I Got Dem Ol' Isolation Blues Again, Mama

(Mom, for once, try to read past the fact that I mention you.)

For those who have never met me in person, I occasionally meow.

Just like a cat, yes. Sometimes I'll meow just quickly as a reaction to a minor, unexpected stimulus. Other times, I'll give a friendly *rowr!* to the family as a short way of saying "I'm awake, sort of; Hi!" Sometimes I'll hiss in moments of passing irritation. And, sometimes, I'll meow loudly and repeatedly from the other room as a reaction to a major, twenty-seven-year ongoing stimulus. A few minutes ago, before I started writing this thing, was one of these latter times. After a few vocalizations, my mother said from the other room, "Why are you behaving like a cat?"

I was in bed, for having nothing else to do and no place to go and just being depressed, and it took me a moment to think of an answer for that question. The one I came up with was this:

I guess I feel denied status as a member of the humans, so I'm trying something else.

I wasn't invited to my family's dinner out tonight. They went with their friend in the only car I could drive, not long after my mother had asked me "Why don't you go out tonight?". So I stayed here, fed the dogs, and went for a sleep as I marinated some more in the knowledge that I am completely goddamn fucking alone.

Cyberspace just ain't cuttin' it. I need people. Close friends. I have no siblings. My only direct cousin is a six-hour drive away in a car I don't own. No one's hiring me. Never had a really close friend growing up. Maybe three or four casual friends at best. The average 27-year-old seems to have a job, a spouse, their own place, and maybe even a kid or two. I've never even had a girlfriend. I did have a minor job twice and a fraction, but no more.

I haven't posted anything purely autobiographical in a while; I'm sure all my readers have missed that. Here's where we (my family and I) supposedly are now:

My folks are aiming to move to a retirement community in the greater Nashville metro. "The 615" was selected because it's where my cousin lives (albeit way on the other side of the metro from the retirement community). It would — will? — be my greatest pleasure to not live in Bumfuck, Illinois anymore and actually be within earshot of a major downtown. Here's the thing, though: it won't be until next spring at earliest — if it happens. For all I know, we may lose on the bidding on the lots, which happens this coming month. (Parts of the community have not yet been built.) Then there's my undecided aunt, who might move into the same house, get a separate house in the community, or possibly just stay in Chicago; this will affect finances. But, any way you slice it, barring actual help from my cybercommunity, I'm stuck right here in nowhere at least until probably April, with no place to go and no one to connect with when I get there.

Earlier this week, I did actually try stopping by my old university "sanctuary" across town — the disability "rehab" center, where I worked for two years until I could no longer actually work at the computer. It's a shame; the people there were, and by and large still are, friendly and great. But though we worked in the same room, we didn't really work together most of the time, and my will to work alone just tanked. Since I seem to lack a natural social life, I need a social job to balance myself. Anyway, there were and are good people there, to the point where there was frequently dessert available. This past Monday or Tuesday (I forget which) was no exception; a more recently hired employee whom I hadn't met yet had brought in cake. With fondant — but cake nonetheless. Further talks with everyone revealed the reason for the cake: That employee had just ....... gotten married.

Married. Another one removed from my partner-selection pool in a happy ceremony of which I wasn't a part. Everybody and their mother is either getting married or otherwise participating in a wedding. The pictures intersperse sponsored posts by Facebook, music "videos", and pictures of food from my "food group" in my 'Book feed. That food group is chock full of playful, loose-tongued females, and I'm willing to bet my lack of funds that, despite the suggestive banter, every last one of them is married. (Edit: Yay, one isn't!) (Although, really, what single person is driven to cook a full meal for no one?) But, their marital status is moot anyway, because, guess what? None of them live anywhere near me. One's near St. Louis. That's as close as they come. This applies to everybody. They're either buried in the deep South or on one of the coasts. Why the hell do I keep cyber-befriending people on the coasts? When I see people going on about how beautiful and perfect it is by the bay in California, I feel a dull rage, thrashing somewhat like a distant kettle drum roll, or possibly like how I imagine ocean waves sounding as they wash on the shore below in a place that has "ocean", "shore", "above" and "below". And I want so badly to punch Brian Williams every time he gets sentimental about some New York institution that "SO MANY of us" have enjoyed, from the Sandy-ravaged Boardwalk to today's retirement of the Yankees' long-time closer. Why the fuck does the Yankees closer get to be on the national evening news? If it were the Cubs, would they grant him so much as a brief mention? Fuck the Yankees and all these self-righteous New York humpers. Save that shit for your local broadcasts. The rest of us don't need to see or hear you masturbating.

