Good mornin’ Y’all!
I’m writing to you from the ‘MercInn breakfast lobby in Bemidji, Minnesota.
We made it here, finally, after many detours through Bum-Fuck, Egypt.
We had a lovely picnic near the old train depot in Wadena,
found shit-loads of cool old barns,
found Poop Alley, on a dirt road, just down the ‘street’ from a couple of Amish farmers,
and drove through a dying little town, Sebeka, right after Jimmy Buffett finished singing about one he had driven through: Ringlin’ Ringlin’.
We found Paul and his Ox, after driving right past it on the way to the motel. Apparently, old Babe lost his balls somewhere around Sebeka, because he isn’t anatomically correct, or politically, since he’s just across the street from a huge statue of an ‘Indian’ doing the traditional ‘How Kemosabe’ pose outside of a Mexican restaurant, in the middle of fuckin’ Minnesota.
We also had some adequate wings at a place called Hurricane Grill and Wings–and chain. I’m not a big fan of chains, and this one was definitely chain-y, not Cheney, the doucebag, former Vice-prez.
The Habenera-Lime wings were very light on both the habenera and the lime, though they were crispy, and decent. The main reason we chose the place had nothing to do with the promise of great food, as much as the view of Lake Bemidji across the road, and a continued glimpse of Paul Bunyun and Ball-less Babe.
It was also a beautiful evening in the low 70s.
After that, we retired to the motel, hit the pool and the hot tub, then did the most decadent and sexy thing that you CAN do in a motel: watched two episodes of Tiny House Hunters. Yeah, we’re fuckin’ old, I reckon. And we don’t own a television at home. It’s almost like the days when we were children, in the 70s, when you looked forward to seeing naked people in a movie, on a COLOR TV with HBO, in some seedy motel along the backroads of ‘Merica, because our parents were trying to save a few dollars and didn’t want to spring for the luxury of Holiday Inn next to the Interstate. Except of course, the people on Tiny House Hunters don’t do it in the fuckin’ nude: the hunting, that is.
And now I’m up writing this riveting article at 6am, which is seriously sleeping in for me, as most of you know.
See y’all tomorrow!
This was Day 41 or something….