El Viaje Misterioso de Nuestro Kevino
I hate to speak in superlatives, but I just had the most ridiculously jam-packed weekend ever, and I would like to tell you about it. But a paragraph-laden narrative might just bore you (and certainly me), so allow me to rip off "The Sports Guy" Bill Simmons and provide you with a running diary of my Great Mason-Dixon Adventure. Of course, I just got this idea a few hours ago, so all of the time stamps are completely fabricated. Oh, I do so love legitimate journalism.
Friday, January 20, 9:04 AM: The ridiculously catchy opening percussion of Ben Lee's "Catch My Disease" rouses me from bed. I love having a CD alarm clock, but I wish that a) I wasn't too lazy to switch CDs more than once a week and b) I could program it to play various tracks rather than starting at the beginning each morning. However, the laziness has often prompted me to plop in a mix CD before bed without bothering to check its contents. The comedy factor of waking up to, say, the Inspector Gadget theme or Motorhead's "Born to Raise Hell" is boundless, let me tell you.
10:30 AM: I brave the elements and make the grueling fifteen-foot trek to my car. In other words, it's 50 and sunny. Now I know that tomorrow's mountain climbing expedition is destined for sub-freezing temperatures, hail, and rabid prairie dogs.
10:35 AM: I arrive at the vehicle inspection facility to get an emissions test done on the Corolla. That's right, I had my car for two months before those tree-hugging pantywaists tracked me down. I pay the fee with my Amazon Visa. If they're robbing me of fourteen dollars, you'd better believe I'm getting my points. I'm *this* close to that gift certificate, and the Wrestlemania XVI-XX box set is calling out to me. Anyway, I passed, or rather, the car did. So it's only very toxic to the environment, instead of extremely toxic. That's a relief.
1:00 PM: Lunchtime at the condo. Beef Ramen and a banana. It suddenly occurs to me why rich people have chefs.
1:45 PM: I've shaved, packed, and emptied the dishwasher and the trash. I still have an hour and a half before I have to leave. Naturally, I use my time constructively and play Grand Theft Auto III. Nothing prepares you for two hours of driving like tearing down the wrong side of the road, jumping buildings and mowing down pixelated pedestrians in a computerized sports car.
3:00 PM: I check my email, scribbling down Jill's more direct suggestions for driving directions to her house in scenic Strasburg, PA. I use a black Sharpie so that I can more easily see my writing while driving. The fumes make me a little logy. Oh, and I do have a printer. I just don't have a printer cable or paper. Why on Earth would I?
3:10 PM: I'm just about ready to go, but my car is down to a quarter-tank of gas. As my mom's office is a half an hour along my route in a more consumer-friendly gas-merchant area, I call her for directions to the gas station nearest to her. She proceeds to keep me on the phone for twenty minutes, giving me directions that become increasingly more muddled and imprecise. I am struggling to remember why I ever said a cross word about Yahoo! Maps.
3:45 PM: Fifteen minutes into my journey, I am traveling Route 29 North and dreading the confused journey around Security Boulevard for cheap(er) gas when I pass exit signs for Route 40 that give a vague promise of gasoline to be found. On a hunch, I take the exit and almost immediately spot a Shell station: $2.33 a gallon. Huzzah. Kevin's Survival Skills 1, The World 0. (Actually tally may vary by three or four hundred.)
4:something PM: Having been on I-83 North for some time now, I finally cross the border into Pennsylvania, the Keystone State. What the hell is a Keystone? As near as I can tell, it's a brand of light beer, or maybe some sort of odd shield shape that is used on route marker signs. But hey, at least they get their own distinctive shape for those signs. Maryland has boring old rectangles. We should have a crab, or maybe even an ocelot. Few people realize that Maryland was founded by an ocelot, seeking political asylum from British monarchs who denied its inalienable right to maul its neighbors.