But I'm rambling now. At least in language. Maybe someday I'll get to "ramble" in a more physical sense. While I was discussing my situation — guitar in tow — with the friendly staff at the rehab center, a couple different people suggested that, when I get to Nashville, I just pick a spot on the downtown streets — Broadway ought to accommodate nicely — and pick at my guitar. I can't do that here, but I can most certainly do it there. See who salutes and how strongly. I also mentioned the possibility of trying that "Go Fund Me" site I've seen going around; my State contact was on board with that idea. If anyone takes that seriously, I can have at least *some* sort of income in this awkward time where, in the unlikely event that I do get hired here in the flatlands, I couldn't stay for long before moving to greener pastures, so to speak. Greater Nashville does seem to be rapidly growing. I don't know if it can match up to the coasts in terms of potential friends I can fully connect with, but, with luck, I can find out for sure.....

Couple other thoughts on the subject since I posted this almost two days ago:

After a couple months in the Nashville metro, the family plan is to put me in an apartment. Don't you love that word, "apartment"? I'm apart enough already. What I need is a "togetherment". But that's not a thing in this country, is it? It's not even a thing in our language.

It's that independence motif again — the undercurrent in Western thought and culture that other people suck and that there's no point in pursuing, nay, being, a counterexample. The likely mass self-projected belief that everybody is out to "get" us, which we use to justify primitively selfish behavior: hoarding all the goods we can in our spaces, and never allowing anyone else into those spaces because they will undoubtedly rob us blind and possibly lifeless, because that's what we apparently would do. So the shut-outs get more deprived and desperate, violent incidents spiral through the ionosphere, and nothing is gained but loss. Even now, in my tiny corner of the flatlands from which I type, I'm hearing more sirens from beyond the window than I've ever done.

And apparently I — we? — should just sit back, accept, and be one with, the vile chaos.

There was something else I wanted to say here, but it escapes me just now.

Love.

"A lot of people would be thinking, 27, what have you got to complain about."

So commented a friend on the Silliest Ffourth entry, two down.

The sheer stagnation.

My own life seems to be going at a pace slowed to half the norm. My body is 27; that would put every other aspect of me to roughly 13½. I'm living in a small house with yappy dogs and parents that loudly and gracelessly snore, burp and obstruct. I have no job, and I have never had even a temporary romantic partner. All around me, everybody's getting married and having kids. Even this past day, the world, or at least the media, has gone gaga for royal goo-goo. (Why does America care? Hell, why does Britain care? Useless figureheads. Leave them alone! Man, this new baby's life is gonna be hell.) The rate I'm going, my body will be 35 by the time I get to be with somebody.

Everybody's getting married. One of my favorite old co-workers with whom I'm cyberfriends came up in my feed this past Friday as having her wedding; I'd known she was engaged, but I hadn't known the wedding date. Me, I managed to find a wedding that I could attend on Saturday, namely, that of my mother's best friend's daughter, whom I hadn't seen in rather a number of years. It was a small town wedding, just up 150 a bit, in a small church — low-key and fairly pleasant. Reception in the next town's American Legion post; food unremarkable but got the job done (I love me some pasta salad); cake curiously sweet and far too plain — no filling at all; music by and large horrendous. Also, I only got to talk to the bride and groom once. But other than the song that busted out with "LET ME SEE YOUR TITS", an overall decent and happy time. That feeling lasted through most of Monday.

