Sunday, August 30, 2009

We're off on the Road to Winooski, Dept.

Well, your sobsister's back from Points North. And, as always, I have thoughts that I will inflict upon you simply for having wandered onto this page. I know: it's unwarranted and spiteful. But such is my sobsisterly obligation. And I am but the Slave of Duty. ♫♫♪ Oh, is there not one maiden here whose homely face and bad complexion...♫♪♫

And so...

1) The main street of Woodstock, NY, is not a destination, if by "destination" you mean a place to which you would intentionally go. It's five blocks of fromagerrific "hippie" shops selling tie-dyed everything and posters of that long-ago weekend, sketchy food stores that seem confused as to the purpose of sell-by dates and tinkly-winkly craft stores. Interestingly, not a head shop to be seen. I figured, if nothing else, I'd photograph the World's Largest Bong. But no.

2) Dorset, VT, is a lovely town. Quaint, quiet, qwisp in the fall, no doubt. Here's an interesting fact about Dorset: there's no frackin' cell phone reception anywhere in or near it. I suspect it has something to do with the town's monthly ritual at which the lizard-skinned Undergrounders sacrifice unwary tourists in tribute to the Elder Gods.

3) Dorset also has the Softest Tap Water in the Eastern United States™. To the extent that water falling on, say, one's soapy hands bounces off like bullets off Superman's chest. Not sure WTF is up with that, except to conjecture that it somehow serves the Elder Gods to whom many Vermonters are in thrall.

4) Vermont, generally speaking, is composed almost entirely of White People. While in Burlington, for example, we saw only three Black People. However, two of these were riding in a gleaming Escalade EXT pumping enough bootybass to loosen the bowels of the most continent passersby. It was nice of these two fellows not to confirm any stereotypes residents may have held. Nice fellows!

5) Most of the people in Vermont are regular folks. There are a number, however, who look like they would lose a casting call for crazed Vietnam vets because they looked too, you know, crazed. Generally, these are men. And, generally, they are accompanied by women who either look like prostitutes, if prostitutes were intended to put men off sex, or large, doughy, mentally challenged children. Let me say at this juncture that the Elder Gods have an unfathomable sense of humor.

6) If you go to the Web site for The Avalon Inn and Spa, located in Island Pond, Vermont, and check the source HTML for the page, you'll find 25 hidden links to I had set out to make some joke about Vermont and incest, but, really, it'd just be gilding the lily at this point, wouldn't it?

7) Harold's New York Deli in Edison, NJ, is the sort of place you'd go, say, for a working lunch to discuss protesting the skimpy portions at Cheesecake Factory. The "X-Large" corned beef sandwich costs 32 dollars and feeds "3-4". But three to four people who really fucking love corned beef. Like a priest loves a gift subscription to Boys' Life. Your sobsister ordered a chocolate egg cream. The waitress, who seemed, shall we say, unamused by her situation in life, asked, "What size?" I asked what sizes they offered. "Small and large," she responded in a tone one might normally employ to address a bipedal figure composed of warm shit that had wandered into one's snowbank-white living room. "Large," I pluckily responded. She brought me a container just too small to bathe a newborn, filled with chocolate egg cream.

At the next table sat a guy who I assumed is known as "Joey Mooch." Wearing a charmingly loud shirt in face-sized red, white and black Japanese script blotches. There was a woman with him in some subordinate position. None of the creases on his face was caused by smiling. He orders a roast beef and pastrami two-meat sandwich and a plate of fries. The two of them go off to the pickle bar, whence patrons are seen returning bearing stacks of sours, half-sours and dills alongside shelves of pumpernickel and rye. No sooner do the two of them return, when the waitress arrives with Pickett's Charge recreated in deli meats, soon joined by a child's schoolroom volcano as imagined in fried potatoes and cheese product. Joey Mooch's shape did not suggest that he was cherry in any corner of Harold's ample menu. I assume he worked off the meal by dismantling the Woolworth Building.

8) Hot Grill, in Clifton, NJ, serves a loyal, local clientele. We sat down with our Texas Wieners--all the way, hold the onions--fries (gravy on the side) and "Sierra Mist," a beverage about whose existence I'd been unaware prior to this meal. The men behind the counter looked and sounded like they'd fought the Turks at İnönü. Everyone behind and before the counter seemed to know each other. The man next to whom we sat noted to me, in reference to my all-the-way wiener, "You gotta work that mess around," before going on to greet "Teddie Nig" and "Nigga Tom." I felt a bit like the second editor on Huck Finn. Oh, and Sierra Mist is like Jan Brady to Sprite's Marcia.

9) There are apparently points of light in the nighttime sky that only become visible when one is removed from the sizzling, spitting glow of the big cities. I'm waiting for confirmation of the name, but I believe they're known as "sturz."

That was some of my trip North, kids. It's almost the end of summer in Choc City, and you know what that means: I can stop dreading each waking moment outside air conditioning! Yowlee! Oh, and point (10) could be: the weather in VT was frackin' gorgeous. As was the scenery. One could almost work the calculus out to justify serving the Elder Gods in exchange for a mountainview cottage. Well, maybe more than a "cottage." Maybe a 10,000 sq.ft. spread with stainless steel appliances and hardwood floors.

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