Why does every Interstate way station, rest stop, and welcome center in the US always seem to be playing Peter Gabriel’s Sledgehammer when you stop there for a pee break and fresh coffee?
Channeling our inner Willies, we’re on the road again, of course. We’re flying down the highways, westbound, here at the ass end of November as we drive to Chicago and the Queen Mother of Pink’s 95th birthday. We’re taking the north pass through Cleveland, the Mistake on the Lake, and the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame. Hilarity is certain to ensue!
Two hours under our wheels has us on the Penna Turnpike, rolling hills dotted with cows, deer, and the odd rusted out shell of one of Detroit’s finest. We’d been driving for 90 minutes or so in silence when Number One Son, apropos of nothing, made the following observation: “Sisters. They’re so much more pleasant when they’re asleep.” No argument there, but I had to tell him to announce these observations more quietly or risk their wrath when he woke them up.
The last few trips to Chicago have been summertime excursions, with nature’s broad paintbrush of glorious color generously applied at every turn. Westward Ho through November’s arse, it seems, is an altogether
different and monochromatic story. There’s Green-with-brown, Gray-with-brown, Brown, Dingy Brown, and Dirty Snow. That seems to be the extent of color available to the landscape – even the signs and billboards offer no relief.
I’ll check the local fauna. Horses – brown. Ducks – nope, they’re brown. Hey, cows! Black, black, black, black, and oh hey, brown. Passing the “Fun Slides Carpet Skatepark;” sounds fascinating, but not a lot of color. Whoops, there’s a couple of deer – and guess what?
Even the permanent construction of traffic cone orange is faded and brown. Maybe Cleveland will have some color. There’s rock -n- roll there, right?