4:something plus one PM: I start seeing familiar sights from my various other trips into PA, starting with that liquor store with the big brown beer bottles painted on the exterior. Seriously, this thing has been there as long as I remember, and it's smack on the side of I-83, and I identify it with Pennsylvania. Is that a problem? Also, the shuffle function on my Dell DJ has been producing much musical goodness. At some point in time during this stretch of the trip, I begin belting out "Cum on Feel the Noize" by Quiet Riot, making sure to correct the misspelled words as I sing them. Or not.
4:something plus infinity PM: Even though I've only been awake for seven hours and I took the day off from work, I begin feeling sleepy. As I am crawling through (surprise!) Pennsylvania's trademark highway reconstruction and I vaguely remember the tricks I was taught in driver's ed, I roll down my window, then roll it back up and turn on the air conditioning. I also make a conscious decision to sing along to my music. The DJ responds by choosing an airy song by the Postal Service that I do not know the words to. Great.
4:50 PM: At long last, I take the Market Street exit off of I-83. Almost immediately, I smell burning rubber. I pray that the withering looks from passing motorists as I yelp off key to '80's hair bands and '90s alt-rockers have not melted my tires.
5:15 PM: I'm remembering how ungodly long and tricky Route 30 is. It goes from freeway to suburbs and back again at least 1,037 times. I pass Dutch Wonderland on my left, and once again I bitterly recall the giant slide with its burlap sack that left a nasty wide abrasion on my arm. That amusement park gets my lowest rating ever: nine stars.
5:30 PM: I sit at the (only) traffic light in downtown Strasburg, on Route 896. I notice that the sign on the lightpost has a little fixture on it that almost looks like a red-light camera, but not quite. More likely it is some sort of butter churn.
5:32 PM: As I continue my tour of Strasburg, I note that the Countryside Inn has its "No Vacancy" sign blazing bright. Seriously? I guess it's a good thing I'm staying with Jill. I wasn't counting on the added traffic from the big Quilting Bee.
5:35 PM: Ah, NOW I've made it to the winding, hilly roads and farmland scenery. A shadowy figure just makes it across the road before I drive past. I notice that it is an Amish man. I giggle.
5:40 PM: I reach the top of a hill, notice an intersecting road that looks familiar but is not in my hand-scrawled directions, and pass it on by. I almost immediately realize that I have made a mistake, as the scenery changes from residential back to desolate and rural. There is no shoulder to pull onto. I stop in the middle of the empty road, put on my flashers, and consult the Yahoo directions that I thankfully brought along. Yep, I missed my turn. It's dark now. Maybe they'll find me tomorrow with a pitch fork in my back.
5:45 PM: Nope. Having righted myself, I arrive at Costeopolis. Jill greets me at the door, and I make small talk with her mother about how lousy my job is. Mrs. Jill's Mom makes promise of dinner to come shortly, which is not soon enough. I express this by growling at her and throwing the phone across the room. Desperate to divert my attention, Jill directs me up to the guest room, offers to take one of my bags, and immediately thinks better of it. She's swell.
6:05 PM: I am treated to a delectable meal: meatball subs, baked ziti, and fresh salad. I am painfully conscious of my lackluster eating habits, as my goatee reaches out to hungrily lap up melted cheese, tomato sauce, Sprite, and I believe it had a hold of Ozzy the kitten's leg while no one was looking.
7:82 PM: Jill and I take turns showing each other unflattering pictures of ourselves. Fortunately, we lose interest before it devolves to comparing scars, odd birthmarks, and stories of the time Dad deliberately left us at the Roy Rogers Breakfast Bar.
8:23 PM: My powers of deduction are exceptional, as I call Boothe while he is in the car. Three minutes of awkward, distracted conversation ensue, and Jill walks in as I am talking about buying tickets for next month's WWE pay-per-view in Baltimore and speculating about the possibility of a Kurt Angle vs. the Undertaker main event. All at once, I realize the unbearable nerdiness of being a wrestling fan and attempt to smother myself in Jill's hair. This annoys her, and she decides that I need to drown my miserable gob in alcohol.