So, back to jobless, isolated, lonely reality, wherein my new improved health insurance bill has arrived. I want to leave online social media for a while, but I have no place else to go. Dating sites require payment. I gaze helplessly at pictures of people with cats and food. I "Like" some of those pictures. One friend just found somebody. I dig that friend very much, and I hope it works for them. Somebody talks about all the frogs around. My mind produces a 404 page; I have never seen a frog in my life. Somebody else invites me to an "Event" at least a hundred fifty miles away from me. On Twitter, I follow Neko Case for some reason. She's single — yay — but all the posts about traveling do their best to persuade me to unfollow her. She and plenty of others speak of New York. Fuck. I put on something by the Diogenes Club and space out a bit. I play some obsessive rounds of Boggle against the computer; I win more often than I lose or tie. I destroy "bubbles" by matching three or more of the same color. I sign selected political petitions that have been e-mailed to me, never with my own name, address, or number. I play Freecell, in which I now have 940 wins and zero losses. I check in on this ... and its thread. It's gotten exciting. The music I'm playing is so dreamy as it's winding down. And then, from beyond the door to the room I'm in, the sound of another door opening. Skittering dog paws on the hard floor. Door closing. Human footsteps. Loud, repulsive burp. More doors. Fart. Piss. Decibels. Reality.

Or some semblance thereof.

Each of us woke up one moment, and here we were in the darkness.

(This title a line spoken by the ballerina in The Twilight Zone's "Five Characters in Search of an Exit"; click to watch via IMDb/Hulu.)

I'm in a rather bizarre place. It's loaded with trees, and the ground is doing this crazy up-and-down business. I think I've heard that referred to as...hills? A while back, there was a stretch of civilization or something like it. I think it was called "Oceana". It had these gas stations I've never seen before: "Chevron" and "Sunoco". Since then, I've seen occasional dwellings amid the trees and neighboring creek over which there have been little, rickety, wooden bridges through which I'd think a car would bust but perhaps not. A "Logan County" sign was legible not too long ago. I've momentarily pulled into a driveway off this road which has only been labeled with an eerie "10" in a box — to write this "journal". So, what I know is this: I'm on State Highway 10 in Logan County, somewhere in the United States. And I figure I'm in the United States because every other country that has Street View has nice, clear, high-definition, where I can actually read signs (unless they're auto-blurred) and occasional license plates (that should have been auto-blurred). We only have some of that.

This is just one of my "hobbies" that I've taken up in my nights and often days with the computer in the corn and soybeans. I put on some good music, zoom the Google Map all the way out, move it around a bit, switch to label-less satellite view, center it roughly around the eastern States — eyeballed, y'know; sometimes I miss. I haven't tried this in other countries yet, although this low-resolution imagery in this country is rather persuasive in that direction. Anyway — I click on the zoom scale to go directly all the way in, drag around until I find a road with Street View, drape a thing over the upper left of the monitor so I can't see the informative pop-up that Street View provides, and proceed to "drive" until, through recognition of highway signs and other clues, I've sufficiently figured out where I am.

I've gotten to know some of the States: Indiana and my state of Illinois have square-shaped state highway logos with their names in them. Kentucky puts their state highway numbers in circles. Tennessee mixes squares for the thruways and triangles for the more "roots" roads. Ohio has Ohio-shapes, Arkansas has Arkansas-shapes, and Missouri has Missouri-shapes (with lesser "letter" highways in squares). But I've yet to pick out this state, which is crazy hilly and wooded and only uses plain squares with plain numbers. And I've yet to hit a US highway or interstate, which would help me gauge how far north/south/east/west I am. I'm tempted to say I'm in Appalachia, but I really don't know.

