Politically Correct Travel Humor

*This is Part II of How to Sometimes Piss Off A Reader By (in their mind) Unfairly Dissing Their State With Tongue-In-Cheek...from 2006*

I drove through New Mexico and it was just stunningly splendiferous! I have never seen anything quite like it, ever in my middle-aged life! Oh, the splendor! Oh, the grandeur! Oh, the endless miles of things that absolutely NO ONE ELSE HAS IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD! How could ANYONE say ANYWHERE was BETTER than NEW MEXICO?

In the previous blog entry, a reader took offense to my tongue-in-cheek anecdote of travelling across New Mexico, enroute to it's somewhat look-alike neighbor, Arizona. Among his other emotional observations was that my seeing eye dog must have been asleep, I'm full of sh**, and he even managed to throw a f**k in there (to borrow his colorful metaphors, which are not standard fare in this blog; unlike some individuals, I don't need to employ the simple four letter words to make a point).

Guess that person told me, eh? What he told me, he didn't intend to. I'll return to that momentarily.

But I must acknowledge that the person did have one point that was relevant and, for a critique, carried merit: I misspelled Albuquerque originally. That much has been corrected. Thanks for that correction.

If you've read much of this blog, I tend to make fun of things. Frequently, the target of my humor -- satire, parody or sarcasm -- is me. I do things that, in the light of having survived it, it's funny. And I have no problem poking fun at myself. Hard for anyone to be offended when it's me I'm having a laugh over.

As for places, I've made fun of Kansas: I've often suggested that Colorado start a border war with Kansas, and after we've soundly thumped them, make them take all of Colorado from Limon, east. 'Cuz it all looks the same. I've also poked fun at North Dakota; my very capable chiropractor is from North Dakota, and is a doll to boot. I let her read it; she laughed, and didn't bend me into a pretzel thereafter.

I've poked fun at the Left Coast (aka, Califorlornia); I've poked fun at Florida. I've poked fun at my own home state of Iowa (I've heard jokes about the place for years, and find some pretty inventive humor in some of them). Ah writs like ah dun think them thar rednecks writs, 'speshully when ah'm funnin' them thar Nigerian scamster fellers hyar.

Yep, I do that.

At the same time, I've travelled through 38 of our 50 states thus far: and no matter what the state, there is always something good I can write about it. Each state is unique; each state has history, geography and culture unique to it. That's a simple statement of fact.

At the same time, any number of persons of varied antecedence, erudication and ability with prose, can find something in the most splendiferous place, to poke fun at.

If I'm of a mind, such humor will be written at such a time and place as I wish to. It just so happened that in the previous case of New Mexico, I found the good thing was leaving it behind...*oh dang, I dun it agin*. Hate when that happens.

Since my reason for traversing New Mexico was for attending to a family loss, and not for seeking the scenery I'm sure is there in abundance, that didn't factor heavily in the previous blog entry. The fact that a map would lead me to such stuff, and I wasn't there for that, obviously went over the head of this emotional, in-need-of-Valium critic.

Now, what this complainer to my one-time view of New Mexico has decided is, in essence, I'm full of ca-ca. Tell ya what, fella: sometimes, I am. Deliberately. It's called humor. It might not fit your definition of the word; but perhaps you find humor in something that someone else objects to. From the tone of your pithy comments, I'd reckon so, even though I have to concede not knowing you, any more than your pathetic comments indicate that you know me.

Be that as it may, you can challenge my facts, where/if I've bothered to put up any outside of tongue-in-cheek; you can point out my typos and misspellings, which are pretty hard to deny once they're posted for all to see. You can even challenge what I consider humor, and deign it nothing of the sort. And you'll be right for your little universe. No doubt, you'll even have folks who agree with you.

Humor is subjective, and humor tastes run quite the gamut.

Folks are free to come and go here; those who enjoy what they read, I always welcome their comments when they choose to do so. Those who don't like what they read, are free to not visit again; no point for someone to come in here and constantly grouse about what I chose to write about and/or how. If they choose to comment, it's my choice to let their words stand, or take them down, if I feel they've crossed a line of decorum that I set on my blog, and I won't brook the crossing of. Constructive criticism is always welcome. Heck, I can even live with some emotional criticisms.

But when the critic insists on punctuating it with four-letter words that display an intellectual shallowness of the commenter, as well as dilutes his/her arguments and objections, that generally diminishes their complaint to the point of rating no worthwhile consideration from me.

