Now reporting to you live from the road at the Sleep Inn (ooh witty hotel name punnin’!) in lovely nowhere-near-the-downtown Philadelphia, Land of Shyamalan, Home the Village and the Cove and the Crop Circles From The Signs. How I ever lived in hotels that did not have complimentary WiFi, I cannot tell you. For certain, the room here is not large and any cable tether would doubtlessly give me free-ranging access to every corner of the place, but WiFi tastes better. And so, being in America, I consoom.
Drive took a while. We got caught in the recurring Devil’s Snare of my life’s navigational exploits, the goddamn QEW/403 switchover outside of Hamilton. That thing is my Kryptonite. Two spectacular girlfriend fights, three of the worst getting-losts of my entire life, and then today’s needless couple-hour detour into nowhereland (and eggs), all because of that Bermuda fucking Triangle of Southern Ontario. It’s because the rules don’t make sense there. Up is down, black is white, dogs and cats living together… mass hysteria! And then even when we literally turned around and went back the way we came to get out of this problem at last, we got caught up in July 1 QEW traffic. So we only got over the border at around 2:00, having left Toronto at 9:00. Shameful.
Border guard: Reason for your visit?
Us: Going down for the Fourth of July.
Border guard: So you’re celebrating the Canadian holiday in the United States?
Us: Pretty much yeah.
We stopped in Syracuse to go to the Dinosaur BBQ, a place Matty Price found online. It’s a biker bar… for the whole family. Syracuse is a weird fuckin’ town on a Sunday afternoon (every parking spot taken, but no humans visible anywhere), but the Dinosaur was swarming with folks. Oh by the way? Best food ever. Holy mother fuck. I had the Mojito Criollo Chicken Steak with mac and cheese on the side and it was like if Jamie Oliver jacked off in Strawberry Shortcake’s hair and made her make a mince pie. i.e. really fucking good. And yes, there was the obligatory waitress crush on both our parts (she sent us out with a complimentary portion of the day’s featured desert, Porn on a Plate), but let’s not talk about that; let’s just revisit the food:
Oh fuck I’m hungry again.
Now Matty Price are iChatting with each other from beds separated by less than three feet of distance, because we have run out of other ways to make conversation interesting, and looking at Marisa Tomei’s breasts on the internet. It’s gonna be peculiar in here in a minute.