Friday, October 01, 2004
New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Michigan, Illinois, D.C
"Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping.
"I'm empty and aching and I don't know why."
Counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike
All gone to look for America
Been away a few days. Went to look for America. Hope America's not what I found. Hope America's not the fat man behind the counter at Belmont Liquors in South Bend, Indiana who shouted down the radio for playing "terrorist music"--Cat Stevens. Hope it's not the living dead at the Bristol, Indiana Speedway, or their neighbors from across the Michigan state line come over to purchase 190-proof clear grain alcohol because this is somehow necessary. Hope it's not the ghettos of South Bend, with the Safeway supermarket stocked with Mountain Holler soda and ten-pound tubs of Chitterlings, and the car with the confederate logo parked outside, the Notre Dame memorabila shop with the W/Reagan button that said, Win one for the Gipper, or the sprawling, black-smoke-belching slum of Gary, Indiana.
What I mean is that I hope America's not Indiana. Indiana sucked. Though God knows we spent way more time than was necessary there. The thing about that song is, of course, they never actually find America. They make it to the Jersey pike and what do they have to show for it? A moonrise, a gabardine suit, a hundred thousand passing cars? There is none of what America promises. There is no redemption, no meaning. Just a long line of cars, trying to get through. There's no "America." Where's "America?"
It turns out to be at Costco. You can find anything at Costco. Costco is everything America has ever wanted to be. This will be explained later.
We loaded up the car and set out at 5:00pm on Thursday evening. The passengers were Nicholas Frisch, myself and our incomparable driver, Master Andrew Naughton. A hurricane on wheels if ever there was one. Windows open, blasting and screaming along to the official song of the Naughtonmobile, the Beach Boys' "Wouldn't It Be Nice." We drove up Riverside drive in a middlingly successful attempt to avoid rush hour jams on the Henry Hudson parkway. Lots of stopping and starting at stopstartlights. We trundled over the Hudson on the George Washington bridge, "Wouldn't It Be Nice" thundering away (also the official bridge music), rolled happily through the toll and stopped dead. Parking lot all the way to Paterson. But as we passed the home of Williams, Ginsberg and the beats, holes began to open in traffic. Daylight at dusk. We averaged 80mph down the great I-80, the 2909-mile straightaway we would cling to as it ran from Jersey to Chicago (it actually goes clear to California, which would have been a great excuse for more Beach Boys--as though we needed one). Night fell as we fairly flew through New Jersey. We soon reached the impossibly boring state of Pennsylvania. Even in daylight, it must be boring, but at night, it's how an atheist sees death: nothingness. Absence of thinghood. Except for Denny's. We went to Denny's. I had chicken-fried steak with smashed potatoes and stuffing. It was fabulous. I couldn't finish so I took some to go and we carried it all the way to Chicago, where, like an asshole, I left it in the fridge. Mike, don't you dare eat it. I want it there when I get back. No one, unfortunately, ordered Moon over my Hammy.
By this time, it was around 9:30 and the roads were largely empty. The average speed rose to 90mph. I remind you how brilliant a driver Andrew Naughton is. There's some muscle in that Audi. We shot through the night. At the Ohio border, we put on Crosby, Stills, Nash and (inexplicably) Young's "Ohio," which is about the Kent State massacre. We would, in fact, out of some morbid fascination, have bought Kent State t-shirt, if we'd had the chance.
The Ohio turnpike, by the way, is lovely. Excellent service stations at regular intervals, well-lit. Plus it's a dead straightaway. Every turn was cause for a party. Average speed through Ohio was 100mph or over. It was great. 80 felt like a dead slog, and 110, 120 felt like cruising. I shouldn't be saying this.
At 1:45, seven hours and 45 minutes after departure (exactly the time quoted on mapquest, which is creepy), we hit Oberlin, where we bunked for the night. Katie was very hospitable and gracious. Much thanks to her for providing sleeping arrangements through the week.
The next morning, after briefly seeing Michael Geraci and Jonah Jockblohnson, we set off again through the cornfields of Ohio. Oh my God. The cornfields. The houses, dropped randomly in sprawling lots. The fat hose-wench at the service station where we buckled under and asked Is this the wrong direction for I-80? As Nick said often, "Let's get the hell out of here."