By the way, a quick tip for American travelers, be they in real life or, like me, on Street View: For interstates, lower numbers within two digits are generally farther west (for odd-numbered roads, which primarily go north/south) and south (for even-numbered roads, which primarily go east/west). For the old US highways, it's the opposite: lower numbers are north and east compared to higher numbers. Triple-digit interstates are specific to one metro or otherwise not so long. And state routes seem to be total chaos. As can be the occasional diagonal US highway. (Where is 52 going?) So, New England gets US highways 1 and 2 and interstates 95 and I-don't-know-what-even-number, while Cali gets US's 101 and who-knows and I's-5 and 10. Florida gets I-4, and the rest of us get numbers in the middle somewhere. Me, I'm physically at the intersection of US 45 and 150, and I 74, 72 and 57. And virtually, I'm in a delightfully bizarre place (except, too many churches). And I'm fixin' to see more.

Spring in Suburbia

Kids screaming in the street. The constant roar of lawn mowers, one asynchronous homeowner after the other. Dogs barking endlessly at all the mowing. Father barking endlessly at the dogs, trying to tell them to shut up, while the non-English-speaking dogs probably think he's joining in the chorus with them. And me, lying in bed, feeling my brain rattling against every bit of my skull's interior in a quest for a way out. Soon, I'll be coerced into contributing to that noise pollution with the family's own mower. And my mother will come home and add her disharmonic vocal to the mix. But for now, my father takes a moment to lull me back to sleep with his lecture about why I should get up and mow the lawn.

Lawn mowing is a microcosm of suburban life as a whole. Its only fruit, apart from the snot that the newly scattered pollen will elicit from our sinuses, is that the lawn looks nice in the eyes of horrid, imagination-less suburbanites. For maybe a week until the grass has grown back. And then it has to be done again. To please the horrid, imagination-less suburbanites. Theoretically.

Pure bright, even-height green. The whole premises, wherever there isn't a house, tree, mailbox, or bit of concrete. No fruits. No vegetables. No flowers. No organisms that resemble flowers but are apparently weeds. And if it's not the day of the week when the garbage collectors come by, get that bloody trash can outta here. (But if it is that day of the week, consequences will be dire if the can isn't out.) If it isn't an indistinct, crew-cut blade that lives only for itself and eventually dies in vain, it's not allowed. Sound familiar?

So, as I've said many times before, I don't belong here. And I remain in talks to hopefully belong somewhere new. But while I'm jobless, I am being given looping domestic things to do. Pointless yardwork. Moving trash forth and back every week. Cleaning up and fixing my demented father's "projects" and digital screw-ups. Assisting my demented father with getting to his outside errands and participating in the grocery shopping. And I get food, shelter and internet at no further cost than the $275 bi-monthly health insurance payment. So there's that. Plus this. At least for a little while longer.

Monday, April 8, 2013

Some things that appeared on my "news feed" on Facebook this past day:

• Two celebrity deaths: One a polarizing political figure from the UK, the other a popular entertainer from before my time. I feel no personal connection to either. There seemed genuine sadness for the Disney representative; reaction to the former prime minister was rather more interesting. One person produced a picture of Mags and the Gipper and proclaimed that "these two are responsible for the world being as it is today" (paraphrased). Looking at this world, that would seem to be more of a dyslogy than a eulogy. (Does English have a proper word that can go where I made that one up? "On-grave dance"?) One person simply delivered the news gleefully and sing-song-ily. And at least one other person had a shared status scorning the celebration of certain deaths. Speaking of which:

• An article link proclaiming that the Westboro Baptist Church will picket the funeral of Roger Ebert. I don't know if my international audience gets to hear much about the Westboro Baptist Church, so lest you don't, the Kansas-based hate group is known for outright stirring up anger by showing up at various funerals (e.g. those of soldiers) and other events and spewing anti-gay and other vile sentiments. What they could possibly have against the central Illinois native film critic, frankly, I don't want to know. I didn't read the article.

• Monsanto with its chemicals and genetically modified food will destroy us all, and we are powerless to prevent it or circumvent it by, say, growing our own food and banding together.

• Exxon turned an Arkansas neighborhood into an oil lake and doesn't want anyone to know.

• Palestine, or Hamas, or somebody, is still firing rockets into Israel.

• People ought to be who they are and not let anyone drag them down.

