Friday Night
As I'm making my way from Minneapolis to Clinton, Iowa, rocking out to the newest release from System of a Down, snow storm brewing, I realized something; I hate driving in the midwest, especially at night, between the months of November and April.
Here I am, flying down I-218, snow blowing, with a dirty windshield, and no grape Kool-aide in the sprayers. A truck flies by, throwing up a dusty cloud of snow. My first thought is, Jesus, If I was stoned I'd have driven off into the corn fields, never to return to the mental reality of the now.
"Hey Johnny, toss that bowl up here, let's roll!"
I blink, the truck is gone, and I'm left with Serg singing about blue skies fading.
I hit Cedar Rapids about 11:30pm, just in time too, cuz the road and corn fields were beginning to look one and the same. There is a smell in Cedar Rapids like almost no other in the country. Quaker Oats is on my right, my alma mater on my left, and the scent of cereal in the air. I'm cruising down I-380 and for a minute, the orange tone of the street lights hit the snow and it looks and smells like I'm floating through a cloud of Cap'n Crunch. "Man, I'm hungry! Mom! Where's the damn milk!?"
Jesus I'm tired.
"Wake up asshole, you're still an hour out!"
Shaking the cobwebs and voices out of my head, I exit onto I-30. Only 77 more miles of this barren, snow covered drive through the Wasteland.
"Boy, I really could use a sip of the crazy bird right about now."
I arrive at my hotel in Clinton about 1:30am. The lady at the counter looks at me suspiciously, like maybe this guy's flying on the Night Train, ready to crash land in the great flatlands. I get my room key and move my car around the building. "Three tacos for $3!? That's a deal!" Lasiters. This must be the center of the Clinton universe. Outside there are three rusted out, late 80s, Ford Broncos. The grossly oversized wheels tell me they belong to corn-fed, barley-fueled country boys. A breed to be avoided unless you're in the mood to drown your liver in whiskey and turn the bar into a scene from a certain Patrick Swayze movie. To top it off, I'm laying in bed, watching shitty TV, when the herd of SUV's starts to stampede. Off they went, glass packs and all, leaving me in a cloud of bassy resonance.
Lights out, off to dreamland, where it rains whiskey and we sleep on a bed of tobacco and cheeb.
Saturday Afternoon
After spending most of the morning sitting in my hotel room, watching TV and smoking like I could lose the ability any minute, I got myself all gussied up and hit the road for Grand Mound, Iowa. Now, why in God's name you'd call a city 'Grand Mound' is lost to me. I've always thought of a mound as a pile of shit leftover from somthing else. Someones unwanted leftovers, but certainly in no way grand. I guess a mound of Green Hornet would be grand, but let's be realistic here, we're in Iowa. I presume you're asking yourself why the hell would you go to Grand Mound? I know, I asked myself the same damn thing.
Well, weddings will bring to you strange and amazing places, some more strange or amazing than others. The risk with weddings is that you cannot choose where they take place, you're at the mercy of a greater power - like when you've just finished a QP of the stinkweed and you're walking through the store on a mission for food. Who knows where you're end up. Cookies? Chips? Shit, maybe some ice cream! You won't know until you get there. The suspense is killing me!
Point being, I had no choice but to go to the mound which is grand.
Saturday Night
It takes me an hour to get to the round mound of grandness, with an ETA of 40 minutes. Great, so I roll in the door at 2 minutes to the wedding, flirt with the bridesmaids waiting to make their way down the isle, and slide into the back row, groom-side. Throughout the whole wedding, the only thing I was thinking was "I wonder what would happen if those ceiling fans fell? Would they keep spinning as they fell? What kind of damage would that do?"
Yeah, I'm a sick bastard - and fuck you for agreeing with me!
The ceremony itself was quick and beautiful, like a happy ending at an Asian massage parlor, then it was back out into the snowy wonderland that is middle-of-nowhere, Iowa. I head all the way back through town, to the other side of Clinton to Vista Grande, the location of the reception. A buddy says to me, as we're out back making like Jamaicans, "This ain't no big vista, it's just a stupid hill." So true.
I sit at the bar for another two hours, trying to put the blaze in my stomach out with firewater, and then take off. No glorious exit, no fireworks. As a matter of fact, I hoodwinked the lot of them and dipped out the back door.
I got back to my hotel in one piece, talked to my lawyer, wrote this:
"Weddings are really interesting. One, the couples you see, your first question should be, "Do you really mean it?" Stats say 50% yes, I say 80% no, but I'm biased, which is why I'm not married now, but that's a different story."
Then went to bed. Five hours in the car the next day and I was sleeping back in my castle.
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