The road to Chicago from Cleveland is a wasteland… and gchat is faltering, so here comes the second post.
The real title for this blog was supposed to be “I have the cure for HIV” but I thought that would be too offensive, although Peter didn’t agree, so I’ll just have to get to that later in the post.
Most people know the drive between Boston and New York quite well. And most make the conscious decision never to stray beyond the bright lights of the Big Apple. We didn’t even drive through it. That’s right, this Lewis and Clark circumvented the city and took our chances with Pennsylvania. We blacked out when we crossed the border, but I do remember seeing a sign for Pittsburgh and mentioning some about Heinz Ketchup and John Kerry, but it’s all fuzzy. Since the road (OHHHH I just saw a miniature pony, Erie County is amazing) isn’t that exciting (some may beg to differ after that last sighting though), I’ll get straight to some of the things we’ve encountered along the way thus far.
Yesterday evening:
Peter, being the always vigilant guy that he is, decided that with the gas light on we should probably get some petrol in our tank, and quickly, “But don’t worry, 1-800-25Lexus.” Incredulously, I stared back at him, “So, you want to sit on the side of the road and wait for help when the last streetlamp we saw burned out as we passed under it 200 miles back?” We stopped.
Our first gas break, luckily, brought us to the “Best Truck Stop in America” and cleanest too (Peter added this as he frequents truck stops). We didn’t choose this location, rather, I believe, it chose us. Showers: $9.72, with a deposit of $20 until towel is returned. Restaurant seating for 45. Function hall and reception facilities available. Bull Ball key chains a hot-selling item (they are exactly, EXACTLY, what you’re thinking they are and will not be described in respect for the faint of heart; although, Peter described them to me, fingers up as if he was supporting a pair). This was truly America’s Best Truck Stop, and we didn’t need the sign on the bathroom door to tell us so.
The car was waiting self-consciously for us as the Lexus stood out amongst 18 wheelers, beat-up Chevy pickups, and one station wagon missing a back tire, but that still drove away. I don’t think it was there for gas—Bull Balls, Bull Balls. I have not yet mentioned that all this way, hour upon hour, we have been graced with the sounds of the 90s. Peter brought his DJ battle ipod. For those of you who don’t know, Peter battled a worthy adversary in musical ballyhoo consisting of 90s rock verses 90s R&B/Pop (of which I later heard, having not been at the bar, not that Peter won, but that Tilden lost—Matt, you get the first shoutout). Since departing Boston, I have been the beneficiary of all that 90s love; even now as we approach Chicago, it continues.
Miles, miles, miles of road. Zoot suit riot. Another gas stop. This time the pitch black was oppressive and we were hungry. Our meals for the day had only been Dunkin Donuts and some granola bars. All tanks were running on empty. Since Buffalo was our destination, for none other than a dinner of the original Buffalo wing at the Anchor Bar, we made a pact not to snack and to be in and out quickly. The pump was full service, but the unexpected came with the merchandise inside the store. We were surrounded by candies, chips, and peanuts of all shapes and sizes, yet none of it caught our eye. Instead, Peter, with wobbly finger, raised his arm and pointed, “Wraaaangler Jeans!!” This place surely didn’t know the claim that was being made over a hundred miles away because this, in our estimation, was “America’s Best Truck Stop.”
After Peter berated me once again for only bringing one pair of pants on this trip, I bought myself a pair of Wrangler Jeans, boot cut, tight in the butt. It wasn’t edible, but I felt good about my decision.
The arrival in Buffalo was much anticipated. There was a parade, ticker tape, some trumpets, and a tattered, yellowish carpet. They didn’t have time for a new red one to be rolled out, but we appreciated the best they could do.
The city was desolate. We saw our first Buffalo native in the parking lot of the Anchor Bar. Then, we saw the rest of Buffalo inside eating wings. It was one of those things that I thought, “Well, the French don’t actually eat French Fries, so I bet people from Buffalo don’t truly consume massive amounts of what we refer to as Buffalo Wings.” Horribly wrong is an understatement. The bar was covered in references to Original Recipes, wing soups, “have a pitcher and a bucket of wings”. I think I saw one guy with “Anchor Bar: The Original Buffalo Wings” tattooed around his neck. It was a frat boy’s dream.
This brings us to discovering the cure for HIV in the city/town/hole of Buffalo. The oldest man alive, self-proclaimed, sat behind an old, wooden counter, half concealed by a sign that read, “I can tell the future. What is it saying? That I can be certain you WILL BE SEATED. Soon enough.” And, mistakenly someone gave him a microphone. He was announcing the availability of tables accompanied with interjections of sage advice and tidbits of wisdom. Most notably, “I have the cure for HIV, it’s called no alcohol.” Imagine the look of surprise on my and Peter’s faces. “Did he just say that?” Peter asked me in a low voice. “Yeah, I think he did,” I responded, only to add, “and all this time I thought ‘no alcohol’ was used to ward off babies.”
38 wings later, four beers, more than a few glasses of water and sides of
blue cheese and celery, and a Red Sox loss, we were on our way. Peter fell asleep, and I was just waking up. The drive took us through fog, low visibility, rain, and menacing trucks who can’t stay in their lanes. But our final destination for the night, Motel Six, where the beds are queens and the towels like sandpaper. Luxury. I offered to sleep in the Lexus, but the sign on the door of the room quelled that desire, “For your safety when in room engage deadbolt and security latch.” Like a fairy tale, we slept, small pocketknives in-hand under our pillows.
