A week ago today I left the bucolic splendor of an overcast Westerville morn' and began to drive west. And oh how far west I would drive. I left at 7 in the ante meridian. My car was packed to within inches of bursting. Just think of me as Tom Joad. Except I wasn't moving to avoid the dust bowl..but otherwise it's the same.
The drive was supposed to take between 21 and 22 hours. I made it in less than 20. D=R x T (Distance = Rate x Time). Given that the distance was held constant (approximately 1200 miles) and the time shrunk to 20 hours...well I was driving quite fast.
I began by cruising through Ohio. I have several timer taken photos of myself to prove that I was piloting my hobbled Saturn (the drivers mirror is still broken...stupid Des Moines residents). Very little of note in Ohio.
Next came Indiana. Place of my birth. State of my eternal loathing (though rivaled in many ways by the 5th state..but we'll get to that later). I was tearing down the highway at a phenomenal rate. Drove past Indianapolis and was reminded of my first visit to that city. In the summer of my Freshman year of college Mark and I drove to Indianapolis for a Pearl Jam concert. Previously I'd become a member of BMG (the music scam). I tried and tried to remove my name from their list. The Chinese finger puzzle of American muscial scammery. The more I wanted release, the tighter their grip. The result was ugly...I ended up selecting a Matchbox 20 album. It was and still is a grim moment, and one I'll only share because this blog is read by friends. BMG's corporate HQ resides in a run-down strip mall section of Indiana-no-place (think a low rent version of Clive, Midway mall, or Northland mall). Our hotel was about 5 miles away. So we paid them a visit. We walked into the HQ and I instantly noticed over the forest of cubicles a life size cardboard cut out of Kenny G. Fitting, right. Water water everywhere but not a drop to drink. They picked Kenny G, all the musicians in creation and he's literally their poster boy....what the hell is wrong with them. I sauntered to the desk and asked to talk with someone in membership.
"What do you want," came the reply. "I want out," I responded. "I want you to take me off the list, and I want to witness you doing it." The woman at teh counter was silenced with shock. She called back into the catacombs of cubicles and a mousey woman came to the front with a giant binder stuffed with computer print outs of members. I leafed through the binder (about 18 inches thick) until I came to my name. Then with a giant marker I crossed off my name with a flourish (John Hancock style) I was free. But that wasn't enough, I wanted others to be free as well. So I asked to remove Brian Fusco. (he'd told me that he too was trapped in cheap music hell). I cut the ties that bound him to the evil giant. And then I left. And felt myself quite the badass.
The rest of Indiana was unremarkable. Though it was fun to listen to "I Believe in Miracles" (cover of the Ramones)blaring at full volume as my car traced the arrow straight roads of Western Indiana.
Then came Illinois. Nothing noteworthy there. Tiring. Monotonous. Like Iowa but without the maddening number of Iowans.
Upon approach of the Iowa border it began to pour. Heretofore it had been overcast. But like an angry 'ex' Iowa had saved its scorn and felt that I deserved another dose, reminding me of my previous unhappiness. It just dumped rain on me and my trusty Saturn. Sheets and buckets.
I called Emily just as I passed the border (near Davenport) and she suggested that I drive the entire state with my eyes closed.
Truth be told most of Iowa was beautiful. Highlights--most things west of Des Moines. There was a great surreal moment of me blasting Carly Simon's "You're So Vain" as I rose over the crest of the hill just outside Adair (former stomping grounds of Ben Clark). There was listening to "In Da Club" just outside of Atlantic.
As I approached the border separating region 5 from the land of husked corn, I thought of the last time I was in Nebraska: it was my third trip with GHD (Dean) I was driving McFun (large preposterous RV for those non-Deaniacs out there). I had been tasked with preparing the directions. I had in turn entrusted this task to Dan Craig and Emmet. Emmet had been in the US for about 2 weeks at this point. I gave the directions a cursory glance before heading out West. While driving due north into the Loess hills on hwy 28, I think, I came to a sudden and horrifying realization: Emmet's next direction was incomplete. He indicated that fairly soon, either this turn or the next, I was to turn left. Not really thinking, I figured that it was the first chance. So I approached some random road and turned left. In close pursuit in car two was John Pettit (our staff photog).
I turned left and headed into Nebraska. There are no Iowa caucus attendees in Nebraska---not a single one. I had managed to get lost so badly that we were in another state entirely. Somewhere there exists a photo of me driving McFun into the wrong state. As I crossed over the bridge into Nebraska Governor Dean calmly got out a map and asked if I needed him to navigate.
This time... I meant to go into Nebraska. More on the second half later...
No comments:
Post a Comment