O Little Town of Bethlehem, PA.

O Little Town of...

Simone had recently been accepted in a juried art show.

We were halfway from Philly to Bethlehem on I-78, drunk on Grey Goose and orange wedges, when the tarantula bite she had received on her inner thigh in Machu Picchu three weeks prior began festering and causing alarming convulsions.

"You should really have that looked at", I offered, knowing full well she would not out of spite and an indomitable spirit of immortality. She openly defies me.

"Just drive, Asshole", she remarked, stanching the wound with some moss, gauze and salts she was given by a faith healer in Lima.

We had no painkillers save for the Goose and some Excedrin PM. I could tell she was growing increasingly uncomfortable and toxic.

She was a soldier though. And she gritted her teeth, pulled from the bottle often and weathered through the violent twitching like a champion.

Her photographs of diner life in South Jersey had been welcomed with the sort of buzz reserved for real players- professionals of the visual arts. There would be other photos, paintings, sculptures and mixed media attempts at "unpretentious reflections on chrome", the theme of the show, but her vision struck closest to the spirit of the thing.

As a man of words (and scraping, abortionist judgment on such things) I was very eager to partake in the shenanigans d'arte.

As I mentioned, we were headed for Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. A sixty mile, toll-laden journey approaching the bowels of what liberal politicos refer to as "Pennsyltucky". The weird, conservative mid-region of a very "blue" state where the inhabitants still stick to their gods, guns, slaughtered deer and love of the dullest, stupidest and most regressive team to ever snap a ball in the National Football League- the Pittsburgh Steelers.

A team so boring that Bob Griese and Phil Simms seem like offensive juggernauts by comparison.

That they have won more Super Bowls than any other is the most vicious condemnation of America's soul, spirit and national character than anything I can think of outside of the two elections of G.W. Bush for President.

As a New Yorker, a Jet fan and a goddamn human being, I am bound to feel this way. Steeler fans are scum. Idiot, smelly, rabble scum.

But we were speaking of Simone's art show.

And Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, which fortunately is home to the Eagles' training camp.

Originally founded by Moravians in 1741, Bethlehem grew to become best known for its steel industry. At its peak in the 1950s, Bethlehem Steel would produce 23 million tons per year and employ over thirty thousand people. It was the originator of the I-beam. And it shut its doors in 1995, leaving the residents gasping for financial breath.

The town is rather quiet now, celebrating its history through preservation societies, playing host to a number of colleges and universities and trying to revitalize its downtown with galleries and a bourgeoning art community.

Hence, Simone’s art show.

Having just spent seven years of my life in Birmingham, Alabama- America's gulag for secularists, liberals and intellectuals and a former steel town now also bust- I could appreciate the effort on the part of the people here to keep their hope alive. Birmingham too tried all sorts of schemes (all lame) to gentrify its urban center but white flight, crippling institutionalized racism, oppressive Christianity, suburban indifference to urban culture and mass transit, a really backward, ignorant populous and a Mayor with a deficit of wits, sanity and financial ethics continue to bury any hope for “The Magic City” to find its cultural bearings and succeed again.

Bethlehem has a glimmer of hope.

The first concerted effort has been to turn a portion of the old steel works into the new Sands Casino. A gamble (forgive the pun) that may pay off. The casino opened the second night of our stay in the town and like dutiful odds men, Simone and I ventured a spin of their wheels.

Simone also happens to be a sick, degenerate gambling fuck, so the chance of me weaseling out of this premiere was nil.

The main draw for the Sands in Bethlehem is its centralized location to major urban centers. New York, Philly, Pittsburgh, Newark, etc. are all less than two hours away. Another lure is that Emeril Legasse has opened a restaurant inside the casino and actually showed up on the first night, working the line. Despite his horrible media saturation in the late '90s and early '00s, Emeril seems a likable sort. He possesses none of the assholery of Alton Brown, Bobby Flay or Anthony Bourdain. I can back Emeril. As a vegetarian, I can't go near his food, but there's something in his easy going manner where I wish him all the best. I can't say that for most celebrities.

So we caught glimpses of his enormous head in the open kitchen, which was fun.

The casino itself is essentially one large warehouse, housing over 3,000 gaming machines- mostly slots- where a crowd of nearly 14,000 wandered around on opening day. And a large number of them were using canes, walkers, wheelchairs, oxygen tanks, foot casts and slings. I started to think a medical supply corporation was sponsoring the festivities. As a frequenter of casinos, I understand the infirmed and gimpy are par for the course- something in their already destitute and defeatist makeup. But there were also a large number of blind people. A phenomenon I had not run into before. I imagined the bells, whistles, buzzers and constant din of the machines soothed them, preventing them from flying into their legendary "blind rage" where their superhuman strength could rip a normal human being in two. Please keep that calliope cranked.

