Wisconsin, Peoria, and on the road crazy-style

'There are some days I think I'm going to die from an overdose of satisfaction.' --Salvador Dali

These next few days on the road are going to be a whirlwind: I'll be hitting a city (I use that term loosely) a day until I hit Phoenix in five days. Yesterday was Wisconsin to Peoria, Illinois. Destination: the planetarium. In the summer, Peoria is home to the largest solar system model in the world, with the Lakeview Museum acting as the sun, and planets placed to scale, reaching as far as 60 miles away. While I didn't get to see that, I WAS lucky enough to catch a show on black holes that was so realistic that the room appeared to bend and dip and spin and fly through space; I was frequently dizzy and not a little nauseated. Light speed is FAST, you guys. Don't do it. But DO go to your nearest planetarium as soon as possible and discover how awesome it's gotten since you were a kid. It is SO much more than little white stars on a black canvas. It's an effing ADVENTURE. Oh, and just so you know, I learned the sun is going to flip out in about FIVE BILLION YEARS. So get started on organizing that airing cupboard, because time is TICKING. You are NOT going to like the way it starts behaving when it turns into a red giant or a white dwarf. NOT NICE, SUN. NOT NICE.

Before it gets too late, let me share with you a little Wisconsin-in-Pictures. This first sequence I call 'Trying to Photo a Barn and Making a Friend, Instead.'

The next two collages are a montage of Ixonia, Watertown, and Oconomowoc, sweet little Germanic Wisconsonian villages:

What I think I love best about these towns are their mottos: Oconomowoc: 'A Public Power Community.' I don't know about you, but I find this to be really stirring. I personally feel publicly powerful on a regular basis.  And Watertown's is even better: 'It's Our...Water.' I feel like the ellipses mark really packs the punch here. It's like Watertown is thinking about it: 'It's Our...wait, wait, it's coming to me...come on, Watertown, what have we got?...Oh, hey! Water! It's Our...Water!'

A few things about Wisconsin that make it Special and Unique and so very, very German: its affinity toward bratwurst, beer, and deep-fried cheese curds, its weekly Friday Fish Fry, and the celebration of St. Nick's Day. I don't know why the rest of America isn't celebrating these latter traditions, but I'm personally gonna BRING it.

Now if you'll excuse me, my Kansas City hotel room is calling...along with a bed so fluffy I'm going to drown in the pillows with joy.

Have you found this in a motel room?

I just walked into my motel room to the pervasive smell of smoke in my non-smoking room. Apparently the previous guest thought 'non-smoking' meant 'less than a pack a day.' Either that, or this little 'no smoking' card on my night stand was put in mere moments before my arrival.

But I'm not gonna complain. I'm cool. Plus this room was so cheap I wouldn't be surprised at finding a body or a bullet-hole.

Then I go to unpack my toiletries next to the sink. The surprisingly clean sink, the sink with the well-ordered linen pyramid and the tidy trash can and the soaps folded into a clever washcloth boat. Then I see it.

Is it...?

No way.

Oh yes. Oh yes, it is.

It is a half-finished bottle of wine.

Re-corked, just chillin' here on this sparkling counter like it moved in with the last patron and thought, 'Yeah, yeah, this feels about right. I think I'll stay.'

I was startled. It wasn't like, say, a tissue in the trash, something that is understandably overlooked. This is a bottle of WINE. It's not a QUIET thing, a blending white crumpled thing. It's red, and it's got a long neck, and it's on an empty COUNTER.

I moved it with my elbow so I could see the label. Not that if it were nice I'd OPEN it or anything. Unless it were a Cakebread. Or a Duckhorn. We'd all become depraved humans at that opportunity.

But it was as I suspected: A Motel Red. That is a category of wine I'm now creating. Motel Red is the wine you get when you're staying the night in a smoke-infused motel room on an empty highway with nothing but an old t.v. and crusty remote control to entertain you, where your evening is spent half-heartedly flipping through staticky local programs from atop a coarse bedcover in a tuscan color scheme. Motel Red is a wine you buy when you don't really care--you're only going to have a glass (maybe two) anyway, and nobody's around to question your taste, and anyway, it will help you sleep. And when you pack your bags the next day, you leave it, because it has served its purpose. It's Motel Red. The one-night-stand of the wine family.

