THE MUSIC IN MY HEART Chapter 6

WHEN THE AIR HITS YOUR BRAIN*

Monday 14 January 2008

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To while away the time, the early earnest discussions about life, love, and other such things give way to music ( we stopped and bought a battery-powered speaker for the all-mighty iPod, whose music led us down the road) and bouts of creative thinking. Tobes is ahead of the game, and bubbling with ideas. 

One is a spinoff of ARSOLE, the Architectural Solipsistic Exam aid that my brother did at Sheffield with his mates to help do exams. This was a matrix of prefix, subject, verb clause, and suffix used to construct impressive sounding sentences about the erudite subject of architectural theory. Just by picking 4 numbers and then constructing a sentence using these four components, you can come up with some amazing (though perhaps meaningless) sentences. Not unlike most wine critics.

We figured: Can't beat 'em? Join 'em. 

Our first effort is a Sommelier's Guide, a quick ticket to the oenological hall of fame without know anything about wine. (see below). 

This exercise required great care, as we each pondered and pondered before offering up hotly debated components. 

It takes us most of the day, but makes for some great chuckles and perhaps a future job for Robert Parker's Wine Guide.

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ANTIQUE MUSEUM

We detour briefly to go to an immense (3 acre) indoor Antique Museum in Springfield, Ohio that has rows upon endless rows of glass cases filled with odds and ends, figurines, knick knacks, old basketball schedules

, products(root beer, medicine) from a bygone era....the detritus of years and years of midwest life. 

We snap lots and lots of photos, Toby mostly of sambo art, me of a variety of life in miniature: barbie dolls, a toy car, bottles, some glass pandas. 

The scale of the place is astounding. 

There is also a lot of furniture, none of nearly as interesting as the discarded remnants of someone's toy chest. 

We eat lunch at a forgettable BBQ place. If ever a place deserved to go out of business, this one did. 

Oh well. Collard greens cooked into oblivion with soggy bacon, soggy bread , and pulled pork way by its sell-by date. 

Do you think you could toast this roll please? 

No? F**** you. Goodbye.

We move across Ohiana (two states with similar topography which leave no, and I mean No impression on either the conscious or subconscious. 

The perfect embodiment of the phrase Just Passing Through. 

 We bunk up in Effingham, Illinois at a Hilton that has a gym. I would love to see what English football fans could do with the name of this town, EFFING being the surrogate for F*******, as in Effing Useless. 

 Toby finds a good place to eat on the internet (The Firefly Inn) where we have (to date) the only memorable meal. 

I choose a porterhouse pork chop with butternut squash and a fresh spring mix salad. 

The waiter, who looks like a slimmed down Bill Murray, grimaces when I ask for "just a green salad" and says quizzically "Iceberg?" I give him a return grimace and the classic Japanese NO response, arms crossed in an X across the chest. Dame. 

He looks relieved. "You'd be better off chewing wood." 

He also asks how I would like my pork chop cooked. "Well and hot", I reply, remembering the Cracker Barrel salmonella incident. 

It returns in perfect shape. And the spring mix also has a spring in its step. 

Fresh and crunchy, with a cracked peppercorn salad dressing that I am going to have to try and replicate back at the ranch. 

Food that not only refuels you but makes you feel cleansed. Portions entirely in keeping. 

 I briefly see a graphic for Duke-Maryland come up on the TV above the bar, and ask Bill2 if he change the channel from the current game, Pitt-Georgetown. 

He looks at me askance, and stutters...."Yeah...OK" and walks off. "Dad," Toby interjects. "That's a woman's game." Oops. 

I trail after Bill2 who has reluctantly done the deed and quickly say: 

"Sorry, my mistake. Can you switch it back?" 

"I was wondering", he says. "Not even women watch women's basketball." 

Indeed.

Our hotel is located on the Avenue of Mid America (I kid you not). It is across the street, appropriately enough, from a WalMart. 

Economists and investment bankers take note. If Walmart is not attracting shoppers (at 6PM there are only about 6 customers at the checkout in this gargantuan store), what is? 

Screw economic statistics. Many stores were devoid of customers. 

In West Virginia I heard a woman say to the Indian (from India, not redskin) store clerk at a 7/11 as she bought $11 worth of lottery tickets. "That's me. I'm tapped out for the month." 

I looked at her in shock and two words came to mind. 

Snowball and Hades. 

Depressing. 

 Mid-America is a big place. We have to rethink our itinerary, having originally planned to visit my friend Lynn Fox in Missouri, a trip which would have taking us four hours out of our way and added a day to the trip. Bad planning on my part. 

We had intended to be in St. Louis for dinner. Not possible. Still, 600 miles in a day is booking it. 

  *The air hitting your brain refers to a book Kevin gave me at the beginning of the day before we left Pittsburgh, written by a neurologist. After our oenophiliac creation, and our antique detour, at the end of the day we really do feel like the air has hit our brain, and we collapse exhausted. 

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