The neck-less were also well represented. Chins on chest they roamed the aisles- wobbling homunculi mocking ascot makers everywhere. The unpleasant aesthetic view got so bad at one point I paid an attendant $1000 to go purchase a swan and have Iman carry it around the casino for an hour.

Due to a strange Pennsylvania law which is being challenged, there were no human dealers, croupiers, etc. Everything had to be video. Electronic roulette wheels, poker machines and blackjack screens.

Of particular interest was the blackjack "tables". They were separated into denominations of $5, $10, $15 and $25. Each had five chairs facing a video screen where a rotating bevy of beauties would appear on film and simulate dealing the game. This was very strange at first. They spoke minimally except to offer more cards, insurance or cue you to place your bets. One of the women, in a "Bunny"-like bodice with big, beautiful freckled cans, made sure to enthusiastically cry "Dealer Busts!" at the appropriate time of merriment for us all. There was an Asian beauty who seemed to possess all the fortunes and secrets of the Orient, a slim brunette in a tight red one-piece, poolside (think Baywatch), a sultry Latino temptress in a cocktail gown and the aforementioned blonde bunny.

Of course, the novelty soon wore off and we settled in to screaming vicious obscenities at them and calling them fucking whores when they would land a five card "21" whilst we were sitting on our comfortable royal "20s". The ladies' hands also fell under the bottom edge of the video screen when they dealt, leading one luckless gentlemen to comment that she had better be reaching down to tickle his asshole since she had been "fucking" him all night.

Simone had her typical slew of grand luck, somehow winning over $500 on the slots, her game of choice. She is a wandering bandit, never spending more than ten minutes on any one particular machine. This has lead to a rogue behavior I have dubbed "Sloating", the act of walking up to a bank of slots that others have been losing on for hours only to hit a large payoff in a matter of minutes. Simone always feigns surprise, passive-aggressively gloats, then grabs her winning ticket and roams again. The remaining luckless silently fume at her and return to their spinning. Her machines of preference this round (she always takes to a theme) were the "Hot Hot Super Jackpots", distinguished by a flashing red button and a little animated fire character we drunkenly and endearingly named "Li'l Flamie", which we screamed at the top of our lungs every time Simone landed on his free spin magic.

I, on the other hand, was finally taken for about $30 by the video vixens and turned down on several occasions when asking them out for drinks after their shift ended. They were cold. Might have been lesbians, I'm not sure.

For all intents and purposes the evening went seamlessly. There were a few bugs with the machinery here and there, a confused employee now and again, a flustered bartender when the hordes started getting well lubed, but overall it had been a success.

Until it was time to leave.

Somebody had forgot to tell the hotel and casino planners to allow for a little old thing- usually inherent in such establishments of luxury and chance- called a cabstand. We staggered out around 12:30 in the a.m. to an addled parking attendant who quite literally "had no fucking clue" as to where one might procure a motorized hansom. Equally befuddled were the doormen when queried. Even the valet boys could only shrug when asked about hailing a hack.

There had been absolutely no cognitive effort put forth to consider the needs of those people who drink like fishes and need an escort to home or hotel.

Un-fucking-fathomable.

We called the local cab company to arrange for a pick up point. All their cabs were out in the field he assured me and one would be there directly. Forty-five minutes passed. The gathering of drunks and would-be passengers increased. About thirty of us in total. Some migrated up the large entrance driveway to the top of the road. Others kept faith that surely nothing as large and moneyed as the Sands Casino could possibly have overlooked the need for the transportation of its guests. After all, the chartered buses were all running like clockwork. The rest of us sort of meandered in between, hoping to catch the others snoozing, while snatching a wayward cab from underneath their noses.

No such luck.

In the hour and fifty minutes we waited, only one taxi ever showed. And that was in the first fifteen minutes of our search. We foolishly surrendered it to an elderly couple who looked on the verge of collapse. Goddamn our civility. Never again, I assure you. I will crawl across a bridge of geriatric bones to wrest a ride in the future. By Thor's mighty hammer, I promise this to be so.

We finally schlepped it up to the road above the casino and flagged down an airport shuttle. He was very accommodating and a definite sight for sore eyes, feet, knees and dispositions.