The cornfields "stretch far away." The land is so flat you can see Kentucky. I've never seen anything like it. Flat, flat, flat. Oy. But I did have a religious experience.
At the Hardee's at one of the service stations (though this could have been in Indiana; there isn't a huge difference), I ordered a Bacon Cheese Thickburger. It came with the promised thick burger, cheese, bacon, grilled onions and--get this--battered onion rings. All in the burger. I slathered it in ketchup and barbecue sauce and--God almighty. Wow. Choirs of angels burst into song. I felt my body blow open and my soul receive the glory of the Lord. I was redeemed in the cathedral of the bacon cheese onion ring thickburger.
Unfortunately, after this was Indiana. We had been commissioned by the Chicago crew to do the liquor purchasing in Indiana as CW states that it's where liquor is most cheaply bought. This mission became our singular objective in Indiana: the quest for cheap booze.
First, we decided to randomly turn off at an exit and go find a store, as we were under the impression that what makes Indiana booze so famously cheap is its low tax. That would mean that it'd be cheap no matter where you went.
Unless, of course, you went to Michigan. We knew we were close to the state line, but we didn't know we were right on top of it. Literally, we got off at an exit and suddenly, without warning, we were in Michigan. So we found us a liquor store, for reference purposes. Turns out that the difference between Michigan and Indiana is not in sales tax (both are 6%), but in the ability of Indiana off-licenses to have sales on liquor, something most states, including New York, disallow. So we turned around and hightailed it back to Indiana (though not without some monkeying around on the state line), took the overpass over the interstate, and headed into a small ugly town called Bristol. Here we found some Krispy Kremes at a Speedway, an ostensibly reputable small community theatre and an offie with a fine selection and prices worse than in Michigan. We left quickly, having bought nothing for the party (except something flammable and 190-proof and I had nothing to do with that) and rejoined our beloved I-80. As we neared South Bend, home of Notre Dame, I had a thought: who knows cheap booze better than college students? And what kind of school has harder-drinking students than a football school? Hence, Notre Dame. I realized that all we had to do was find the college, jump out of the car, ask a student where the local booze pit was and we'd be set. Well, as it turned out, finding the college turned out to be more difficult than we'd thought. What we did find was the Notre Dame campus memorabilia shop (which claimed to be a bookstore, which was our excuse for going in. At least the guy in there gave us directions.
Incidentally it's worth remarking on the fact that in the shadow of the splendid Notre Dame campus crouches a bona fide ghetto (think New Haven v. Yale). The Safeway turned out to be harrowing. Dr. Pop and Mountain Holler soda. Bootleg as the Olio ("taste of the occident") cookies Mike brought back from China. Dodgy. You get the impression that Horatio Alger never saw South Bend, Indiana. He definitely never saw Gary.
But finally, we did find a store. Belmont Wine and Spirits. We fairly impressed the fat bigot over the counter (the one who was giving out about Cat Stevens' being played on the radio) with the volume of our purchase. Twelve handles of Popov Vodka (Stamford, Connecticut's finest!) at $11 each, two handles of Jim Beam at $21 each, a fifth of Jim Beam Rye (for me), a little thing of Martini & Rossi Sweet Vermouth, a litre of Rose's Lime Juice and a 30-case of PBR. $231.40. We had been given a budget of $300 by the Shtetlites. The remaining $70 would be expended in Chicago on four bottles of DeKuyper Triple-Sec, another bottle of Rose's Lime, a fifth of Gallo Sweet Vermouth and a wee small thing of Bacardi for Rebecca dearest who can't drink anything else. But at Belmont, they were so pleased with the volume of our purchase that they started giving US free shit. One Budweiser "Game On" t-shirt per person, plus the free Nascar/Jim Beam highball glass that came with each handle. I'm used to being afraid that liquor stores won't sell me anything. I am not used to having anything given to me for free. It was great.
