Classic Think About It: The Three Geeks Go to Chicago
July 13, 2002
It never takes as long as they claim.
That’s the first thing I want you Highly Educated Readers to remember as I embark upon the epic tale of my journey to Chicago - along with my Squires Sir James the Geek and Sir Mike the Bald, we rode with the desert wind on what we expected to be a 19-hour drive to the annual Wizard World comic convention.
Of course, things never go as they plan.
JULY 4, 2002
· 12:42 p.m. The three of us finally assembled, we leave. We then stop because Mike forgot to close the trunk, and leave again 30 seconds later.
· 1:29 p.m. While riding with the desert wind, we realize we missed the exit onto I-55, meaning we’re going to have to detour through Baton Rouge and add probably an hour of drive-time. Good for us.
· 4:20 p.m. While reading the map, I notice many icons that resemble a question mark. My confidence in our navigational document is immediately shaken.
· 7:11 p.m. A particularly poorly designed intersection in Arkansas nearly destroys us. I feel slightly better about the state of roads in Louisiana.
· 8:31 p.m. Mike announces that being bitter makes him happy. I examine the atlas to see where the nearest convenient mental ward may be, but we’re still 250 miles from St. Louis.
· 8:57 p.m. We begin seeing Independence Day fireworks in the distance. A tear comes to my eye, not unlike the way I feel about that episode of “The Simpsons” where the American Embassy in Australia has a device to make the water spin in the proper, American counter-clockwise direction.
· 11:21 p.m. In Festus, Missouri, we realize we are far closer to our goal of Chicago than we expected. James observes that maybe the reason comic book and sci-fi fans have a reputation as being the great unwashed is just because they get to the convention before they can check into their hotels and take showers.
JULY 5 , 2002
· 12:20 a.m. Realizing we have a mere 273 miles to go and yet about 15 hours until our hotel check-in time, we stop at a Super 8 motel in Troy, Illinois to snag a few hours of sleep. Upon inspecting the room carefully, I am satisfied both that it is Super and that chances are there are eight of something in there.
· 12:45 a.m. James lies down in the hotel bed and makes a complaint about the fluffiness factor of the pillow. Seconds later he is comatose.
· 5:36 a.m. We get our wake-up call. My opinion of the “Super” factor in the Super 8 motel is greatly diminished when I realize they have provided us with no shampoo, let alone a little octet of the said bottles.
· 6:25 a.m. We avail ourselves of the continental breakfast. My bowl of Star Wars Episode II: The Cereal and cup of apple juice satisfy me in that it is, indeed, a breakfast, and that we were on a continent the last time I checked.
· 6:40 a.m. We ride. We ride like the desert wind.
· 8:50 a.m. We stop at a Cracker Barrel for a breakfast which contains far more measurable quantities of actual food than we obtained at the Super 8. I am overwhelmed by the sheer down-home country atmosphere. Damn them for having so many delectable choices. Damn them for making my mouth water so.
· 10:53 a.m. We find ourselves behind a red Caravan proudly displaying a license plate that reads “Fun Fo 2.” As James observes: I suppose it is.
· 10:56 a.m. Billy Joel appears on the CD player performing the theme to “Bosom Buddies.” We all enjoy this more than is probably healthy.
· 11:24 a.m. We have officially driven 1,000 miles, the majority of them in the right direction. The peasants rejoice.
· 11:40 a.m. We arrive at the first of a billion tollbooths in the Chicago area. I advise James, who is driving, to hurl the coins into the slot without slowing down. The pansy refuses.
· 12:05 p.m. Due to utter incompetence on behalf of certain drivers in the state of Illinois, proving Louisiana does not have a monopoly, we miss our exit. I have the atlas in my hands. “We are now outside the scope of our directions with Blake as navigator,” James says. “We’re doomed.”
· 12:23 p.m. We correct our earlier error. Everybody is stunned that I seem to have charted an alternate course that worked.
· 12:34 p.m. Having made a loop of O’Hare airport, we determine I should have sent James east on 190 instead of west. The cosmic balance is restored.
· 12:36 p.m. We finally spot our hotel. You’ve never before heard three grown men scream “Hyatt!” in voices only audible to dogs and Superman. The convention, for us, begins…
Blake M. Petit made it back alive, but in order to find out how, you’ll have to come back next week. Contact him with comments, suggestions or fresh tires at BlakePT@cox.net