Homeward Bound

It's time to...

Michigan is in the rear-view mirror now, and we are headed back to Florida. Having just moved from Michigan four months ago after nearly 50 years of calling it home, I was worried a return visit so soon would make us miss it all over again and force us to second guess our decision to move in the first place. Fortunately, a Detroit heat wave that was hotter and moister than a camel’s nut sack and a pseudo-stepmother that was drunker and dumber than a box of vodka-soaked rocks made our re-departure surprisingly free of remorse. 

Would you buy a used car from any one of these people?

Yes, there are many people we miss dearly, but absence makes the heart grow fonder, and we’re ready to begin fostering big hearts full of fondness from the solitude of our Naples lanai, 1,500 miles away. 

I always try to color coordinate with
my rodents.

By the time we get home, we’ll have touched something like 19 states, paid about 40 hotel bills, driven over 9,000 miles, drained skanky cooler water dozens of times, and posed next to countless, giant statues of wildlife. I don’t know if those statistics at all make the trip sound appealing or abhorrent, but I can honestly say we had a blast. Incidentally, we also have enough Hilton shampoo to fill a kiddie pool. 

Of course travel is hollow without personal growth. To that end, here are a few things we learned on this trip:

Michigan still has the shittiest roads (and some of the highest gas prices) in the US. 

When you see the phrase ‘free continental breakfast,’ you can accurately replace the word ‘continental’ with ‘coughed upon by un- showered strangers.’

Reliable wi-fi is possibly more important than drinking water. 

Wisconsin still does cheese just a little better than everyone else. 

Todd Donnelly is still a rock star. 

Our Tang-colored, embarrassment of a president will win another term. 

Northern Wisconsin strippers can make up to $200 a night, but I’m pretty sure that also includes a few hours of splitting firewood. 

Panama City is gross. 

All over the heartland, there’s a lot of money being spent on anti-abortion billboards. Roe v Wade via Mass Media. 

We have pretty awesome nieces and nephews. 

The next time I see a drunk person yelling at a building, I will have the presence of moment to video it. 

Fran Sulak makes the best coconut macaroons. 

If you don’t eat beef, smoke, and drink & drive, Wyoming is probably not for you. 

All over this great country, people are fundamentally the same and want the same things. Casinos, mostly. 

Due to a quirky licensing law, Fargo has the only chain drugstore in the country that can’t legally sell drugs. (But they still process film, so there's that.)

Rapid City, SD is a place you should really check out. 

People that run legal marijuana dispensaries should not open at 8am, as they are typically not morning people.

Antelope are as prevalent as fruit flies and could easily solve world hunger. 

The Vinyl Taco is just about the greatest name for a Mexican restaurant. 

My oldest sister loves anchovies. I did not know that.

Hotels that give out free, fresh-baked cookies are the best hotels in the world. 

Idaho is way more than just potatoes. 

Kim Skarritt is a saint. 

If there’s a day when your back really hurts and your knee is sprained, going on a tour a few thousand feet into a cramped cave is probably not the best idea for a day trip. 

It’s time for the craft beer fad to die. 

Turtle racing is a thing.

Bay City, Michigan is no longer the shithole it was when I was a kid. Flint, of course, is more so. 

Alabama does BBQ!

Like Jesus, Chick-fil-A is everywhere and of a similar utility to me. 

Doing laundry while on vacation is inherently wrong. 

People tailgate way more than they used to. 

Over time, hotel toilet paper changes you, and not for the better. 

The End.

A Dog's Life

After we left the strip club capital of the US (and obsessively and compulsively bathed ourselves in hand sanitizer), we made short order of the UP. This is very familiar stomping grounds for us, so aside from the obligatory stops for giant cinnamon rolls, more pasties, and smoked fish, we blew on through, barely pausing to throw fare money at the Mackinac Bridge attendant. 

Our next stop was Kalkaska, in Michigan’s lower pennisula. Kalkaska was selected soley on its proximity to The Silver Muzzle Cottage, which is an old age home for discarded dogs with serious health problems. The woman that runs the place, Kim Skarritt, is an amazingly generous, compassionate, and altruistic dog lover who has chosen to devote her days to caring for dogs that are in a very vulnerable, difficult, and expensive time of their life cycle. Short of my wife, I’ve never met anyone who cares more for animals. After reading about her in a Detroit Free Press article, one of Wife’s must-do items on this trip was to volunteer some time at Silver Muzzle, and we made that happen. 

I, on the other hand, do not consider cleaning up after rickety, leaky dogs a bucket-list vacation activity. It’s not that I don’t support those who do, it's just that, personally, I’m kind of a heartless dick. If you’re a regular reader, this is not news to you. Anyway, since my morning was free, I took the opportunity to explore Kalkaska. If you’ve ever been, then you already know I would have been better off mopping dog spooge. 