9:17 PM: We park near the Pressroom, a charming drinkery in Lancaster. Jill points out that the vanity plates on the car next to hers read "Kevy Kev". I jab myself in the eye with my keys.
9:20 PM: We settle on a small table across from the bar and the barkeep comes over to check our IDs. He peers in confusion at my Maryland license, which features a blue crab, a red heart, a purple horseshoe, and a shooting star. Jill has forgotten her drivers license, and pleads in vain for an exception. Being the sensitive friend that I am, I go ahead and order myself a Yuengling draft anyway. Graciously, I let her take a sip each time the bartender turns his back.
9:40 PM: Jill's gentleman friend Tristan and his buddy Kevin arrive. As you would expect, I break a beer bottle against the bar and slash his jugular vein. There can be only one. But Tristan seems nice, and unmistakably cooler than me. He has charming little spectacles and golden brown hair that is curled and tousled in a way that just makes you want to...oh my. I was drifting again. Um, yeah, I approve of Tristan.
9:56 PM: Sarah Johnson (WAC '03 to those not in the know) and her summarily terrifying fiance Rob arrive. They live in Lancaster, so of course they arrived last. Sarah insults my intelligence, furious at my decision to shave off my soft, downy hair. I cry bitterly and switch to absinthe to dull all feelings.
10:00 PM: Rob is actually being very sociable, it seems. We talk about his newfound interest in the saxophone. At least, I think we do. I was too busy wetting my pants in fear. Or maybe I'm thinking of someone else.
11:12 PM: I notice that once again, I'm the only one who is still drinking. Why does that keep happening? And why does my liver hurt?
11:19 PM: Tristan and Fake Kevin assuage my fears by having another beer. Kevin mentions that he is a Steelers fan. I stab him to death again.
11:31 PM: On our way back to the car, Jill and I pass another bar that is having a karaoke night. We can hear several drunken revelers butchering the Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter". How I long for the power to summon fire.
12:07 AM: Back in the Coste Casa, I set the alarm for 7:30 AM and weep silently. I read a few chapters of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, the third of seven Chronicles of Narnia. Childlike wonder and talking mice ensue.
Okay, it's up to you to decide what I made up. But much of this did really happen. I shall return later with Saturday's events.
Friday, January 20, 9:04 AM: The ridiculously catchy opening percussion of Ben Lee's "Catch My Disease" rouses me from bed. I love having a CD alarm clock, but I wish that a) I wasn't too lazy to switch CDs more than once a week and b) I could program it to play various tracks rather than starting at the beginning each morning. However, the laziness has often prompted me to plop in a mix CD before bed without bothering to check its contents. The comedy factor of waking up to, say, the Inspector Gadget theme or Motorhead's "Born to Raise Hell" is boundless, let me tell you.
10:30 AM: I brave the elements and make the grueling fifteen-foot trek to my car. In other words, it's 50 and sunny. Now I know that tomorrow's mountain climbing expedition is destined for sub-freezing temperatures, hail, and rabid prairie dogs.
10:35 AM: I arrive at the vehicle inspection facility to get an emissions test done on the Corolla. That's right, I had my car for two months before those tree-hugging pantywaists tracked me down. I pay the fee with my Amazon Visa. If they're robbing me of fourteen dollars, you'd better believe I'm getting my points. I'm *this* close to that gift certificate, and the Wrestlemania XVI-XX box set is calling out to me. Anyway, I passed, or rather, the car did. So it's only very toxic to the environment, instead of extremely toxic. That's a relief.
1:00 PM: Lunchtime at the condo. Beef Ramen and a banana. It suddenly occurs to me why rich people have chefs.
1:45 PM: I've shaved, packed, and emptied the dishwasher and the trash. I still have an hour and a half before I have to leave. Naturally, I use my time constructively and play Grand Theft Auto III. Nothing prepares you for two hours of driving like tearing down the wrong side of the road, jumping buildings and mowing down pixelated pedestrians in a computerized sports car.
