Oklahoma: The Git N’ Go State

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

“No beer is needed here!”
–anyone remember what this is from? anyone?

Thirty beers (or “thirty beer,” as we say in Canada) for under thirteen dollars (or “thirteen dollar,” as we say in movies about the Vietnam war) is pretty astounding to us Canadian boys, but better yet is the fact that you can buy said beer at an Oklahoma gas station called “The Git N’ Go.” Give me a yee, give me a haw. That was about an hour’s worth of driving humor for us right there.

You-Had-To-Be-There Moment #23

Oklahoma City is, like the song says, oh so pretty. We hit the Motel 6, and were offered a great deal on hot jewelry by a dissheveled lady living out of her car in the parking lot. Her sales pitch was great (one diamond engagement ring for thirty beer), but her demographic targeting left a little to be desired. Once in the motel, we set about drinking that beer, and got out Derek’s guitar to write some musical accompaniment to our adventures so far. This got stupid even faster than you might imagine, particularly because Derek’s muse (or the heat) required him to wear only his paisley undies.

Breakfast in America

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

It’s not just the title of a Supertramp album, it’s a way of life. While New Yorkers and Californians pick away at their sissy little yuppie breakfasts of yogurt and double lattes, in the heartland a nation of truckers and farmers and people with two first names is mowing down acres of hash browns and home fries and mountains of omelettes and griddle cakes and rivers of bottomless coffee. As you ponder the question, “Is it really a good thing to get steak and eggs for less than $2?” here are some side orders from the great pancake houses and truck stops of Cholesterol Nation.

Conway, AR: Paula, Paula, Paula. We had a lot of great waitresses on the trip, but your first love is always special, and Paula was one waffle jockey who could bring home the bacon and fry it in a pan. We weren’t the only ones who liked the sling of her skillet, neither. The truck driver a couple of stools down from us actually used such pickup beauties as “Are your eyes botherin’ you, Paula?” “No.” “Well, they’re drivin’ me crazy!” And later, studying the menu intently, “Paula, you know what I need?” “What’s that?” “Your phone number and three hours of your spare time. At least.”

Oklahoma City, OK: Our Waffle House waitress April Mae (get it?) was no Paula, but she did play the Waffle House theme song repeatedly on the jukebox, and sang along every time. (You probably didn’t know the Waffle House had a theme song–several songs actually. Or a jukebox.) Eating here felt like being in the opening credits of a Nashville Network sitcom.

Brownfield, TX: The truck stop here had the can’t refuse slogan: “Eat here even if it kills you–we need the business.” The food wasn’t really lethal, although the plates and mugs might have been: they were as chipped and ancient as Olduvai stone tools. Brown Town was another good place for downhome waitress-customer repartee. “Well, well, well,” said our waitress when a trio of rangy-looking cowboys (not us) sauntered in off the playa. “That’s an awful deep subject,” said one of the cowboys without even breaking stride.

Madison, WI: Derek had never been to the International House of Pancakes, and we all enjoyed saying “IHOP” (”IHOP. IHOP. IHOP.”–yep, still fun), so we’d kept a lookout for one from the start of the trip. Finally, on our second-to-last day, we found one. What exactly makes the IHOP–in some ways the most quintessentially American of restaurants–”international”? Is it like the United Nations? Do they have summits there? Do the employees have diplomatic immunity? Could we claim asylum? The bored-looking janitor we pestered with these questions didn’t have any answers for us. You have to be discreet to work in diplomatic circles.

Rattle, Hem, and Haw (A Disclaimer)

Originally published at Route 96. You can comment here or there.

So this part was written in 2006, not 1996. You can tell by the italics: my words are bent over by middle age, like myself.

This seems as good a place as any to reiterate: I wrote all this ten years ago. That means the zine was the work of a much younger guy, a guy just out of university with no students to try to look mature in front of and no tenure committee to impress. I am resisting the urge to censor our adventures, and the much stronger urge to take out the parts where I sound like a smart-ass Canadian punk. I ask you to read the zine charitably in return. Trust me that lines like “bust a cap in yo’ ass” sounded fresher ten years ago, and don’t ask why I felt the need to explain what The Rockford Files was.

I once read a review of U2’s Rattle and Hum that complained the Irish rockers didn’t know the difference between coming to America and conquering it. Rattle and Hum was their American roadtrip zine: “Look Ma, here we are at Graceland! Here we are in Harlem! Here we are with B.B. King! We’re real American rock stars now!” Bono and the boys can certainly be smug at times, and when white rockers cross the pond to pal around with the black musicians who inspired them, well, there’s a whole weird history there. But Rattle and Hum remains my, and probably nobody else’s, favorite U2 album. I always figured they just had to make that album because they’d come to America and America was so damn cool. They sang with B.B. King because he’s B.B. King, damn it, and they were thrilled to do it.

A couple of years after the road trip I spent a few weeks researching for the Let’s Go travel guide in San Francisco, and I hung out with a bunch of Irish backpackers I met in the youth hostels there. By then, I’d been in the States just long enough to act blasé about it, but they were so excited by America! Everything delighted them. That was probably the best Fourth of July I ever had.

What I’m saying is, hopefully enthusiasm excuses immaturity. In 1996, I was just newly arrived in America, still goofing on the novelty of it all, and parts of this zine make me wince at the smart-ass I was trying to be back then. I’m pretty sensitive to Canadian smugness about the U.S. today, because I’ve had so many good years there and because I grew out of some of that smugness myself. But I hope that my genuine love for the place shines through. I did, and do, think that things like Enterprise Square (the very next post) and Dinsmoor’s Garden of Eden (we’re getting to it) and the Things Museum four miles north of St. Joe, Arkansas, are both hilarious and wonderful. I love that side of America, $2 steaks and all.

Cominatcha

Speaking of airports, we just booked tickets for a trip to Boston! papersource, polka_roo, and I will be in town the week after Labor Day, from Wednesday Sept. 6 to Sunday Sept. 10. Our socializing abilities may be curtailed a little bit by You Know Who but we hope to see a bunch of you and introduce you to our little friend.