But it's still a bit shocking the maid didn't notice Motel Red perched merrily next to the bath linens. Maybe it was hers, something she brought along to take the edge off her shift. Or maybe she had planned to take it home and then forgot. Or maybe she's so used to half-drunk wine bottles in her own bathroom that this one flew by undetected. Either way, it's a strange, strange thing to find next to a bar of tissue-wrapped waxy soap.

Also, she neglected to leave me a glass. How am I supposed to drink my...water? 

What American City is This?

Let's play a little game called 'What American City is This?'!

Here are the rules:

1. You look at the photos.

2. You guess what city it is! Everybody who guesses right is a winner and everybody who guesses wrong is a loser. But only figuratively speaking, because I don't have any ribbons or anything to pass out. Although I guess if you're a loser, I can pass out some judgement. But I probably won't do that either, because I'm pretty awful at geography myself, and I only judge people for crimes that I consider myself above committing.

Here we go! An American city in pictures:

How I spent Thanksgiving

‘If I could grow one of those mutt chop mustaches, I would just tutt all the time. Tutt tutt tutt!’ –Joe Hunter

In my constant effort to do blog posts on cities now long gone, I feel a word is due about how I spent Thanksgiving.

I was worried about Thanksgiving in the planning of this trip. Restaurants and shops shut down here on Thanksgiving Day. Everybody goes to the warm embrace of their family, and they cook for hours on end, and it's oh so warm and fuzzy. And I initially thought I'd be on the road when this happened, or even worse, I'd be an awkward participant at someone's family affair.

But instead I was in Chicago, staying with a novelist and an artist, where they invited me to celebrate the day with their friends at a giant, wonderful potluck. It was a community of artists and story-tellers and comedians, and it was such a warm and open group that I didn't feel out of place for a second. 

A brief cast of the day's characters, if I may:

There was Joseph Terrance Thomas Hunter. He and his wife—the Lovely Reasonable Tara from Texas—had a beautiful baby girl named Lucy Monster. He told stories about his eccentric mensa uncle--complete with imitations--that made the table roar with laughter. This is a man who could tutt tutt tutt.

There was Madeline of Twinkletheuncanny fame—who looks alarmingly like Keira Knightley and aspires to obesity—and who makes fantastic videos on youtube. You wouldn't believe her age if I told you. (But ask me and I'll tell you.) Then there was a doubly-artistic married couple with a propensity for food who gave me a list a mile long of places to eat eat eat while I was in town, places I totally tried and loved beyond reasonable measure. And if that wasn't enough, later in the evening the husband embraced a departing guest with, 'Brothers don't shake hands! Brothers gotta HUG!'--only one of the greatest lines in cinematic history and one I use all the time but that is usually received with a blank stare. Because that's how I roll.

There was also our charming hostess Beth with her marimekko table setting and china too gorgeous to touch, with daughter Elena, who taught me about the greatest item ever that was invented while I was away in London--you have to watch the video it's hilarious--and last but not least we had Kim and Fatima, who looked like characters from The Babysitters Club and who I would like to model for my Colors of America campaign. Though they insist that we find a person in a wheelchair to complete the set.

Actual conversation from the evening:

Me: Lucy Monster sounds like Snuffleupagus!
Joe Terrance Thomas: I was just thinking about Snuffy!
Luke: It’s those long eyelashes, isn’t it? Who can resist eyelashes like that?

So yeah...it was fantastic. Truly a day to be thankful for.

I didn't know personal growth could taste so good.

Well, folks, the moment we've all been waiting for has arrived:

I have officially outgrown my jeans.

I know what you're thinking: 'Really? In only a month on the road?' To which I reply, 'YES. Because I am THAT AWESOME.'