Now, before any parental heads detonate, it needs to be pointed out that we were expecting between 50 and 75 people for this party, and we wanted the makings of 300 cocktails. This is actually a conservative figure--conservative in that we didn't want more than that to be consumed. One of the many upshots of having a bartender is that you have a natural regulator on the flow of alcohol--it can be dispensed only so fast, meaning it can be consumed only so fast. This is how to keep people from getting sick. Also, if the liquor is accurately and moderately poured by one who knows how to do it, you don't have to deal with people slamming back abhorrently powerful drinks. It's all about checking consumption. It also means you prevent debacles like I witnessed at a ghastly, Preppy-walpurgisnachtesque party at Penn, where there was just liquor sitting around, and people were consuming it wildly and idiotically. This leads to fucked carpets. Unfortunately, Mike's excellent wall-to-wall super-deep-pile carpets got a little fucked, too, but that was only because both the stupid cheap ice coolers broke or leaked. I was ankle-deep in freezing water all night.
I am getting a bit ahead of myself. After rolling the hell out of South Bend, considerably heavier in the rear, and considerably slower as being pulled over was, at this point, definitely not an option, we headed back to I-80, Illinois-bound. The next town we passed was the Newark of the Midwest, Gary, IN. What a hellhole. It's Lewis' Jungle. Thousands of high-voltage power lines stand stentorian, arms akimbo, arrayed and marching like sentinels, bestriding the slums colossally. Nick repeated, "Let's get the hell out of here." Pleasantly, the way the hell out of Gary is over the Chicago Skyway, a big ol' bridge that leaps over the flaming pits of Gary. Before we knew it, the Sears tower hove in sight, sight for sore Garied eyes.
We came through the toll into Illinois, jubilant at having left the dereliction of Indiana ("America's Crossroads"--or, more aptly, America's Doormat) and drove smack into the South Side of Chicago. Even this was a consolation. We threw on the Blues Brothers' "Sweet Home Chicago" and rolled, windows up, through Hyde Park. To 5346 Harper we came, Jews and a shabbes goy bearing gifts, and were greeted by Mikey P. and shirtless Dan Berkovits. This is foreshadowing. It had been about 850 miles.
End of the prelude.
I will write more when I have the time. Because oh, man, is there ever more. Right now I have to pack and get moving, because I have an 1:15 bus to Providence to catch. I'm at Brown tonight, Harvard tomorrow, home Sunday and Monday nights, on a plane Tuesday night, and in Dublin till December. No rest for the saintly.
"I'm empty and aching and I don't know why."
Counting the cars on the New Jersey turnpike
All gone to look for America
Been away a few days. Went to look for America. Hope America's not what I found. Hope America's not the fat man behind the counter at Belmont Liquors in South Bend, Indiana who shouted down the radio for playing "terrorist music"--Cat Stevens. Hope it's not the living dead at the Bristol, Indiana Speedway, or their neighbors from across the Michigan state line come over to purchase 190-proof clear grain alcohol because this is somehow necessary. Hope it's not the ghettos of South Bend, with the Safeway supermarket stocked with Mountain Holler soda and ten-pound tubs of Chitterlings, and the car with the confederate logo parked outside, the Notre Dame memorabila shop with the W/Reagan button that said, Win one for the Gipper, or the sprawling, black-smoke-belching slum of Gary, Indiana.
What I mean is that I hope America's not Indiana. Indiana sucked. Though God knows we spent way more time than was necessary there. The thing about that song is, of course, they never actually find America. They make it to the Jersey pike and what do they have to show for it? A moonrise, a gabardine suit, a hundred thousand passing cars? There is none of what America promises. There is no redemption, no meaning. Just a long line of cars, trying to get through. There's no "America." Where's "America?"
It turns out to be at Costco. You can find anything at Costco. Costco is everything America has ever wanted to be. This will be explained later.
We loaded up the car and set out at 5:00pm on Thursday evening. The passengers were Nicholas Frisch, myself and our incomparable driver, Master Andrew Naughton. A hurricane on wheels if ever there was one. Windows open, blasting and screaming along to the official song of the Naughtonmobile, the Beach Boys' "Wouldn't It Be Nice." We drove up Riverside drive in a middlingly successful attempt to avoid rush hour jams on the Henry Hudson parkway. Lots of stopping and starting at stopstartlights. We trundled over the Hudson on the George Washington bridge, "Wouldn't It Be Nice" thundering away (also the official bridge music), rolled happily through the toll and stopped dead. Parking lot all the way to Paterson. But as we passed the home of Williams, Ginsberg and the beats, holes began to open in traffic. Daylight at dusk. We averaged 80mph down the great I-80, the 2909-mile straightaway we would cling to as it ran from Jersey to Chicago (it actually goes clear to California, which would have been a great excuse for more Beach Boys--as though we needed one). Night fell as we fairly flew through New Jersey. We soon reached the impossibly boring state of Pennsylvania. Even in daylight, it must be boring, but at night, it's how an atheist sees death: nothingness. Absence of thinghood. Except for Denny's. We went to Denny's. I had chicken-fried steak with smashed potatoes and stuffing. It was fabulous. I couldn't finish so I took some to go and we carried it all the way to Chicago, where, like an asshole, I left it in the fridge. Mike, don't you dare eat it. I want it there when I get back. No one, unfortunately, ordered Moon over my Hammy.