• "Remove the North Korean supreme leader!"

• Of the two people that mentioned their marital engagements this past day, one has learned that their aunt has terminal cancer and is estimated to have about two months left.

• The usual assortment of memes, Doctor Who references that have ever gradually come into focus for this writer who has never seen a single episode, an overwhelming number of YouTube song "videos", and words of presumed wisdom imposed over pictures of natural beauty which I'll probably never see in person.

• And, last but not least, my cousin's announcement that the child within her will be "evicted" (her word choice) midnight on Thursday if he makes no effort to emerge on his own before then.

This last just seemed somehow poetic to me. In fact, I do faintly recall a poem, somewhere in my childhood, expressing the sentiment of an unborn child who doesn't want to leave the warm, safe womb. Silverstein, maybe? I'll have to dig out those books when I have a moment.

There's a theory that the world was always this mad and that it's just more apparent and magnified in the digital age. There's also a theory that the digital age is accelerating the madness. (Though they didn't show up so much this past day, women's rights, LGBT rights, and all kinds of "occupy"-style sentiments are also ongoing conflicts and staples of my news feed. Oh, and can't forget climate change, threatening to flood the planet and bust its orbit.) I know I've mentioned drawbacks of the digital age before: we're antisocial, and we're angry and judgemental. Catharses are intensifying, and it's getting uglier out there all the time. At least we can count on the Cubs rendering themselves unrecognizable and losing.

And so I'm thinking about that "cousin once removed" who evidently doesn't want to be removed. I'm hoping he will be able to know and keep peace of mind. He does have one thing going for him: an awesome pair of parents (with awesome taste in housepets)!

****

Meanwhile, I'm pretty much wasting away in the flatlands. Later this morning, I'm going to another probably fruitless meeting in the state employment office. Then, after that, I'm going to a friend's house to watch cartoons. I might also check out a local "singer-songwriter collective" in the evening.

I got a debit card recently. This has me thinking now about setting up a Paypal and including a "donations" button on here. Maybe somebody would use it. Or, I can try selling an "album" on Bandcamp. Though I'd like to record (and finish writing) a few more things before I attempt that. (Covers don't fly on Bandcamp.)

And I may have an opportunity to record soon. I won't be going to meet my cousin-once-removed, but my mother will. I'll have about a week's reprieve from being in the bathroom when my mother gets home and, when I get out to greet her, the first thing she disdainfully intones is "Gee, do you do anything else besides sit in the bathroom?!" And if I can get Dad out of the house for a while, I have only the dogs waiting to bark to contend with. With all the carpet now gone in favor of hardwood, the house acoustics are rather too good.

How 'bout it? Is it worth the bother? Anyone willing to support me?

Now What, Again

This isn't how it was supposed to go.

I came here with the intent to job-hunt after my brief stint as extra help for Valentine's Day for an inconspicuous chain business near Vanderbilt. After basically wrecking my fingers and back at that four-day job with one day carrying nineteen hours, I was able to squeeze in maybe three days of hunting between healing from that and contracting a horrendous head virus or two. I've heard from nobody to whom I've applied. I just made official my flight booking back to Ill-ennui three mornings from now. I'm heading back to the same old rut from which I came, and I have a head full of snot to show for it (though not quite as full as it was, thankfully). I haven't gotten to play any shows or see any of my friends here beyond my cousin's baby shower, the day before the Valentine's week stint. If nothing else, I've gotten to stay with my cousin, her husband, and two wonderful feline friends. And I've caught a taunting glimpse of what the real world is like.

I don't want to go to the flatlands. I left them for a reason. Nevertheless, my father's birthday is in just under a couple weeks, and I'm wanted there for that. Plus, my cousin and her husband here need time without me, with a baby on the way, people coming from all over to see the baby, and all kinds of things. This is a small house, and I'm not much good with babies. So, once again....I'm back in the puddle.

...if you can have a puddle in a land without valleys.

How long will I have to stay there? How much time does my cousin need? Is there any place that I can go? There must be someone 'round here who knows....