And there’s Chicago…
The real title for this blog was supposed to be “I have the cure for HIV” but I thought that would be too offensive, although Peter didn’t agree, so I’ll just have to get to that later in the post.
Most people know the drive between Boston and New York quite well. And most make the conscious decision never to stray beyond the bright lights of the Big Apple. We didn’t even drive through it. That’s right, this Lewis and Clark circumvented the city and took our chances with Pennsylvania. We blacked out when we crossed the border, but I do remember seeing a sign for Pittsburgh and mentioning some about Heinz Ketchup and John Kerry, but it’s all fuzzy. Since the road (OHHHH I just saw a miniature pony, Erie County is amazing) isn’t that exciting (some may beg to differ after that last sighting though), I’ll get straight to some of the things we’ve encountered along the way thus far.
Yesterday evening:
Peter, being the always vigilant guy that he is, decided that with the gas light on we should probably get some petrol in our tank, and quickly, “But don’t worry, 1-800-25Lexus.” Incredulously, I stared back at him, “So, you want to sit on the side of the road and wait for help when the last streetlamp we saw burned out as we passed under it 200 miles back?” We stopped.
Our first gas break, luckily, brought us to the “Best Truck Stop in America” and cleanest too (Peter added this as he frequents truck stops). We didn’t choose this location, rather, I believe, it chose us. Showers: $9.72, with a deposit of $20 until towel is returned. Restaurant seating for 45. Function hall and reception facilities available. Bull Ball key chains a hot-selling item (they are exactly, EXACTLY, what you’re thinking they are and will not be described in respect for the faint of heart; although, Peter described them to me, fingers up as if he was supporting a pair). This was truly America’s Best Truck Stop, and we didn’t need the sign on the bathroom door to tell us so.
The car was waiting self-consciously for us as the Lexus stood out amongst 18 wheelers, beat-up Chevy pickups, and one station wagon missing a back tire, but that still drove away. I don’t think it was there for gas—Bull Balls, Bull Balls. I have not yet mentioned that all this way, hour upon hour, we have been graced with the sounds of the 90s. Peter brought his DJ battle ipod. For those of you who don’t know, Peter battled a worthy adversary in musical ballyhoo consisting of 90s rock verses 90s R&B/Pop (of which I later heard, having not been at the bar, not that Peter won, but that Tilden lost—Matt, you get the first shoutout). Since departing Boston, I have been the beneficiary of all that 90s love; even now as we approach Chicago, it continues.
Miles, miles, miles of road. Zoot suit riot. Another gas stop. This time the pitch black was oppressive and we were hungry. Our meals for the day had only been Dunkin Donuts and some granola bars. All tanks were running on empty. Since Buffalo was our destination, for none other than a dinner of the original Buffalo wing at the Anchor Bar, we made a pact not to snack and to be in and out quickly. The pump was full service, but the unexpected came with the merchandise inside the store. We were surrounded by candies, chips, and peanuts of all shapes and sizes, yet none of it caught our eye. Instead, Peter, with wobbly finger, raised his arm and pointed, “Wraaaangler Jeans!!” This place surely didn’t know the claim that was being made over a hundred miles away because this, in our estimation, was “America’s Best Truck Stop.”
After Peter berated me once again for only bringing one pair of pants on this trip, I bought myself a pair of Wrangler Jeans, boot cut, tight in the butt. It wasn’t edible, but I felt good about my decision.
The arrival in Buffalo was much anticipated. There was a parade, ticker tape, some trumpets, and a tattered, yellowish carpet. They didn’t have time for a new red one to be rolled out, but we appreciated the best they could do.
The city was desolate. We saw our first Buffalo native in the parking lot of the Anchor Bar. Then, we saw the rest of Buffalo inside eating wings. It was one of those things that I thought, “Well, the French don’t actually eat French Fries, so I bet people from Buffalo don’t truly consume massive amounts of what we refer to as Buffalo Wings.” Horribly wrong is an understatement. The bar was covered in references to Original Recipes, wing soups, “have a pitcher and a bucket of wings”. I think I saw one guy with “Anchor Bar: The Original Buffalo Wings” tattooed around his neck. It was a frat boy’s dream.
This brings us to discovering the cure for HIV in the city/town/hole of Buffalo. The oldest man alive, self-proclaimed, sat behind an old, wooden counter, half concealed by a sign that read, “I can tell the future. What is it saying? That I can be certain you WILL BE SEATED. Soon enough.” And, mistakenly someone gave him a microphone. He was announcing the availability of tables accompanied with interjections of sage advice and tidbits of wisdom. Most notably, “I have the cure for HIV, it’s called no alcohol.” Imagine the look of surprise on my and Peter’s faces. “Did he just say that?” Peter asked me in a low voice. “Yeah, I think he did,” I responded, only to add, “and all this time I thought ‘no alcohol’ was used to ward off babies.”
38 wings later, four beers, more than a few glasses of water and sides of
blue cheese and celery, and a Red Sox loss, we were on our way. Peter fell asleep, and I was just waking up. The drive took us through fog, low visibility, rain, and menacing trucks who can’t stay in their lanes. But our final destination for the night, Motel Six, where the beds are queens and the towels like sandpaper. Luxury. I offered to sleep in the Lexus, but the sign on the door of the room quelled that desire, “For your safety when in room engage deadbolt and security latch.” Like a fairy tale, we slept, small pocketknives in-hand under our pillows.And there’s Chicago…
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