3:00 PM: I check my email, scribbling down Jill's more direct suggestions for driving directions to her house in scenic Strasburg, PA. I use a black Sharpie so that I can more easily see my writing while driving. The fumes make me a little logy. Oh, and I do have a printer. I just don't have a printer cable or paper. Why on Earth would I?
3:10 PM: I'm just about ready to go, but my car is down to a quarter-tank of gas. As my mom's office is a half an hour along my route in a more consumer-friendly gas-merchant area, I call her for directions to the gas station nearest to her. She proceeds to keep me on the phone for twenty minutes, giving me directions that become increasingly more muddled and imprecise. I am struggling to remember why I ever said a cross word about Yahoo! Maps.
3:45 PM: Fifteen minutes into my journey, I am traveling Route 29 North and dreading the confused journey around Security Boulevard for cheap(er) gas when I pass exit signs for Route 40 that give a vague promise of gasoline to be found. On a hunch, I take the exit and almost immediately spot a Shell station: $2.33 a gallon. Huzzah. Kevin's Survival Skills 1, The World 0. (Actually tally may vary by three or four hundred.)
4:something PM: Having been on I-83 North for some time now, I finally cross the border into Pennsylvania, the Keystone State. What the hell is a Keystone? As near as I can tell, it's a brand of light beer, or maybe some sort of odd shield shape that is used on route marker signs. But hey, at least they get their own distinctive shape for those signs. Maryland has boring old rectangles. We should have a crab, or maybe even an ocelot. Few people realize that Maryland was founded by an ocelot, seeking political asylum from British monarchs who denied its inalienable right to maul its neighbors.
4:something plus one PM: I start seeing familiar sights from my various other trips into PA, starting with that liquor store with the big brown beer bottles painted on the exterior. Seriously, this thing has been there as long as I remember, and it's smack on the side of I-83, and I identify it with Pennsylvania. Is that a problem? Also, the shuffle function on my Dell DJ has been producing much musical goodness. At some point in time during this stretch of the trip, I begin belting out "Cum on Feel the Noize" by Quiet Riot, making sure to correct the misspelled words as I sing them. Or not.
4:something plus infinity PM: Even though I've only been awake for seven hours and I took the day off from work, I begin feeling sleepy. As I am crawling through (surprise!) Pennsylvania's trademark highway reconstruction and I vaguely remember the tricks I was taught in driver's ed, I roll down my window, then roll it back up and turn on the air conditioning. I also make a conscious decision to sing along to my music. The DJ responds by choosing an airy song by the Postal Service that I do not know the words to. Great.
4:50 PM: At long last, I take the Market Street exit off of I-83. Almost immediately, I smell burning rubber. I pray that the withering looks from passing motorists as I yelp off key to '80's hair bands and '90s alt-rockers have not melted my tires.
5:15 PM: I'm remembering how ungodly long and tricky Route 30 is. It goes from freeway to suburbs and back again at least 1,037 times. I pass Dutch Wonderland on my left, and once again I bitterly recall the giant slide with its burlap sack that left a nasty wide abrasion on my arm. That amusement park gets my lowest rating ever: nine stars.
5:30 PM: I sit at the (only) traffic light in downtown Strasburg, on Route 896. I notice that the sign on the lightpost has a little fixture on it that almost looks like a red-light camera, but not quite. More likely it is some sort of butter churn.
5:32 PM: As I continue my tour of Strasburg, I note that the Countryside Inn has its "No Vacancy" sign blazing bright. Seriously? I guess it's a good thing I'm staying with Jill. I wasn't counting on the added traffic from the big Quilting Bee.
5:35 PM: Ah, NOW I've made it to the winding, hilly roads and farmland scenery. A shadowy figure just makes it across the road before I drive past. I notice that it is an Amish man. I giggle.
