Somewhere on I-88 in Illinois. We just saw a really spectacular shooting star. It’s not even fully dark yet, and this thing went streaking across the sky like a flaming prince. (Terry Pratchett reference, anyone?).
(Listening to Adam Day… and now Buffy – the Musical)
Last night we crashed with Kyle Knapp, in Omaha. All through Nebraska, the sky had been slowly blackening, and there had been the threat of Weather since an hour out of Colorado.
The plains welcomed us with with thickening clouds, and we drove at 75 straight into the tail-end of a blanket of swirling snow.
It’s spectacular to watch the weather change in the midwest. The sheer distance that you can see is sort of hard for an East coast kid to understand. I remember my parents taking my brother and I across the country when we were younger, and being chased by a thunderstorm across the plains of Nebraska. It was a massive black wall stalking on legs of ligh- no, not stalking – this bastard was sprinting towards us on huge legs of lightning, and cars came like refugees running from war, streaming along the interstate, fleeing hail and Hell.
This wasn’t anything like that. First off, we were heading towards IT.
But snow is my favourite thing, so I can’t keep comparing it to death and doom. By the time we pulled into Kyle Knapp’s house (where we stayed the night), the world was sugar-frosted, like some Christmas fantasy. It’s Hell to drive through, sure – but Tim Burton-esque to the eyes, springing glitter and faerie tales.
We finally met Kyle’s wife, Gail – and she made us a fantastic dinner: the most succulent pork chops I’ve ever had, green bean cassarole – an AMERICAN dinner (before American Dinner equalled McDonalds, it meant pork chops, green beans, and mashed potatoes). To hold to the ideal, there was even fresh apple pie for dessert. Kyle and Gail HAD been on a diet, but they used us as an excuse to sin. Somehow, I just don’t mind.
There’s something special about a meal made just for you. It’s like going to a restaraunt and knowing that the chef has a crush on you – you know there’s something a little extra in the meal (this means something different if you’re a GUY and a WOMAN is making something – something a little extra here refers to Love and kindness… when a GUY adds a little somethign extra to a meal he’s made for a WOMAN it could be anything….)
In short, dinner was wonderful – and then we kidnapped Kyle.
We went down the street and played an open mic at a neighbourhood bar, the Forgot Store. It’s got ghosts and a mysterious triangle that makes your guitar go out of tune and your lyrics fall out of your head.
It’s got a poltergeist named Duke who drinks up spilled beers.
It is, in short, a place with Personality. I Loved it.
Michael “the Pineapple” runs what has been, perhaps, the most relaxed open stage and jam session I’ve been to for the past three months. It was a friendly atmosphere – really nailing down the very truthful cliche about Mid-Westerners. They really DO Live at a different pace, they are kinder, just generally not as pointy. We were drawn in and made to feel welcome almost immediately, the owner bought me drinks, there was just… kindness in the air there.
Mike summed it up with “yeah, we almost never have any fights in here”.
Well, that’s SORT of what I mean.
Hrm.
Anywho, a wonderful night. I’d been emailing back and forth with Mike since before we’d even left for Colorado, so I was pretty eager to meet him.
We struck back out into the snow at around 12.30am, drove up the hill, quietly crept into the house, and promptly fell asleep, dreaming of the way Nebraska blanketed us with dirty grey gauze. One of the last images in my head last night was the flaming orange caldera that slowly vanished into the tunnel of snow and sleeting cloud. It was incredible.
This morning, Gail even made us breakfast – eggs and bacon and cinnamon rolls. We stayed till 10am, swapping stories about cars in the Living room with Gail and Kyle and their youngest son.
Remind us to tell you about the purple car, or the flaming Winnebago. The oral tradition of storytelling is alive and well in Omaha.