By this time, it was around 9:30 and the roads were largely empty. The average speed rose to 90mph. I remind you how brilliant a driver Andrew Naughton is. There's some muscle in that Audi. We shot through the night. At the Ohio border, we put on Crosby, Stills, Nash and (inexplicably) Young's "Ohio," which is about the Kent State massacre. We would, in fact, out of some morbid fascination, have bought Kent State t-shirt, if we'd had the chance.
The Ohio turnpike, by the way, is lovely. Excellent service stations at regular intervals, well-lit. Plus it's a dead straightaway. Every turn was cause for a party. Average speed through Ohio was 100mph or over. It was great. 80 felt like a dead slog, and 110, 120 felt like cruising. I shouldn't be saying this.
At 1:45, seven hours and 45 minutes after departure (exactly the time quoted on mapquest, which is creepy), we hit Oberlin, where we bunked for the night. Katie was very hospitable and gracious. Much thanks to her for providing sleeping arrangements through the week.
The next morning, after briefly seeing Michael Geraci and Jonah Jockblohnson, we set off again through the cornfields of Ohio. Oh my God. The cornfields. The houses, dropped randomly in sprawling lots. The fat hose-wench at the service station where we buckled under and asked Is this the wrong direction for I-80? As Nick said often, "Let's get the hell out of here."
The cornfields "stretch far away." The land is so flat you can see Kentucky. I've never seen anything like it. Flat, flat, flat. Oy. But I did have a religious experience.
At the Hardee's at one of the service stations (though this could have been in Indiana; there isn't a huge difference), I ordered a Bacon Cheese Thickburger. It came with the promised thick burger, cheese, bacon, grilled onions and--get this--battered onion rings. All in the burger. I slathered it in ketchup and barbecue sauce and--God almighty. Wow. Choirs of angels burst into song. I felt my body blow open and my soul receive the glory of the Lord. I was redeemed in the cathedral of the bacon cheese onion ring thickburger.
Unfortunately, after this was Indiana. We had been commissioned by the Chicago crew to do the liquor purchasing in Indiana as CW states that it's where liquor is most cheaply bought. This mission became our singular objective in Indiana: the quest for cheap booze.
First, we decided to randomly turn off at an exit and go find a store, as we were under the impression that what makes Indiana booze so famously cheap is its low tax. That would mean that it'd be cheap no matter where you went.
Unless, of course, you went to Michigan. We knew we were close to the state line, but we didn't know we were right on top of it. Literally, we got off at an exit and suddenly, without warning, we were in Michigan. So we found us a liquor store, for reference purposes. Turns out that the difference between Michigan and Indiana is not in sales tax (both are 6%), but in the ability of Indiana off-licenses to have sales on liquor, something most states, including New York, disallow. So we turned around and hightailed it back to Indiana (though not without some monkeying around on the state line), took the overpass over the interstate, and headed into a small ugly town called Bristol. Here we found some Krispy Kremes at a Speedway, an ostensibly reputable small community theatre and an offie with a fine selection and prices worse than in Michigan. We left quickly, having bought nothing for the party (except something flammable and 190-proof and I had nothing to do with that) and rejoined our beloved I-80. As we neared South Bend, home of Notre Dame, I had a thought: who knows cheap booze better than college students? And what kind of school has harder-drinking students than a football school? Hence, Notre Dame. I realized that all we had to do was find the college, jump out of the car, ask a student where the local booze pit was and we'd be set. Well, as it turned out, finding the college turned out to be more difficult than we'd thought. What we did find was the Notre Dame campus memorabilia shop (which claimed to be a bookstore, which was our excuse for going in. At least the guy in there gave us directions.