5:40 PM: I reach the top of a hill, notice an intersecting road that looks familiar but is not in my hand-scrawled directions, and pass it on by. I almost immediately realize that I have made a mistake, as the scenery changes from residential back to desolate and rural. There is no shoulder to pull onto. I stop in the middle of the empty road, put on my flashers, and consult the Yahoo directions that I thankfully brought along. Yep, I missed my turn. It's dark now. Maybe they'll find me tomorrow with a pitch fork in my back.
5:45 PM: Nope. Having righted myself, I arrive at Costeopolis. Jill greets me at the door, and I make small talk with her mother about how lousy my job is. Mrs. Jill's Mom makes promise of dinner to come shortly, which is not soon enough. I express this by growling at her and throwing the phone across the room. Desperate to divert my attention, Jill directs me up to the guest room, offers to take one of my bags, and immediately thinks better of it. She's swell.
6:05 PM: I am treated to a delectable meal: meatball subs, baked ziti, and fresh salad. I am painfully conscious of my lackluster eating habits, as my goatee reaches out to hungrily lap up melted cheese, tomato sauce, Sprite, and I believe it had a hold of Ozzy the kitten's leg while no one was looking.
7:82 PM: Jill and I take turns showing each other unflattering pictures of ourselves. Fortunately, we lose interest before it devolves to comparing scars, odd birthmarks, and stories of the time Dad deliberately left us at the Roy Rogers Breakfast Bar.
8:23 PM: My powers of deduction are exceptional, as I call Boothe while he is in the car. Three minutes of awkward, distracted conversation ensue, and Jill walks in as I am talking about buying tickets for next month's WWE pay-per-view in Baltimore and speculating about the possibility of a Kurt Angle vs. the Undertaker main event. All at once, I realize the unbearable nerdiness of being a wrestling fan and attempt to smother myself in Jill's hair. This annoys her, and she decides that I need to drown my miserable gob in alcohol.
9:17 PM: We park near the Pressroom, a charming drinkery in Lancaster. Jill points out that the vanity plates on the car next to hers read "Kevy Kev". I jab myself in the eye with my keys.
9:20 PM: We settle on a small table across from the bar and the barkeep comes over to check our IDs. He peers in confusion at my Maryland license, which features a blue crab, a red heart, a purple horseshoe, and a shooting star. Jill has forgotten her drivers license, and pleads in vain for an exception. Being the sensitive friend that I am, I go ahead and order myself a Yuengling draft anyway. Graciously, I let her take a sip each time the bartender turns his back.
9:40 PM: Jill's gentleman friend Tristan and his buddy Kevin arrive. As you would expect, I break a beer bottle against the bar and slash his jugular vein. There can be only one. But Tristan seems nice, and unmistakably cooler than me. He has charming little spectacles and golden brown hair that is curled and tousled in a way that just makes you want to...oh my. I was drifting again. Um, yeah, I approve of Tristan.
9:56 PM: Sarah Johnson (WAC '03 to those not in the know) and her summarily terrifying fiance Rob arrive. They live in Lancaster, so of course they arrived last. Sarah insults my intelligence, furious at my decision to shave off my soft, downy hair. I cry bitterly and switch to absinthe to dull all feelings.
10:00 PM: Rob is actually being very sociable, it seems. We talk about his newfound interest in the saxophone. At least, I think we do. I was too busy wetting my pants in fear. Or maybe I'm thinking of someone else.
11:12 PM: I notice that once again, I'm the only one who is still drinking. Why does that keep happening? And why does my liver hurt?
11:19 PM: Tristan and Fake Kevin assuage my fears by having another beer. Kevin mentions that he is a Steelers fan. I stab him to death again.
11:31 PM: On our way back to the car, Jill and I pass another bar that is having a karaoke night. We can hear several drunken revelers butchering the Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter". How I long for the power to summon fire.
12:07 AM: Back in the Coste Casa, I set the alarm for 7:30 AM and weep silently. I read a few chapters of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, the third of seven Chronicles of Narnia. Childlike wonder and talking mice ensue.
Okay, it's up to you to decide what I made up. But much of this did really happen. I shall return later with Saturday's events.