We got back to the Hotel Bethlehem and ordered room service. A cherubic faced maiden delivered Simone a cheeseburger and myself some hummus and we devoured it, falling asleep face down in our plates.

The next morn brought us next door to the hotel for a visit with a friend we had met at the art show. He was a legitimate blacksmith and worked part-time as a historian and artisan in one of the newly erected reconstructions of the old Moravian forge.

"Blacksmith Ed" we dubbed him and he pressed the bellows, stoked the flame and pounded out some decorative leaves, giving us a brief history of the craft with some local spin included. A truly informative wakeup call to learn a practical trade if ever the fires of satire and rhetoric are doused for an unskilled piss-ant like me.

We checked out of the hotel that afternoon. A great stay, a beautiful old hotel and highly recommended if you are in the area. The only sour note was an incident Simone had during breakfast. She had ordered the granola/yogurt/fruit parfait and some coffee (she is a caffeine junky in the way that W.S. Burroughs liked heroin) and was amazed that the wait staff (who outnumbered the clientele two to one) was unable to bring her the water she requested or refill her coffee during the entire breakfast, choosing instead to disappear for a game of grab-ass in the kitchen. The kicker comes when the bill is presented to her for $9.95 and she hands the waiter a Jackson.

"Do you need change?", he insolently asked.

Yes. While Simone is a magnanimous tipper, her spirit of gratuity rarely soars to the 105% mark. Here's the real kicker though. He brings back the $10.05 change in the form of a nickel and two Lincolns.

He got the nickel. Sometimes I could just squeeze that Simone and plant kisses all over her face.

I mention that incident only to point out that despite enjoying our weekend in Bethlehem, the city suffers from a lack of service that afflicts most towns with a density of student residents. Kids don't give a shit how your meal is. They want to get off work as soon as possible so they can start drinking and fucking. We ran into this in nearly every place we went in the area. To be fair, we were close to the university and strayed very little from that script.

We began our journey home.

As it was Memorial Day weekend and my gal and I are rabid patriots, we decided to pay our respects at Valley Forge. It was a warm day, easily creeping into the mid-80° range and as Simone is prone to heat rash and views perspiration as the devil's own bathing salts, we spent the majority of our time indoors at the welcome center and museum. She has become the equivalent of The Boy in the Plastic Bubble, trading a germ free atmosphere for one of moderate climes. We would not be touring the cabins.

Yaaargh!!! My men need food!In my historical perspective, I have always believed that we as Americans spend too much time on World War II and The Civil War at the expense of the Revolution. I understand our rise to international prominence was due to the Second World War and our identity as a nation is more defined by The War Between the States but, let's face it, without this struggle early on we'd probably be Southern Canada and have a chick's face on our money.

Anyway, a great place to be at and a great time to be there. I tracked down two of my relatives who were encamped there; Samuel Moores of the 1st Massachusetts and Elkinese Moores from the 2nd New Hampshire (most of my relations are from New England). I'd half-ass forgotten just how much of the forging of this nation took place in and around the region in which I now live. I had been in the south so long I had gots a bad case of the stupids. Down there you see the Stars n' Bars so often, the ridiculously antiquated racism, Robert E. Lee/Stonewall Jackson love fests and continually hear all that shit about Dixie rising again that you just want Tecumseh Sherman to return and march from Texas to the sea this time. They still wouldn't learn. Which is why it's important for every American to take a trip up here and discover where the whole shebang started and rests. Put down the Lynyrd Skynyrd CDs and Nathan Bedford Forrest blanket for a moment and pay homage to some real rebels.

Simone ended up losing the juried art show. Done in by her strict adherence to the prospectus (and some would say using me as a subject in one of the photos). A victim of the literal in a figurative world. But the enjoyable weekend atoned for any sense of disappointment on her part. We had sojourned into "Pennsyltucky" and survived. Albeit lightened by a Bohemian, arty, collegiate atmosphere and town. We were richer for the experience. I had learned blacksmithing at the knee of a master. We discovered Moravian culture. We now know not to order breakfast downstairs at the Hotel Bethlehem but most definitely to order room service. We gained new respect for Emeril. We saw a business opportunity in starting a cab service in South Bethlehem for drunken casino visitors.

And we honored the troops of this formerly great nation by acknowledging their sacrifices in that pivotal winter of 1777 when the birth of a republic, the greatest political experiment to ever be tried on this big rock so far, hinged on the guts and vision of a few thousand very cold, very hungry, very brave and stalwart men.

Now, if Simone would just get that spider bite checked out...