Thursday, 8 April 2010

Wednesday 7th April 2010 - Keep on Trucking

          As a result of my late night research on racehorse breathing, I was pretty late out of Chicago.  So I got caught in the rush hour. Actually, I expect, like most big cities, it's a pretty long rush hour, so I probably couldn't have avoided it anyway.  I thought it might be a bit of luck, and allow me to do a bit of sight-seeing, but Chicago was only visible from about floor 20 downwards, which was a little eerie.  But I did get up onto the Skyway, and see down to Lake Michigan.  I must be getting good at interstate travel, 'cos I got a lengthy honking from someone I had to cut up to get to my exit.
          Today's Public Radio delight was a phone-in about Scrabble: yes, a phone-in.  They had an expert to interview, and, no doubt ask penetrating questions of, but they all just prattled on about how much fun it was.  One man phoned in to say that he cheated on his wife, but only at Scrabble.  He confessed that whenever she left the room, he rummaged around the tile bag for letters he wanted.  He then told us that she still beat him, and never knew he cheated.  She is obviously just charitable about his inadequacy as a cheat.
          Later that night, I fell into the company of truck drivers.  I had stopped at Youngstown, and the motel was right beside one of those giant truck stops.  These places allow truckers overnight parking, with restaurants and shower facilities.  The bar was across the road, so I knew it was going to be hard to get back.  It served Great Lakes ale, from Cleveland.
          The drivers swapped notes about how far they travelled, how much time they got off, how to make good money without getting caught breaking the regulations.  There seemed to be a clear payoff between how far they could run in a day and how much time they spent at home.  In that context, I wanted to raise the subject of Scrabble, and cheating on their wives, but before I could, they decided they were going off to the "Titty Bar", which I supposed to be some Gilbert and Sullivan themed pub. 
          I myself took to heart that bit from The Sorcerer, and, despite not being a baronet or a KCB, or a Doctor of Divinity, I went home to bed respectably. The magic drink having manifested its power.  It obviously, at least, got me back across the road safely.

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