condemned by your friendly USDA inspector
"If you really want to bring chaos to the entertainment industry, I've got two words for you: road movie. Bob Hope and Bing Crosby were the original anarchists. They drank all the time, wore women's clothing, sang crazy songs..."
Eight more days. Today I miss
Interstate 75
I-75 gets a lot of static from Northern Kentuckians, Cincinnati daytrippers, and my fellow Ohio jackasses. Ab summo capitis, I remember hearing it called "the most boring drive in America," "a dotted line with a few rails on the sides," and "creamy." But I-75 ain't a bad road. Baby, it's just misunderstood. I must've driven the hundred miles from Lexington to scenic West Chester (Ohio exit 22, come see our new Borders Books!) ten times a year for the past four years, then back again as much. And I've come to like it, if not understand it.
Freshman year, I hated that bitch-ass road. I would use any excuse to keep from driving home for the weekend. I had tests on Monday. I had papers due on Monday. Each of my friends had two to three birthdays a year. By sophomore year, I would drink twice as hard on Thursday and Friday night so that hangovers would motivate me to stay in Lexington. I stayed off 75 with cunning born of whiskey headaches. But in the middle of my sophomore year, kicked out of Patterson Hall for Xmas, I noticed something about the road. Halfway between Lexington and Cincinnati, there's a fifteen mile stretch of I-75 where it's an unlit two-lane road. If you watch your mirrors and count the seconds between you and the car ahead, you notice sometimes, around midnight or 1 a.m., that the three of you are driving in formation. A few months ago I made it south from the Owenton/Williamstown exit to almost Ironworks Pike, 20 or more miles with a car a third of a mile ahead and a car a third of a mile behind, cruising at 70, lockstep.
Even better, in the middle of those narrow 15 miles is a ten mile stretch without any exits. Two lanes, no lights, no off-ramps, and, if you're driving at three in the morning, not many other cars. If you're not a confident driver, this can be a little frightening. You find yourself gripping the wheel tightly. You overcorrect toward the middle of the road because you're staring at the yellow line with its reflecting bumps. You're staring at the line because it's about all you can see. Normal headlights don't cut it there; halogen arc-lamps can rip away the darkness, but John Q. Everydriver's weakass flashlights illuminate ten feet of road, ten feet of line, and maybe a reflector on the shoulder (if there are any). Once or twice I started hoping that I'd catch up to another car. I hoped that I could follow a pair of taillights to safety. To exits and gas stations. To Waffle Houses and filthy restrooms. Civilization, by God.
But once you get over the fear of careening blindly into the side of a tree-lined hill, the fear of crashing on a temporarily deserted highway and being eaten by furry woodland creatures, it's a fine drive. I-75 at night, between exits 139 and 154, is Jehovah's own tunnel. It's solitude, being alone at 70, 75, 80 miles an hour. Even faster if you don't believe, like I do, that Kentucky cops feel it in their testicles whenever a college student is about to get away with something. I used to do 80. That number seemed safe somehow. Now I do 70. I'm not in such a hurry.
Some nights when I'm up in West Chester, when I'm full of coffee and dreading another eight hours of sleep on the leather couch or in the room named after my dear departed Grandmother, I pack up and leave after midnight. I go upstairs and tell my parents goodbye. "What the hell are you doing?" My mom is half-asleep, but I know she'd wake up when I left anyway. Mom and Dad have keen ears for closing doors and creaking stairs. Especially if their children are behind it.
"I'm going," I say.
"You'll be on the road until 3 or 4," she says.
"Yup."
My sister's usually still awake. She thinks I'm weird. I just want to sleep in my own bed. And if I have to barrel down I-75 for an hour and a half to do so, then so fuckin be it.
Eight more days. Today I miss
Interstate 75
I-75 gets a lot of static from Northern Kentuckians, Cincinnati daytrippers, and my fellow Ohio jackasses. Ab summo capitis, I remember hearing it called "the most boring drive in America," "a dotted line with a few rails on the sides," and "creamy." But I-75 ain't a bad road. Baby, it's just misunderstood. I must've driven the hundred miles from Lexington to scenic West Chester (Ohio exit 22, come see our new Borders Books!) ten times a year for the past four years, then back again as much. And I've come to like it, if not understand it.
Freshman year, I hated that bitch-ass road. I would use any excuse to keep from driving home for the weekend. I had tests on Monday. I had papers due on Monday. Each of my friends had two to three birthdays a year. By sophomore year, I would drink twice as hard on Thursday and Friday night so that hangovers would motivate me to stay in Lexington. I stayed off 75 with cunning born of whiskey headaches. But in the middle of my sophomore year, kicked out of Patterson Hall for Xmas, I noticed something about the road. Halfway between Lexington and Cincinnati, there's a fifteen mile stretch of I-75 where it's an unlit two-lane road. If you watch your mirrors and count the seconds between you and the car ahead, you notice sometimes, around midnight or 1 a.m., that the three of you are driving in formation. A few months ago I made it south from the Owenton/Williamstown exit to almost Ironworks Pike, 20 or more miles with a car a third of a mile ahead and a car a third of a mile behind, cruising at 70, lockstep.
Even better, in the middle of those narrow 15 miles is a ten mile stretch without any exits. Two lanes, no lights, no off-ramps, and, if you're driving at three in the morning, not many other cars. If you're not a confident driver, this can be a little frightening. You find yourself gripping the wheel tightly. You overcorrect toward the middle of the road because you're staring at the yellow line with its reflecting bumps. You're staring at the line because it's about all you can see. Normal headlights don't cut it there; halogen arc-lamps can rip away the darkness, but John Q. Everydriver's weakass flashlights illuminate ten feet of road, ten feet of line, and maybe a reflector on the shoulder (if there are any). Once or twice I started hoping that I'd catch up to another car. I hoped that I could follow a pair of taillights to safety. To exits and gas stations. To Waffle Houses and filthy restrooms. Civilization, by God.
But once you get over the fear of careening blindly into the side of a tree-lined hill, the fear of crashing on a temporarily deserted highway and being eaten by furry woodland creatures, it's a fine drive. I-75 at night, between exits 139 and 154, is Jehovah's own tunnel. It's solitude, being alone at 70, 75, 80 miles an hour. Even faster if you don't believe, like I do, that Kentucky cops feel it in their testicles whenever a college student is about to get away with something. I used to do 80. That number seemed safe somehow. Now I do 70. I'm not in such a hurry.
Some nights when I'm up in West Chester, when I'm full of coffee and dreading another eight hours of sleep on the leather couch or in the room named after my dear departed Grandmother, I pack up and leave after midnight. I go upstairs and tell my parents goodbye. "What the hell are you doing?" My mom is half-asleep, but I know she'd wake up when I left anyway. Mom and Dad have keen ears for closing doors and creaking stairs. Especially if their children are behind it.
"I'm going," I say.
"You'll be on the road until 3 or 4," she says.
"Yup."
My sister's usually still awake. She thinks I'm weird. I just want to sleep in my own bed. And if I have to barrel down I-75 for an hour and a half to do so, then so fuckin be it.