It turns out the road food of America is pretty kick-*ss. (That asterisk is for you, Grampa.) And I like to eat it. ALL of it. And then I like to get in my car after eating it, and drive for hours, and maybe at the other side, I like to sit on  my friends' couches and discuss what's for dinner. Because this is my life now. Just me, and the road, and our food. And this triumvirate of power is warming this cold winter in much the same way as my extra stores of fat. I feel like a survivor in the wilderness, stocking for winter. I feel like a grizzly bear. I feel like I can roar powerful roars into the world as soon as I lift my face from this bloody carcass demanding my attention.

Despite an increase in my body fat and a decrease in my cardiovascular fitness, I feel strong. Almost as strong as the elastic holding up my leggings, which are the only things I can fit into right now. I love you, leggings. You don't judge me. You accept me and envelope me and don't pinch my stomach in half when I sit down. I can't thank you enough for this. I think I want to marry you and bear your children.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must go back to my journey...my journey of soul and self. And today this spiritual path is leading me right down to the cheese aisle of the Wisconsin grocery store. Dairy State, let us two be one.

On the foods of St. Louis and Chicago

I think 'critters' is my favorite word. Either that, or 'victuals.' It's even better when I can use them together: 'They love their critter victuals in Louisiana.'

Speaking of victuals, St. Louis has four original food items unique to their city: a processed cheese called provel that's made of cheddar, swiss, and provolone (and according to Natalie, tastes like 'shit' and 'comes on EVERYTHING'), the Gerber sandwich, the Slinger (a hamburger patty layered with hash browns and eggs then covered in chili), and (drumroll please) toasted ravioli. Also called t-rav, toasted ravioli is breaded and deep-fried meat ravioli served in a basket as finger food with a bowl of marinara sauce for dipping. It is also so ridiculously good you will never eat regular ravioli again. They tasted just like pizza rolls except GOOD. Seriously perfect bar food. If one were to find herself at a bar. Which I obviously didn't, Grampa. Because you can buy it in the freezer section, in a giant bag. To bake at home and eat alone in the dark while watching the entire 3rd season of Veronica Mars. Which I also didn't do. Uh.

Chicago--where I arrived Tuesday night--has its own culinary delights: there is of course Chicago-style pizza and Chicago-style hot dogs, both so famous they don't need description, but then--let's get down to business--we have the sandwiches.

I don't know where to begin to tell you about the sandwiches. So I will list them, because when I am in doubt, I always create a list.

1. The jibarito. Jibarito means 'little hillbilly' in Spanish--only the most useful word in the Spanish language I have EVER learned, which has now surpassed my OTHER favorite word in the Spanish language 'ronoso,' meaning 'mangy,' and now they can be combined into 'jibarito ronoso' to form 'mangy little hillbilly', which is really the only thing I can take from my eight years of Spanish learning with pleasure and awe--but ANYway, the jibarito is a puerto rican sandwich similar to a philly cheesesteak (thinly sliced skirt steak, sauteed onion, cheese), except it's bounded by two strips of fried PLANTAINS instead of BREAD. I KNOW. I'm speechless, too.

2. The Italian beef sandwich:  this treasure is roast beef seasoned with garlic and chile before being cooked in its own juices (making a spicy gravy jus), served up  on an italian roll with peppers--sweet or hot peppers, your call.  If you like, you can also order the sandwich 'wet,' at which point THE ENTIRE THING is dunked in the jus. I'm going to try this lovely at Al's #1 Beef, and I'm going to use ALL the right lingo like a total pro, since apparently you're supposed to order already knowing what you want (wet or dry, sweet or hot). Me, I'm going for hot and wet. Because that's how I roll.

3. And now...the mother-in-law. I feel like we need a moment of silence before I begin.

* silence * * moment * * silence *

Okay, we're ready.  Pay close attention here, because this is (I hope, anyway, dear God) like nothing you've ever seen before. Okay, close your eyes. No, figuratively speaking. I need you to read this. Okay, now with your eyes figuratively closed, picture pork or beef. Now take this pork or beef, and stuff it into a tamale. Got it so far? Pretty straightforward, yes? Now take this tamale. And stuff it into a hot dog bun. OH YES. A HOT DOG BUN. Okay, so now we're feeling a little funny inside. A little weird, a little alarmed, maybe in equal parts slightly repulsed and fascinated. Now take this bun-with-tamale in it. And cover it in chili. * another moment of silence * And then--OH THERE IS A THEN--you cover this entire thing in the toppings of a chicago-style hot dog: mustard, relish, onions, sliced tomatoes, pickles, hot peppers, and a dash of celery salt. And now you have a mother-in-law sandwich. How do you eat this? Like a hog in a trough. Or with a fork, like the weakling I am. And APPARENTLY there's a place here in Chi-town that even does a FATHER-in-law, which is the same thing as a mother-in-law except with LIQUID CHEESE instead of chili. Is your mind not blown? IT'S SO BLOWN.