Incidentally it's worth remarking on the fact that in the shadow of the splendid Notre Dame campus crouches a bona fide ghetto (think New Haven v. Yale). The Safeway turned out to be harrowing. Dr. Pop and Mountain Holler soda. Bootleg as the Olio ("taste of the occident") cookies Mike brought back from China. Dodgy. You get the impression that Horatio Alger never saw South Bend, Indiana. He definitely never saw Gary.
But finally, we did find a store. Belmont Wine and Spirits. We fairly impressed the fat bigot over the counter (the one who was giving out about Cat Stevens' being played on the radio) with the volume of our purchase. Twelve handles of Popov Vodka (Stamford, Connecticut's finest!) at $11 each, two handles of Jim Beam at $21 each, a fifth of Jim Beam Rye (for me), a little thing of Martini & Rossi Sweet Vermouth, a litre of Rose's Lime Juice and a 30-case of PBR. $231.40. We had been given a budget of $300 by the Shtetlites. The remaining $70 would be expended in Chicago on four bottles of DeKuyper Triple-Sec, another bottle of Rose's Lime, a fifth of Gallo Sweet Vermouth and a wee small thing of Bacardi for Rebecca dearest who can't drink anything else. But at Belmont, they were so pleased with the volume of our purchase that they started giving US free shit. One Budweiser "Game On" t-shirt per person, plus the free Nascar/Jim Beam highball glass that came with each handle. I'm used to being afraid that liquor stores won't sell me anything. I am not used to having anything given to me for free. It was great.
Now, before any parental heads detonate, it needs to be pointed out that we were expecting between 50 and 75 people for this party, and we wanted the makings of 300 cocktails. This is actually a conservative figure--conservative in that we didn't want more than that to be consumed. One of the many upshots of having a bartender is that you have a natural regulator on the flow of alcohol--it can be dispensed only so fast, meaning it can be consumed only so fast. This is how to keep people from getting sick. Also, if the liquor is accurately and moderately poured by one who knows how to do it, you don't have to deal with people slamming back abhorrently powerful drinks. It's all about checking consumption. It also means you prevent debacles like I witnessed at a ghastly, Preppy-walpurgisnachtesque party at Penn, where there was just liquor sitting around, and people were consuming it wildly and idiotically. This leads to fucked carpets. Unfortunately, Mike's excellent wall-to-wall super-deep-pile carpets got a little fucked, too, but that was only because both the stupid cheap ice coolers broke or leaked. I was ankle-deep in freezing water all night.
I am getting a bit ahead of myself. After rolling the hell out of South Bend, considerably heavier in the rear, and considerably slower as being pulled over was, at this point, definitely not an option, we headed back to I-80, Illinois-bound. The next town we passed was the Newark of the Midwest, Gary, IN. What a hellhole. It's Lewis' Jungle. Thousands of high-voltage power lines stand stentorian, arms akimbo, arrayed and marching like sentinels, bestriding the slums colossally. Nick repeated, "Let's get the hell out of here." Pleasantly, the way the hell out of Gary is over the Chicago Skyway, a big ol' bridge that leaps over the flaming pits of Gary. Before we knew it, the Sears tower hove in sight, sight for sore Garied eyes.
We came through the toll into Illinois, jubilant at having left the dereliction of Indiana ("America's Crossroads"--or, more aptly, America's Doormat) and drove smack into the South Side of Chicago. Even this was a consolation. We threw on the Blues Brothers' "Sweet Home Chicago" and rolled, windows up, through Hyde Park. To 5346 Harper we came, Jews and a shabbes goy bearing gifts, and were greeted by Mikey P. and shirtless Dan Berkovits. This is foreshadowing. It had been about 850 miles.
End of the prelude.
I will write more when I have the time. Because oh, man, is there ever more. Right now I have to pack and get moving, because I have an 1:15 bus to Providence to catch. I'm at Brown tonight, Harvard tomorrow, home Sunday and Monday nights, on a plane Tuesday night, and in Dublin till December. No rest for the saintly.
Blog coming soon
I promise. I'm home, and a major opus is forthcoming. It's just very long and I'm having trouble figuring out just what is exactly meant by "unprintable." Mike, could you call me tomorrow?
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