark.

On the Road
by Jack Kerouac
New American Library, 1985
ISBN: 0-451-15263-8
$3.95, 254 pp

In Search Of
Perhaps the most famous chronicle of the road trip genre is Jack Kerouac's enduring classic, On the Road. Originally published in 1957, it tosses convention on its ear and through a seemingly endless series of run-on sentences put the Beat Generation firmly on the map. At the time of its writing, the seedy subculture that was to become known as Beat took a backseat to the post-war economic boom enjoyed by mainstream America, shut out - as it were - of the party, and so created their own party out of jazz joints and urban ghettos composed of other disenfranchised souls in search of It: It, being riding the edge of the moment; It, being the freaky booze-addled, drug-induced alt-reality that lent to misfits a sense of belonging altogether divorced of the post-war apocalyptic military-industrial fever quietly sweeping through "respectable" circles. It, the antithesis of respectability; It, out of this world.

Bromancing the Stoned
Upon completion of the manuscript, Kerouac purportedly delivered it to his publisher on one continuous roll of paper which he'd pounded out on the keys of a typewriter in practically one sitting which in itself is a feat and very Beat approach to writing which you gotta dig if for nothing else the cat's unique style. The story follows Sal Paradise in his pursuit west from New York to Denver, then San Francisco, back the other direction and eventually south to Mexico and back, at times in the presence of Dean Moriarty a practically god-like figure in Sal's eyes for his checkered past and bold present pursuit of self-gratification and his father a seemingly mythical creature always just out of reach, the source of Dean's angst and excuse for his wanderlust: Dad's a hobo. Though Sal uses the senior Moriarty as his reason for much of his travels - he sincerely wishes to see the father and son reunited - there's a bromance going on here that cannot be denied, Sal knows it, Dean knows it and it's the underlying tension of it that makes On the Road a page turner, the tension of longing, the tension that comes from the difference between the idea of Dean Moriarty and the reality of Dean Moriarty, loser, winner, player, dreamer, conspirator, user, and sadly, liability. When plans are made to see Europe together, despite their enthusiasm we just know it's never going to happen for these cats, the junior Moriarty trapped as it were in his father's legacy, pursued by Sal just as his father is pursued by the son, eternally just out of reach. Europe never happens for these cats - no surprise to either of them - but how it never happens makes for a great read.

Did I mention Kerouac's penchant for run-on sentences?

Mad Monks on the Road
Michael Lane and Jim Crotty
Simon & Schuster, 1993
ISBN: 0-671-76797-6
$11.00, 298 pp

Bay City Rollers
Mad Monks follows the roadtrippin' adventures of its authors Michael Lane and Jim Crotty. It is the compilation of five years on the road, reformatted into a single trip, highlighting their strangest of the strange encounters from crystal reading New Agers of Sedona to postporn modernists of Manhattan. The writing is fluid, the gaffes innumerable, and the story is downright sweet.

When Lane and Crotty - Bay Area pals who escape the city aboard a Ford Econoline van in search of a more meaningful existence - hit the road, the hijinks one would expect from a couple of New Agey San Franciscan lads who fancy themselves modern day monks result. They're soon forced to upgrade to a bonafide RV which they dub the Monkmobile, making it their mobile monastery/publishing house from which to espouse the benefits of wholesome food, conceptual living, and healthy bowels, all in keeping with their credo, "Simple, mobile and true". And they are not alone. Along for companionship and (undoubtedly) entertainment, are their cats Nurse and her assistant, Nurse's Aide, extraterrestrials dressed in kitty suits.

Lovers, Dreamers and Friends
The first thing one notices upon cracking Mad Monks are the photos. It's chocked full of snapshots from the road, many previously appearing in the authors' magazine Monk, the first (and possibly only) mobile magazine in the world. Metaphysical pilgrims have to fund their extracurricular activities somehow. The second thing one notices is the love. Love for life, love for the earth, definitely love for the extraterrestrial company they keep, and especially love for each other. In his mind Lane's already in a relationship with Crotty; the latter just need give the go ahead. Crotty, however, is not so sure. His practical midwest upbringing keeps whispering words of doubt, conformity, and responsibility in his ear. The result is an underlying tension that adds a sense of volatility to everything the monks do. In the end - and I don't think this is a spoiler - Crotty finds what he's seeking. It comes late in his adventure, inside a New York night club:

Petunia smiled. Jim smiled back. No matter how grotesquely odd she seemed, there was somethng unbelievably compelling about her face and her strong but kind touch. Jim began to wonder if he was feeling attracted despite himself . . . Petunia was wearing huge, sparkling earrings, her lips painted siren red, and she wore a chiffon scarf over her head . . . He tried focusing on her grotesqueness, which was easy to do. The gobs of makeup piled on the skin. The artificial, rosy cheeks. The penciled brows . . . It all nauseated him. But still. He found her . . . well . . . strangely attractive. She's as weird as me [he thought]. She's a basket case!

Lane finds his fairy tale too. Which would ring false if it were about anybody else. But in the enchanted lives of our dear mad monksters, it's par for the course. And they all lived happily everafter. Or, at least long enough to make it into their book.

posted 10/04/17

TOP