Go Midwest, Young Man

Due to my adventurous spirit and implausible Manifest Destiny of late, Horace Greeley will surely forgive me for rewording his famous suggestion into the title of this post. For Simone and I are off to flyover country on a job relocation (hers, of course). My institutional drinking and charming indolence prevents me from any serious designs on paid labor. My exertion this day involved chauffering "Her Lady of the New Gig" and two doped up felines halfway across the rust belt. The Ohio to Wisconsin leg begins tomorrow in the a.m.

A few highlights from the eight hour journey are below:

I questioned the redundancy of George Thorogood's 1985 hit I Drink Alone, arguing that if, indeed, one drank "alone", one would naturally be by themselves in solitude, thus rendering the second line of "Lonesome" George's preference unnecessary. Simone pointed out that the bluesman may have been amidst a bar throng (yet drinking "away from the crowd" as it were) and is more partial to imbibing when no other soul is present whatsoever. I responded with statistics regarding the increased probability of alcoholism involved with persons who drink in solitude. She called me a deconstructionist asshole who continually sucks the fun from every room I enter.

Simone’s driving is as nerve rattling as being partnered with Katharine Hepburn at a scrotum shaving contest. You younger readers may substitute Amy Winehouse for the "Kate" reference. Different demo - same laughs. Man, I give and give. Sharply glowing brake lights on the cars ahead signal her to accelerate. Paying attention to the road and its myriad dangers are not enough stimuli to keep her from constantly fidgeting with her beverage (Cutty and rain water), blowing her nose, pulling at her blouse, itching her brow, rubbing her ears, adjusting her seat, playing with the mirrors, tugging at the seatbelt or rummaging through her purse, all at 80 per. If I didn't know better, I'd say she has a coke habit. Her excessive use of speed belies that though. Regardless, the dashboard on the passenger side now has my teeth marks in it.

We had a fond and fitting farewell to our beloved New Jersey with a greasy diner breakfast and a glimpse of a soiled diaper sitting next to our car at the Holiday Inn Express in Cherry Hill.

The stimulus money is being put into action, trust me. Through Pennsylvania and Ohio you could not go more than fifteen miles on the turnpikes without hitting construction of one sort or another.

We managed to survive almost a year and a half of driving on I-76 outside Philly, the Schuykill Expressway (nicknamed the "Sure Kill Distressway" by the locals), a feat which should come with a plaque when you or your vehicle leave the state unscarred and with all your limbs intact.

We played a fun new road game consisting of taking turns identifying highway signs or sights that would double for a cool band name. Simone called out "Silo", "Changing Traffic Patterns" and "Bad Pan" (from some awful Ciabatta on a sandwich). As I lean to more pretentious, thought provoking nomenclature, my favorites were "Emergency Stopping Only", "Falling Rock Zone" and "Gear & Bait".

It takes $22.30 in tolls to cross the bumpy, unkempt roads on Pennsylvania's turnpike. Now, that’s encroaching fascism!

There are simply too many goddamn people in this country. We passed trailer parks, tiny houses on hills and particle board condo/people farms in the middle of absolute fucking nowhere. Just to put a number on it - the U.S. has grown by nearly 78 million people since 1970. As I was born in the '60s, I find all this recent procreation to be a bit unnecessary, if not a downright imposition on my personal space.

Drugged cats are hilarious to watch until you realize the sedatives you gave them were intended for a Labrador Retriever and have been expired since 2007. Then you feel, well, sort of like a negligent parent.

Simone had a wonderfully angry interaction with a deli clerk at the "Park 'N' Eat" somewhere in the Alleghenys. After a few choice curse words about wasting her time, she settled on one of those pre-made PBJs from the open cooler and took it to the main register. It was awesome.

Somewhere in western Pennsyltucky there is a radio station called "Froggy". We quickly surmised it was a country station (without having heard a song) by the fact that only rubes who listen to and play contemporary country would lack the self-awareness to know that that name is entirely deprecative and wholly unhip.

We spent the evening at the Comfort Inn in Middleburg Heights, Ohio. Driving around we soon realized that we had to return for a vacation. We'd book the executive suite, hang out down at the local Mexican restaurant, "The Mad Cactus", become regulars, befriend the hospitable and good folk of the town, take in the sights and then skip out on our tabs the last night.

On the teevee back at the room, Glenn Beck and some turd were talking about the hyper-religiosity of the founding fathers. As if that had any bearing on the “Establishment Clause” of the First Amendment. They put that in there for a reason Fucknuts, no matter how superstitious they were about the "Grand Punisher Wizard" from the skies. Most of them owned slaves too. Care to get that back into the schools and public institutions?

The news anchors in Cleveland are fucking ugly. One had a cold sore in the corner of her mouth. And get this... she had to be at least forty!

Despite having sucked down two 45 ounce margaritas and trying to be overtly friendly to the locals, I realized quite suddenly I still haven’t forgiven Ohioans for handing Bush the election in 2004.

FM Oldies radio stations, with easily over 50,000 songs to choose from, decide to rotate about 74 into the actual mix. 33 of those are from Elton John, 15 are from Billy Joel and the rest is a mix of Phil Collins, Aerosmith, The Beatles and Sweet.

I ashamedly (and much to Simone’s astonishment) know all the words to Exile's 1978 hit I Want to Kiss You All Over.