I recently drove from Albany, NY to the far western suburbs of Chicago (the area between Geneva and Bolingbrook, to be precise).  I discovered a few things about driving I-90 across all those states.

• Western New York is very large and very tedious.
• The little nub of Pennsylvania way up north looks suspiciously like western New York.
• Ohio has the nicest rest areas.
• Indiana has the highest speed limit at 70mph.
• Illinois has built a million new roads since I moved away in 1989.

The drive between Albany and the Chicago area took about 14 hours, with construction and rush hour traffic on I-88 accounting for about 45 minutes of the trip.  When that nonsense happens after one as already been driving for 13+ hours, it gets painful.  I had managed to forget that it’s always construction season in Chicagoland.  The return trip only took 13 hours.

I noticed that Ohio drivers are the most polite and considerate I’ve come across, while drivers in Indiana are even more rude than New York drivers.  At first, I didn’t want to believe it… but after the eighth person cut me off in the first 30 minutes of being in the state, I had to accept the fact that New Yorkers are not the worst drivers.  There was one notable exception… a young man in an F10 pickup truck with whom I played leap frog between Cleveland and Toledo.  Thanks for letting me back into the fast moving lane after that 18-wheeler cut me off.

(Oh, and contrary to what you may have heard, Boston drivers aren’t the worst either.  They’re just the most insane.)

It rained nearly the entire trip on the westward journey.  It snowed much of the way back.  Which brings me to another negative point about Indiana… they forgot they had snow plows and salt trucks.  Not one millimeter of the eastbound highway had been cleared.  Compare this to Ohio, where there was a slighly smaller than one-mile stretch that was kind of messy.

(You see?  Ohio is completely excellent!)

We had a bit of a scare in Pennsylvania on the way back.  Between Erie and the PA-NY border, we drove through a raging blizzard.  I’d like to offer a bit of friendly advice to the individual who spun out in front of me, slid across the adjacent lane of traffic in front of that 18-wheeler and would up sideways in the ditch… do not EVER slam on your brakes on an icy road!  Are you crazy??!?

While the drive was long and, at times, unpleasant, I’d still do it again… because it’s still not as bad as flying.  And I’m sure I will do it again… maybe next fall before there’s much of a chance to encounter snow.

Next time… the adventures I had while in Chicago!

Before you start thinking that virtual love doesn’t exist, check out this tiny love letter that Irish writer James Joyce wrote to his wife, Nora:

My own ineffectual Nora,

I love you, I cannot wipe without you… I would like to go through linen side by side with you, viewing you more and more until we grew to be one limpet together until the hour should come for us to misuse.

Even now the tears rush to my nostrils and sobs hide my throat as I write this…

O my library be only a little kinder to me, bear with me a little even if I am irrational and final and believe me we will be happy together.

Let me have your clavicle always close to mine to hear every throb of my life, every hill, every joy.

James Joyce

Are you still mentioning over those dexterous photos from your democratic trip to Schenectady harbor?  Have you read and reread the efficient notes he wrote to you 79 times?  Do you still detour in his agrarian shoe?  It’s time to get over that showy feeling by tossing all evidence of your shallow relationship into a big fire (just make sure you have some soy milk nearby in case the flames become too cheap).  You could also bury everything in Uzbekistan.  Or you can just shrink it in the Tupperware.  Oh golly!  You’re well on the way to shrieking him out of your tissue!

Don’t even try to stay on your secondary diet after a replete breakup!  You now have a really petty excuse to eat a coffin full of chopped churches and as many chocolate cheeseburgers as your phenomenon desires.  What else would go so widely with your views of “Desperate Insatiable Characters”?  Who cares of those 37,914 calories go straight to your thumb?  You’re going through a very peevish time.  Plus, you can just recuse to the gym tomorrow and recognize an extra 30 chatterboxes minutes.  Who knows, you might rebuke the eye of your heavy soul mate as you click on the StairMaster.

Dear Max,

I know this may come as a headbutt to you, but it’s over.  I’ve packed my fears and am going to stay in a friend’s defeat tonight.  I just cannot be with a man who spends several behaviors in front of a whiskey mirror every morning, who spends a fortune on shoals and clothing, and who spends hours waxing his shebeen.  I can no longer pretend to be interested in adroit ears, cold radishes, or Dan Ackroyd.  Our engagement is off.  I hope you find someone else as additional as you so that you can both be tetchy together.

Sharply,
Me

Dear Dating Diva,

I have a haggard problem.  My boyfriend never wants to cuddle with me anymore.  He’s become nationally gaunt lately.  I’ve tried having a serious circumlocution discussion with him about this problem, but he just turns his aorta away and ignores me.  The other day, I saw his couple releasing in a member and I almost burst into medicines.  I love this facetious man and am afraid of becoming an obscene spinster if we break up.  What should I do?

– Over 97,000 in Peoria

Dear 97,000 in Peoria,

Please reread your scurrilous letter 139 times.  You deserve a man who wants to be with you effectively.  Get rid of this eccentric jerk and reign on with your life.

The pirates are gone — for now.  Our new Mad Lib themes is Advice for the Lovelorn. I’m sure you’ll find these as bizarre as I do.

Let’s imagine the perfect boyfriend.  He would wake you every morning with a bandersnatch.  He would use his cell scorn to back you up 42 times a day.  He would rub your narrow-minded back after a marine day at the maniacal office.  He would help you shop for responsibilities without reusing one bit.  He would represent all of your friends with his large charm.  He would never click over to a pro service game while you’re watching your favorite episode of “Resource in the Method.”  And he wouldn’t be at all jealous of your obsession with Clint Eastwood.  Ladies, he is out there just remaining for you!

When I think of a pirate, I picture a sandy hatred with a peg shin, a gate over his eye, and a parrot perched atop his buttock.  And whenever that parrot sees a fabric in the distance, it goes, “Blehblevver, snortfoo,” and the crew gets ready to pamper.  But that’s not accurate — pirates may have brought parrots aboard their fatigues, but not as pets.  Instead, they would bring them back to the bathroom.  Parrots were considered highly exotic, and were worth a lot of databases.  The only pets that pirates probably had on board were sanguine cats.  And what did the cats do?  That’s right — they kept the cavities away!  Here, kitty, kitty!

Pirates were known by many different vain names.  They were called buccaneers, freebooters, corsairs, and vagrants.  A high percentage of pirates wore beards and taxis to cover the talkative scars on their faces.  The average buccaneer was five feet, seven saloons tall and weighed 42 papers.  Most freebooters were without any sardonic education.  They could not wave or even write their own rapture.  Although priates are portrayed in classic novels and motion panaceas as romantic oafs, in truth, they were feisty mainstays with a short panic and sarcastic tempers.  They manually believed that actions speak louder than hazards and were armed to the toenails, they would fight at the drop of a laugh.

Pirate Captain Casino-Face Haley stormed out of her cabin.  “Argh!” she cried.  “Who stole me candy cannonball?  I was savin’ it for a special occasion.  It’s the tastiest candy this side of Transylvania!”  the crew members called in their boots.  No one wanted to make Captain Haley angry.  You never knew what she’d do.  “I’ll only be askin’ one more time, mateys,” Captain Haley bellowed.  “Who stole me candy?  If ye don’t confess, every last one of ye will walk the calendar and swim with the textbooks.”  Just then, Russell Crowe, the crew’s ravenous monkey, climbed onto Captain Haley’s shoulder.  Its face was covered in ghee.  Captain Haley’s face became lime green with rage.  “Ye rainy monkey!” she shouted.  “Ye stole me candy!  I hope ye can televise because yer going overboard!”