The 12-hour drive to Rutland, ND is, hopefully, the closest emotion I will ever experience to being on death row. Why not fly? It takes longer to drive to an airport, rent a car and drive. During the drive my mind wanders. Where else I could be in a 12-hour trip? Surfing in Florida, snowboarding in Colorado, riding in Jamaica, eating fish and chips in London or skating at Burnside. The highway miles fly by outside our personal metal box, and all the cities meld into one long stretch of asphalt flanked intermittently by chain restaurants, gas stations and seemingly homogenous people. The blending of cities make me feel that I could be anywhere in America, making America more like nowhere. I reluctantly embrace this lack of diversity and try to get in touch with my inner red-white-and-blue pouring through my soon-to-be-clogged veins by eating the food that tastes the same in Kansas City, Sioux City, Omaha and anywhere else in this great land. Fried, highly processed, beige foods dumped senselessly down my gullet. My body revolts by shooting to dramatic sugar highs and comatose crashes. I try to justify this by saying it is training for the summer when I am lost in rural America on a bike ride and must find nourishment in c-stores by trading roadside porn for strangely fried potatoes coated with deep fried swag (sophisticated wild ass guess), meat logs, cheap beer and slushies. When my time on death row is over we arrive in Rutland….
Monday, December 24, 2007
North Dakota = America’s Siberia Part #1
While I was seriously courting The Koregian (read Korean raised by Norwegians) and contemplating a long-term engagement, trips to North Dakota in the winter where a significant component of the decision. Now on the long date (a.k.a marriage) I make the trip no less than twice a year. Chula is well worth the winter trip, which is my personal prison sentence, a visit to a Siberian prison. The trip is wholly justified for what Chula has to endure the remainder of the year with my goofiness, quirks and pranks. As the time approaches to make the trip, I try to be a jerk so she screams “You a**hole! Stay home.” Never works. Despite my best efforts Chula digs in and says she enjoys my company and her family “likes” me. I doubt this because the Rutland Mafia view me as an outsider, cannot fathom why I am not diligently trying to move to ND, and I get grumpy when I cannot be outside.
The 12-hour drive to Rutland, ND is, hopefully, the closest emotion I will ever experience to being on death row. Why not fly? It takes longer to drive to an airport, rent a car and drive. During the drive my mind wanders. Where else I could be in a 12-hour trip? Surfing in Florida, snowboarding in Colorado, riding in Jamaica, eating fish and chips in London or skating at Burnside. The highway miles fly by outside our personal metal box, and all the cities meld into one long stretch of asphalt flanked intermittently by chain restaurants, gas stations and seemingly homogenous people. The blending of cities make me feel that I could be anywhere in America, making America more like nowhere. I reluctantly embrace this lack of diversity and try to get in touch with my inner red-white-and-blue pouring through my soon-to-be-clogged veins by eating the food that tastes the same in Kansas City, Sioux City, Omaha and anywhere else in this great land. Fried, highly processed, beige foods dumped senselessly down my gullet. My body revolts by shooting to dramatic sugar highs and comatose crashes. I try to justify this by saying it is training for the summer when I am lost in rural America on a bike ride and must find nourishment in c-stores by trading roadside porn for strangely fried potatoes coated with deep fried swag (sophisticated wild ass guess), meat logs, cheap beer and slushies. When my time on death row is over we arrive in Rutland….
The 12-hour drive to Rutland, ND is, hopefully, the closest emotion I will ever experience to being on death row. Why not fly? It takes longer to drive to an airport, rent a car and drive. During the drive my mind wanders. Where else I could be in a 12-hour trip? Surfing in Florida, snowboarding in Colorado, riding in Jamaica, eating fish and chips in London or skating at Burnside. The highway miles fly by outside our personal metal box, and all the cities meld into one long stretch of asphalt flanked intermittently by chain restaurants, gas stations and seemingly homogenous people. The blending of cities make me feel that I could be anywhere in America, making America more like nowhere. I reluctantly embrace this lack of diversity and try to get in touch with my inner red-white-and-blue pouring through my soon-to-be-clogged veins by eating the food that tastes the same in Kansas City, Sioux City, Omaha and anywhere else in this great land. Fried, highly processed, beige foods dumped senselessly down my gullet. My body revolts by shooting to dramatic sugar highs and comatose crashes. I try to justify this by saying it is training for the summer when I am lost in rural America on a bike ride and must find nourishment in c-stores by trading roadside porn for strangely fried potatoes coated with deep fried swag (sophisticated wild ass guess), meat logs, cheap beer and slushies. When my time on death row is over we arrive in Rutland….
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3 comments:
I see squares, so much for riding a loop, I'll go ride a square.
smell that red state air.
They heve pink flwrs!
Pinks are mu best colors!!
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