I'm home, finally. I got my truck back yesterday and drove sixteen straight hours to karaoke, where they made me sing. Ugh. As much as I like karaoke, and as much as I really respect these two guys' ability to sing Linkin Park (they're almost as good as the Stevie Nicks guy, but in a totally different way), but a man can't drive a thousand miles and be expected to sing as Eric Cartman at the drop of a hat. ... Okay, I can do it, but I don't necessarily like it. It's like work.
Speaking of which, I have to be at work in seven hours, after two weeks of being away. They only broke one piece of my machine so far, at least as far as I can surmise. Actually better than what I was expecting, and my new boss appears to be doing her job, which makes it so that I don't have to do it anymore, which frees up a bit of time during my week for me to not stress out over things I don't get paid to stress out over.
Yes, I just ended that sentence with a preposition; kiss my ass, Freshman English. One thing they never taught you in proper English classes is that style trumps substance any day of the week that doesn't involve being graded on grammatical propriety.
I saw God again this morning. No, seriously, that's twice in a week. Okay, the first time was with the risotto, and that was touching the face of God (see one of the prior posts), but I actually saw God today. And not in some bearded "Jesus, but like seventy years older and extremely fit" sort of Star Trek VI kind of God. No, I saw God. Not like it'd get me to subscribe to some sort of organized religion or anything like that, and I spent a goodly amount of my time rationalizing what I saw, but if you ever get the chance to take I-470 about two or three miles north of the airport exit outside of Denver at about seven in the morning (yes, this is asking a great deal of most of you), you, too, will see proof of The Almighty.
Take this with a grain of salt, of course, as I initially managed to equate connecting with God to a rice dish.
I'd have taken a picture, but 1) it wouldn't have done it justice through my already dead-moth-soiled windshield; 2) cameras just aren't that good; and 3) it's one of those "Now I Can Die" moments that you get precious few times in your life, which generally happen after really good sex or after you see something you think you might never see again. This was, unfortunately, the latter.
Yeah, so that post about the High Renaissance and the length of a mile, I'm not sure what crack I was smoking that day, but it was probably really good, and I've every intention of finding some way to get employed by the National Lampoon of tour guides. I'd even settle for doing the almanac (or "almanack," as they were in the years before the Great Letter Economization Act, which coincidentally dropped the letter U from words like "color" and "flavor;" this is clearly an American act, as the Canadians have not yet adopted such legislation for themselves).
But, anyway, I think I'd really like to take road trips, get paid for it (this part is very important), and write blatant falsehoods about the things I pass and the places I go through. I think it would be a great deal of fun. ... This is the part where the literary companies are supposed to cough up the dough to get me out of working another season in retail.
See, what set me on this notion is the fact that Route 34 (Interstate 34, Ogden Avenue, whatever the hell you want to call it) ends in Greeley, Colorado. First, I had no idea that it ended so close to Denver, and I probably would have gone to see it and taken pictures, if not for the fact that some broad decided to run into me and Triple-A decided to recommend having my car brought to an auto shop that was run by the mechanic version of Sling Blade. "I reckon we're gonna have to do yer alignment for three days, mm-hm..."
But I digress. I want to see America. You can't see America from I-80. Interstate 34, Interstate 30, Interstate 6, even... Those are America. For the illiterate in the audience who have gotten this far, I assure you that there will be no pictures of Alicia Silverstone naked in her ad for being a vegetarian (read: Google bait), so just move on now. Anyway, there are places in America that you can't see from the main roads. Sometimes you can, and I regret not getting to stop in at the zoo in Omaha, or the geographic center of the United States outside of Lebanon, Kansas, but the best you get while doing eighty miles per hour on Interstate 80 is driving underneath some arch in Kearney, Nebraska, which apparently went over with tourists about as well as the aforementioned geographic center of the United States.
So, yes. If anyone reading this would like to front me the several thousand dollars (make the check payable to "Cash," please) to take a nice road trip and write all manner of slanderous falsehoods about the places I pass through, feel free to leave a comment. I also take money from special-interest groups, such as state boards of tourism, that might like for me to mock other states, so as to prop up interest in whichever state pays me to remain silent. Note to the State of Illinois: There is no amount of money that will prevent me from pointing out the fact that Gibson City constantly reeks of twice-baked soy.
Regardless, I had a very good time in Denver, despite the absurd amount of time I spent there, and I think everyone should go sometime, if at least to personally count the number of obvious prostitutes on the streets of Federal and Colfax (the correct answer is thirty-one, but feel free to audit this fact yourself). I'd tell you all about it, but –again– I have to work in the morning. As such, given the day I've had, I may very well go to sleep after work and consequently miss the weekly Trivial Pursuit game that I do look forward to on a weekly basis (though if I do miss this week's game, the correct answer you are looking for is either 'Saskatchewan' or 'Cal Ripken, Jr.'), and for that I apologize, but I need rest.
Word of the Day: Vegabond. n., A vagrant, often confused at first glance with the run-of-the-mill hobo, who rides the rails from town to town, only leaving the trains to partake of shrubs and/or berries. The vegabond can be discriminated from the run-of-the-mill hobo by his disdain for clothing not made entirely from hemp and his general resistance to that great scourge of nomads and wanderers, which most of us better know as scurvy.