But in this case, I went and gave him some consideration. In fact, I gave him a whole blog entry's worth of it. Frankly, more than his whiny, foul-mouthed diatribe deserved. I'll even leave up the comments he posted on the previous entry that so bunched his panties in a wad. That way, folks can decide what it is that they consider him, me, and/or both, to be full of.

* the unhappy party fired a couple parting salvos in comments that showed he didn't get it, picked up his marbles and left, and -- *yawn* -- took me off his overflowing blog roll. Boy, that sure hurt...considering I never knowd I was on it, and noticed not a whit of traffic difference, before or after.

Kansas Has Company

*This originally wasn't intended as a two-part post; it started as a one-time entry, from what started as a very unhappy life event in 2006; but thanks to one very disgruntled reader, it became a two-part entry, and amused at least a few...be sure to read the comments at the end, and Part II will make perfect sense*

The reason for the trip was anything but enjoyable. But the reason made the trip necessary: I had to drive from Denver, Colorado, to Phoenix, Arizona. Cost negated the flying option, leaving me only the choice of route.

SW across Colorado and into Utah, then straight south to Phoenix, or straight south from Denver to I-40, and then straight west into Arizona, traversing a fair portion of New Mexico. Those were the choices.

For expediency, the choice was dictated by interstate highway: I-25 to I-40 to I-17, destination Arizona, by way of New Mexico.

Having now made the drive and returned via the same route, I am armed with an opinion based on personal experience. And personal experience renders an opinion somewhat more viable from one what's been there. And that experienced opinion is thus: Kansas has competition for *yawn*.

Or put another way: driving across New Mexico is like wiping ones' bum with a cactus*. At least, the route I took, anyway.

Less than an hour into New Mexico, I was already bored with the flat, endless vista of not a helluva lot, punctuated by little else, interspersed with several mega herds of antelope. After passing perhaps the fifth such mega herd, I dared to mindlessly venture a set-up line to my equally-smart ass younger brother:

Me (in a mind-numbed state): I wonder what the antelope's main predator is here?
Lil' Bro: Kenworths...

*rimshot*

A hundred miles more -- and nothing else added to the scenery -- it was his turn to lazily stumble into a set-up line:

Lil' Bro: What do you think the New Mexico state slogan is?
Me: Roadrunner...the coyote's after you..

*rimshot*

Of course, there were a few breaks in the scenery vacuum that defined New Mexico south toward I-40 at Albuquerque. One such was Santa Fe, New Mexico. Which my brother slept through. Waking up 30 minutes later, this brief conversation:

Lil' Bro: Where are we?
Me: About 40 miles south of Santa Fe.
Lil' Bro: Missed it, eh?
Me: Yep.
Lil' Bro: Miss much?
Me: Dunno...I slept through it, too.
Lil' Bro (tilting his head back to resume his nap): Good. Then we both have something to look forward to on the return trip.

We approached Albuquerque with some trepidation, knowing that not only did we need I-40 west there, but from our distant (sorta) childhoods, we recalled the sh...crap that Bugs Bunny used to get into, everytime he missed that infamous "left turn at Albuquerque".

On the trip down, a turn left simply wasn't in the geographical cards, short of circling the town and approaching it from the south. Ideologically, it was even less in the cards, but I digress. Anyway, it worked out okay: no stuttering pigs or maniacal ducks were encountered as a result of turning right at Albuquerque.

Instead, once clear of it, we re-encountered that signature geography that so well defined this part of New Mexico: nuthin'. Save for some curious rock formations that straddled the interstate for a period of some miles: my rocket-scientist brother suspected that they were lava bed formations; my less-geologically-educated self suspected that they were large deposits of petrified dinosaur dung. While Lil' Bro was probably right, we spent a few miles considering the warped notion of some NMDOT engineer -- probably off at a donut shop giggling to him/herself -- over routing I-40 direct through a massive petrified Jurassic outhouse.

And, of course, there were the various and sundry Indian reservations we motored through. Each marked by a sign noting the entry to a particular tribal reservation, a sign noting the exit from a particular tribal reservation, and somewhere there betwixt -- in the middle of absolutely nuthin but petrified lava or dino dung, depending on ones' education level -- were ornate, even lavish, tribal casinos.

We figured that the only craps we needed to chance were the fauxpetrified ones we passed at 80 mph.

As we continued west, a discussion briefly landed on an issue that cuts across national politics and science fiction:

Me: do we pass anywhere near Roswell?
Lil' Bro: *scanning map*...nope. It's behind and well south of us.
Me: So much for alien encounters.
Lil' Bro: There's still Arizona.
Me: Not the same...these here have big heads and eyes, and those ahead have fake IDs.