Bulging Wanderlust Blues

Somewhere earlier this past week, I met with a guy from the state who invited me to a job-counseling appointment. I gave him many different aspects of my personality and perspective. Pretty much anything I said, he remained with the same recommendation of employer: Meijer. Lest anyone lives where Meijer is as-yet unestablished, it's a supermarket chain based out of Grand Rapids. When I mentioned the idea to my mother later, she expressed a thought more or less the same as mine: I don't belong in a supermarket. I should have something more professional and appropriate for a bachelor of the arts. ("Meijer props dead people up behind the counter", she said.)

I've pretty much reached the conclusion that, if there's a future for me beyond sitting alone and jobless in front of this monitor, it isn't here. Geographically, I mean. These flatlands have nothing to offer me. There's nothing in jobs, and there's nobody that I really connect with on a spiritual level. I need to be in a completely new place. Or Chicago. The city I call "home" likely has good stuff.

I went out on "the town" tonight. I ate alone, and I sipped my cherry soda alone. (Side note: I've remarked in the past that I enjoy ordering a "cherry soda" and hearing the waitperson repeat it translated. This one rather stuttered through a couple varieties before finally asking "cherry Pepsi?".) Everybody in the uptempo downtown bar & grill was indistinct (but not uneasy on the eyes...) and gathered in impenetrable groups. I had neither invitation nor particular desire to mingle with anybody. I wandered through a few other downtown bars — the ones that had no cover charge — plentiful of people but not so much of openness or curiosity.

Eventually, I did find one old friend in one particular chair in one particular bar where he seems to take part-time residence. The old hippie who once taught my high school's CISCO networking class greeted me warmly and took me aside from his group for just a few minutes as we conversed. I explained my feelings of post-grad bitterness. He mentioned his imminent retirement after this final year of teaching, as well as the fact that he'd just come back from the Windy City where he saw Bob Dylan for the forty-seventh time. I laughed and applauded upon hearing that latter; my good man is still rocking as hard as ever. Anyway, he doesn't know where he'll go after his retirement, either. For either of our situations, "it'll be all right", he assured. About the last thing he said was, "My advice is, don't look back."

I stopped briefly in a couple other places before coming back to the house. I stopped there for the simple reason that they had people with guitars playing. They were certainly competent within reason, and they had tip jars. Given my current circumstances, I didn't tip anyone. But I did think about the possibilities of moving to a new city with new people — or at least old cyber-acquaintances that could be new real-life friends.

So, once again, I'm calling out to the great wide world of cybercitizens: Who doesn't live in the middle of the flatlands and is willing to have an angelic 26.5-year-old stay with them a while? If nothing else, I can grab musical gigs with my guitar while I seek something more, um, reliable. Hopefully, some people out there can make a serious offer. Preferably people without dogs, but I won't haggle too much.

Musing City

I got back from four days and change in Nashville yesterday. Already I feel a need to get back to Tennessee, Jed. The change in scenery — more accurately, the momentary introduction of scenery — was exactly what I likely still need. Lately, I've felt particularly stifled out here in the flatlands. It seems that there's nothing out here, least of all truly friendly people willing to lend a hand, or even an eye or ear. This sanitized plastic land is not the place for me. Maybe the whole country is sanitized plastic by now; me, I'm willing to give the benefit of a doubt to places I haven't fully gotten to know yet.

So I was in greater Nashville for a handful of days. I can tell you this much: whether it actually has it or not, Nashville at least has the aura...of "life". I don't quite know how to explain it; there's just a feeling that things actually happen there. It's a feeling that permeates the rolling hills and the winding roads that must conform to them — roads on which one can easily get lost without a GPS, because there's no workable grid. But getting lost there isn't too bad, because it's very beautiful in the rolling greenery, or green-red-and-orange-ery here in the autumn. At least it is during the daytime; those close, fast-paced winding country roads tend to not be at all lit at night. I say all this, by the way, as someone who is apparently really amazingly good at directions. Pretty much anyone I talk to tells me how horrible they are at directions and navigation. But give me a couple minutes with Google Maps before I hit the road, and I sail smoothly. At least I usually do; I had rather a hard time one night in England in 2006. So maybe I'm skewed by my life in flat, gridded Illinois. But I've done well so far in the Nash. Anyway...