So this is what I sought yesterday, this wet, messy mother-in-law. It took some research to find a place that had it--the sort of place that serves this doesn't have a website--and found three. Three places in all of Chicago. There may be more, but if so, I couldn't find them. They probably exist in dirty sandwich places or ghetto dog stands. I decided on Johnny O's (it was a toss up between that and Fat Johnnie's Famous Red Hots, which is where you can find the father-in-law) on 35th.  And it was INCREDIBLE. As was Johnny O himself, with whom I shared a booth in the stockroom (turns out Johnny O's is a convenience store--read 'no seating unless you ask, at which point they show you to the back and allow you to sit among boxes of beer in a ramshackle, abandoned booth with the store's owner, which will turn out to be the greatest treat of your life'), and here Johnny O told me story upon story of the neighborhood's history (turf wars between the Polish west of Halsted and the Italian-Irish mafia/politicos east of Halsted, with some peace-loving Lithuanians smack dab in the middle making their living as undertakers--of course my people are undertakers--and about how Bridgeport is now home to the artists of Chicago), and all of these stories rolled over me as I ate ate ate. He told me of singing the national anthem at a professional baseball game under the name 'Johnny Power' as a young man--there was a black and white photo on the wall to prove it--and about  how his old school friend Norbert 'Lefty' Mikalonas was Lithuanian like me and how there were so many of them they got their own street, Lituanica, just four blocks away, and how he opened his first hot dog stand in 1959, even though he sold them out of a cart when he was a young boy...and as these stories flowed over me, the mother-in-law flowed down my arm, and I was in heaven.

Johnny O's, ladies and gents. Johnny O's:

After all this bliss, I went down the street to Zhou B. Cafe, a free art gallery opened by these two Chinese guys with a built-in cafe/bar, where locals were spending a quiet evening playing chess and reading and working on their macs.  Zhou apparently has a late open house the third Friday of the month that's supposed to be RAD, but I missed it by a week. I ALWAYS miss things by a week.

Bridgeport Chicago, at a glance:

A little bit of Memphis and my favorite Memphibians

As per usual, I'm posting my pictures about a week late. This time, Memphis shots as I'm leaving St. Louis. Which means you'll see St. Louis roughly as I'm leaving Chicago. And so on, and so lovely forth.

Every morning during my stay in Memphis I woke on my living room futon to the sound of a tiny voice in the kitchen: 'Where's Sharona?' 'She's in there, on the futon.' A few seconds later I would hear the same small voice, this time much, much closer: 'I want a hug.' He didn't shake me, or pat me, or even bother to find out if I was awake. He just stated  his desire and simply waited. As a result, I got out of bed every morning in pretty much the greatest mood humanly possible. He was impossible not to love instantly.

Introducing Elek, the precious precious PRECIOUS three year old son of Diana and Peter, my Memphibian hosts. Diana (or 'Dinana,' as I like to call her) and I go way back to our college days, and Peter is her esposo, who had the good sense to escape for work before this photo shoot. His son, however, LOVED the camera. He did everything I asked for, and in spades: 'Elek, give me post-apocalypse angel!' and he'd gaze tragically toward the heavens. 'Elek, give me 'I live in a forest!' and he'd stand in a V with arms outspread. 'Give me rockstar!' and you'd get KISS. He'd stand anywhere he was asked, in whatever posture you asked for, and would patiently make whatever expression you could possibly desire: happy! sad! depressed alcoholic! He was a genius. I've never photographed anyone like this in my life. And he's THREE. He's obviously inherited his mother's modeling gene.