Seven hours after crossing the Rue-it-con, we exited New Mexico for the distinctly similiar geography of NE Arizona. Relieved as we were, we both knew that, in roughly three or so days, we'd have to do it again. And neither of us fancied another seven hours of wiping our bums with cactus*. So we pondered the alternate route north to Utah, and east to Colorado.

But after three days in Mesa, AZ (a SE 'burb of Phoenix) -- where every restaurant we stopped in, WE were the youngest people present; and on every other block in the town sat a mortuary, as if we needed constant reminders as to why we were making this trip -- we were ready to face about anything other than another meal with false teeth in the mashed potatoes.

Even New Mexico.

And that was how it wound up: weather to the north and a rockslide along western I-70 in Colorado made it necessary to revisit that which we'd just yawned through. Dadgummed Roswellians: they were going to make sure we took that left turn at Albuquerque.

Which we did, without incident or interference from animated animals, aliens of any kind or local/state gendarme, strangely enough (since we passed through at 80 mph enroute, and returned through averaging 85+).

And even with the left turn at Albuquerque, nothing had changed. New Mexico remained exactly as it had probably been for eons: the equivalent of wiping ones' butt with a cactus*.

At least in Kansas, they don't have cactus.

At any rate, that's my fauxtravelogue for New Mexico. Great people, I'm sure. Wonderful place to avoid, I know (at least the route we took).

In a brief aside, I did leave out one aspect of the Mesa experience: the encounter we had with the hooker at the Travelodge we stayed at in Mesa. But that's for another time.

Mee-meep.

* of course, I was kidding about the wiping the bum with a cactus. But as readers will note, one reader took mighty offense at my poking fun at the state to our south...

Da Newoik Connection

*First published on this hyar blog August 2, 2006*

Proof, if any were really needed, that sometimes it does, indeed, get cold even there.

*Blogger's note: True story upcoming*

It was February, 1990. In my then corporate job as a wee cog in a vast corporate machine, I was sent to Richmond, IN, for a pre-labor dispute survey (ie., to prepare a plan for the facility to operate in the event of a labor dispute at contract time, later that summer). One can tell that I was a junior in the org, since I 'won' the honor of travelling to nowhere fit to travel to in February. But I digress.

I flew into Indianapolis, and drove the hour and a half or so it took to get to Richmond (on the IN-OH border along I-70). It was cold and blustery, but no biggie until the next day, when an ice storm beset the area.

It was early that morning, shortly after I skated to the plant, that I got a phone call from Corporate: I was needed to travel to Poughkeepsie, NY, to interview a client on a billing issue. ASAP. I would have to drive back to Indianapolis, fly into Newark, NJ, and drive up to Poughkeepsie. That day. Ugh.

So began what I least expected: a journey to Hell. Twice.

As it was about 9:45am, I had little room for error: my department's corporate secretary got me booked on an 12:30p flight out of Indianapolis to Newark. So I hit the road in my rental car, skating the miles back to Indianapolis along an ice-sheened and accident-laden I-70. Don't ask me how I remained apart from any of the collective nonsense in the ditches and medians.

I made Indy with time enough to check in and board the friggin' plane. Which, after de-icing, only took off about 30 minutes late.

Interestingly enough, the ice storm hadn't extended itself to the East Coast; but the rain, drizzle and fog had. Newark was marginally visible.

That could have been my worst luck of the day. Alas, it 'tweren't.

Got down, off-loaded, found my luggage and kept it in hand (one of my cohorts had warned me that Newark was, er..."not a nice place"), got my rental car, map, and was on my way north toward the very near border with NY, where I'd be skirting the western edges of the monstrosity of culture, business and population, NYC. Which, in the drizzle and fog, I couldn't see a lick of.

At the border, I inquired of the toll booth babe (I'm being overly generous hyar) as to if I was on the right road to "PoughkEEpsie" (my pronounciation). She brusquely corrected me -- "it's PoughKIPsie!" (her sharp prounciation) -- and abruptly followed it with a sharp "stay on this road an' follow the signs", along with a look of "move on, cretin".

The corrected cretin drove on.

Amazingly, I found PoughKIPsie, after crossing the Hudson River on a rather impressive bridge span. Even more amazingly, after a quick call to the business I needed to find, I found the business on the opposite bank of the river in a run down-looking industrial park. Interview conducted. Answers obtained. Results phoned back to corporate. Badda boom badda bing, a snap, y'knowadda mean?