I didn't get to manage but a couple interactions with "locals"; I would love to have interacted more. As it is, I stayed alongside my family, except for one night at a bar, finally meeting someone I had known in cyberspace for a while. (Also, the previous night when I tried meeting them and failed, but never mind.) As a northerner in the South, it was wonderfully trippy for me. And from a comment made by the fellow who came to join my friend and me, the feeling was mutual.

I would most certainly benefit from getting out (of town/state) and interacting more often. If only I could find a way to be able from within this cornstalk-barred prison....

****

Here are some things other than scenery and natural beauty that I've seen in Tennessee but not in Illinois that I can recall:

• SPEED LIMIT 70

• MapCo

• Belk

• Stoplights after midnight implementing a two-way stop by having one of the two intersecting streets seeing yellow flashing lights while the other street sees the usual red flashers. I guess that's how that works, based on about two other vehicles that were out at the time that I saw.

• Exxon, though we do have their other half, the most boringly-named Mobil. No "Tigermarket"s here.

• Kroger, except down in the south of the state where I never went until last year. Actually, Bloomington-Normal might have it. I never go there, so I don't know.

• Someone else's outdoor cat coming to visit us and ours, although ours is not particularly a fan

• Shoney's (I'm pretty sure)

• Publix

• Cartoon-esque holes in the ground and a tree or two in the yard. Where are the "critters" that would make such holes where I live? What do they look like?

• An OVERSIZE LOAD passing another OVERSIZE LOAD on the interstate. I'm sure that's not exclusive to other places, just something I don't see every day. Actually, this might have been in Kentucky on the way back.

• Piggly Wiggly. I'd heard that these existed, but I never saw one until this past Monday.

• Quite so many two-or-more-word street names. Seems Tennessee likes to make it absolutely known who their roads are named for. I think the town I live in has exactly one street that bears a person's full name, and it likely helps that that one person is named "Ed". If we named a street for General George Patton, as has been done in a couple places in the greater Nashville metro, it would likely just be "Patton Avenue".

And that reminds me of another thing: Pikes. No Illinois roadway seems to be described as a "pike". We got most every other variety of thing to drive on: street, avenue, boulevard, drive, road, parkway, court (if it's a dead-end or only a block long). Occasionally we might chance upon a "trail", or "place", or something. But no pikes here. Weird.

• Jack in the Box. Another chain that's supposed to be nationally renowned, but if we have any here, I don't know where they are. I don't even know what kind of food they serve, exactly. Typical greasy fast food?

Actually, there are a couple chains like that, or used to be. Chick-Fil-A was totally unheard of here until maybe three or four years ago when one came in to replace the McDonald's in the Illini Union food court. News is that they've opened a few places in Chicagoland since. Also, Chicago has had a White Castle or three — the one at Clark & Ridge comes to mind — but never down here.

• A sign at the end of a dead-end street saying "Temporary Dead End", with another one right behind it saying "Permanent Dead End". The site of a legal battle, my family surmised.

• Someone removing their clothes right there in the bar. It wasn't my friend, and I don't think "Trish" will be, but it was good for a laugh. "Why is your bra in your hand?" "Because I took it off."

• A kitten climbing a tree. Before I went down, my cousin had actually snapped a picture of "Ellie" having gotten on the roof. I didn't get to see that in person, but that can be all right.

• Someone using their fireplace. Matter of fact, the house I live in doesn't even have a fireplace.

• The kitten using the ash-filled fireplace for very much her own purposes.

• And, last but not least, I feel a need to point out that I live north of this. But I'm told I ain't missin' much there.

Ecch.....

I have a politician throat today......



(I'm sure you can guess the punchline.)