 With
a wave to our friends at the Methadone
clinic, Erik and I sped eastward to Buffalo.
Speed, like time, is relative. In New
Mexico the speed limit is 75 and state troopers are never seen, so
speeding eastward means 80 or 85. In Pennsylvania, the speed limit
is 65 and state troopers hide under every overpass. Therefore, speeding
in Pennsylvania is 67. New York is so concerned terrorists will use I-90
to enter the state, troopers count two per quarter mile. Speeding
in New York is 64.
We stop at a restaurant an hour out of Cleveland. Kay's Place
is popular with locals from pimply teenagers to a table of Mennonite farmers.
Our waitress is both well past retirement age and a crystal meth addict.
She dashes madly between the kitchen and the  dining
room, pausing only to babble incoherently while demanding patrons make
their orders as quickly as possible. When she forgets Erik's diet
soda, he screams "What about MY soda!" She titters nervously, perhaps
worried the boss might notice her gyrating eyeballs, and returns with the
beverage.
(Erik claims a different version of this story. He stole my last
cocktail from the mini bar last night, so he gets no further word on the
subject.)
The humidity Buffalo is 357% and the dew point is 212 degrees when we
arrive. Walking from the car to the lobby is sufficient to make my
underwear chafe. I resolve that any sightseeing in Buffalo will only
be conducted from a moving vehicle.
 Buffalo,
like so many rust belt towns, is rusting. The city features astounding
buildings constructed in an industrial age that has since moved abroad
leaving a wide swatch of unemployment behind. Perhaps the humidity
is to blame, but everyone in the city looks haggard.
Our hotel is hosting the American Contract Bridge League Tournament.
I cannot explain what a Contract Bridge Tournament is. I can, however,
say it requires large numbers of retirees to sit at tables and look extremely
bored. I lean into a ballroom and snap a picture. A snooty
woman walks up to me and says in a Michigan accent: "I certainly
hope you know someone in that picture!"
"Not at all," I reply.
"Well then, I suppose you'll be running right out to publish it!"
she retorts.
 You
might be surprised the number of tabloid news outlets willing to pay for
a photo of the American Contract Bridge League Tournament.
After watching Fahrenheit 9/11 (which reinforces nicely that our current
President would best be housed in the ancient Tower of London), we look
for dinner. The restaurant next door to the theater looks promising
until we notice FOX news is playing on the television above the bar.
The waiter hands us menus that reek of urinal cakes. We exit quickly
and dine at a chain restaurant further down the street.
Tomorrow
we visit Niagara Falls. I have nearly completed my barrel.
I'm looking forward to the way the sun glints on the metallic purple and
glitter exterior as I plunge over the falls tomorrow. No worries
about survival; I've padded the inside with towels stolen from hotels across
America.
Kay's Place
|
Erik at Kay's Place
|
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Buffalo, New York
|
Birthplace of the Grain Elevator
|
USS Little Rock
|
American Contract Bridge League Tournament
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|
;)
;)
;)
;)
;)
;)
;)