It was now about 6pm, and I had but a short journey back down the turnpike to the Newark Airport, where I'd dump the rental cahr (the toll booth Gestapo fraulein's prounciation), get a hotel room for the night, and return to Indianapolis on the 'morrow.

*Snort*

I headed south, still in the drizzle, and in traffic that was much heavier than I'd reckoned with coming north. That was my first hint that something was amiss in the mist. The next hint I should have grasped: as I crossed the line back into NJ from NY, there wasn't any toll booth stop with a Gestapoesque grammar wench awaiting me. I should have grasped the significance of the difference, instead of merely muttering an insincere "thank ye" to no one in particular.

About 30 minutes later, I could see activity that indicated an airport: aircraft, low in the sky, dropping toward somewhere off to my left (east), without the tell-tale fireballs that would suggest they were falling instead of landing. So I began to look for a sign for the airport turnoff.

One that never materialized.

I knew there'd been signs leaving the airport; but I was danged if I could fathom there not being any to guide some western grammatically-challenged schlep back to the same airport. So after driving far enough to no longer see in-bound planes landing somewhere to my left, I exited and returned north, only to see the same thing: planes now landing somewhere off to my right, but not a sign to guide me how to get there.

There was a reason for this; it only took me two hours to figure it out.

So there I was, driving north, hearing an airport somewhere nearby off to my right (it was dark by now), with not a road marker telling me how to negotiate the seemingly short distance east to get to it. After driving far enough north to decide I'd missed something again, I went back south.
The only change: the airport and falling planes were now off to my left again.

Grrrrrrr.

I wanted to go back north and find that Gestapoette and scream "PoughKEEEEEEEEPSIE!" at her fifty times, but that was for another lifetime. Right now, the only thing that mattered to me (and my becoming disgruntled sphincter), was finding the friggin' airport.

So when I got about center to where the airport seemed to be off to the east in the still foggy mist, I exited, and headed east on a surface street. About 20 minutes later, I was pulled over by a police officer, who apparently recognized a lost soul when he saw one; particularly a lost white soul in a 'burb that was predominantly ethnic (Elizabeth, NJ). Unfortunately, my relief at being pulled over rapidly vaporized when he started to tell me how to get where I wanted to go, got another call, and in a hurry just pointed and said "go that way and turn right!".

Back where I'd come from. With some degree of reluctance, I did.

See previous north/south refrain.

Now I'm not frustrated anymore; I'm nails-bitten-in-half angry. So much so, I tell my sphincter to suck it up and just f***** deal with it. I go south once more, and take another exit, north of the previous one, to try again a probe to the east.

20 minutes later, fugettaboutit. No airport. But I can hear planes just to my north.

So I head back west. North. Next exit. East again.

THE AIRPORT!!!!!

It was later that I learned that I'd gone north on one interstate (turnpike), but come south on one more to the west of the other somehow. Hence, the lack of signage sayin' "Hey Youse..yahr, youse finoke in da rental cahr: dis way over heah".

I finally find the cahr rental place, and blow an enormo sigh of relief as my sphincter is allowed a bigger sigh of relief. Then I happily hop aboard a van to my hotel, a Holiday Inn near the airport.
As we approach it, I turn to the driver and ask in mock horror, "is this the Holiday Inn or Newark Correctional facility?": in the lights of the facility, I see that the first two floors of the building had bars on the windows.

She didn't seem to appreciate my sense of humor. Perhaps I should have given her the eyebrow wiggle afterward, but I began to suspect she mighta had "dat type of dem connections, 'ey...".

What she appreciated even less -- as I would gain another snippet in my rather lacking northeastern etiquette education -- was the fact that I didn't offer up a generous tip after I disembarked at the hotel front guard tow...er...entrance. In the words of Heart, "if looks could kill..."

Fortunately, I drew a room on da fourth floor with a view of nothing, though at least the windows weren't barred this high up. Guess the gangstas ain't got no ladders that high. Better still there was no apparent curfew or bed check.

Early the next morning, I was ready with tips (aka, bribe money) to get me to the airport, and aboard my flight back to Indy. The shuttle driver -- a bent nosed Soprano-lookin' sort widda penchance for grunting in lieu of forming woids -- seemed singularly unimpressed widda fin I left widdem. At least he delivered me to the ahrpoht, an' not da East Rivah, y'knowadda mean?

Needless to say, but say I will: after arriving back in Indianapolis, the drive back to cold, blustery Richmond was a joy. Really.