Karma. 

Kalkaska, if I’m not mistaken, is the Ojibwe word for “needs gentrification.”  Unlike the nearby towns of Petosky, Bay Harbor, and Charlevoix, Kalkaska was apparently not waterfront enough to warrant a stop by the locust-like swarm of BMW and Lexus owners that transformed the areas directly to the north. Aside from the giant statue of a trout on main street (and lets be perfectly clear: I’m not at all knocking giant fish statues), Kalkaska hasn’t changed a bit since I was a kid. Same thrift shops. Same vacant store fronts. 

So, in summary...

Giant Fish statues: good.

Kalkaska: meh.

The Silver Muzzle Lodge: worthy of your donations (seriously, send them a few bucks).

Sadly, they were out of camel that day/

Do I detect master race undertones in this slogan?

Rock on.

OMG, OMG, OMG, OMG! The mother ship!

In the city, sneakers hanging over utility wires generally indicate a drug dealer lives nearby. I don't know what this tree in Kalkaska signifies other than a possible meth lab run by Keebler elves.

Small Hands and Big Feet

When the impromptu Trump T-shirt stands started popping up on the streets of Fargo a few days ago, I was starting to wonder whether it was time to bid adieu to the garishly red state of North Dakota. When it was announced that the tiny-fisted Heat Miser, himself, would be fomenting the masses at an arena two blocks from our hotel, we left town for Minnesota with squealing tires and a puff of smoke that would have made the Road Runner proud. Goodbye, Fargo. It’s been fun. Enjoy your orange tyrant. 

Bought it to wrap fish

I buried Paul.

Northern Minnesota is basically Michigan’s Upper Peninsula but with different licence plates. So, for me, it feels very familiar and comfortable, like MASH re-runs. And since Minnesota continued to fulfill our newfound love of giant fiberglass statuary, there were plenty of opportunities to snag selfies with giant pike, Volkswagen-sized rodents, and, well, actual-sized Paul Bunyons. 

Let's just cut to the chase, shall we.

Remember the Brady Bunch episode where Peter and Bobby had a fight and painted a line down the middle of their bedroom? This is where they must live now.

Sasquatch-sploitation

There's a little Minnesota town named Remer that claims to be the bigfoot capital of the world. A few years back, a Remer resident captured a grainy, dimly-lit image of a shadow on his automated trail camera, and now a large portion of the town’s economy is based on Sasquatch post cards, books, and life sized cutouts. One of the basic cable shows even filmed a bigfoot hunt there. If you buy into the premise, I suspect the locals, with a wink and a nudge, refer to it as “being Remer’d.”

And speaking of which, we ended our day’s journey in Hurley, Wisconsin, near the Michigan border. Hurley has the distinction of having more strip clubs, per capita, than anywhere else in the US (sorry, but that includes you too, Las Vegas). Of course that little tidbit of information was largely absent from the Booking.com review of the Days Inn we stayed in, but I guess that explains why the dollar bill change I received from the front desk had glitter on it and smelled faintly of cotton candy body spray. Hmm, I wonder how often Hurley bank tellers get tested for STDs. 

Check out this National Geographic video about Hurley...

Why all the chainsaws hanging from the ceiling at Brewsters in Ironwood? To cut your pasty of course.

Eat at Joe's.

We ended up walking across the river into Ironwood, Michigan and drinking in a bar that had old chainsaws suspended from the ceiling. In the UP, that’s completely normal, so I will comment no further. Ironwood is also home to Joe’s Pasty Shop, maker of world famous pasties for over 50 years. By the way, pasties are meat and potato filled wads of dough, not the PG-13 rendering nipplewear probably much more at home across the river in Hurley, WI. 

This should probably be the sign between Hurley, WI and Ironwood, MI

Go Bison!

The two and a half week, Fargo-centric portion of our endless summer vacation is nearly complete. Soon we’ll be heading toward Michigan and then finally back home to Naples. I’ve never vacationed so long that I’ve had to get both an oil change and a haircut. I think I'm even developing a Fargo accent, dontcha’ know?

Why did the giant chicken cross the road?
To meet the blues band publicist.

Since the bloom is basically off the Fargo rose, sight-seeing wise, we’ve spent the past few days making day trips to neighboring towns, and, probably more than anything else, satisfying our new found fetish for statues of grossly over-sized fauna. Fortunately, neighboring Minnesota is a bonanza for these types of attractions. There’s even a website naming them all, so we are obviously not alone in our fiberglass adoration. We met a fellow fetishist, Susan, next to the giant prairie chicken in Rothsay. She’s a publicist for an award winning blues band out of Minnie/St. Paul. Since we’re basically besties now, go check out the Dee Miller Band. 

You otter not kiss giant rodents.

Play "Free Bird," man!

We also made a reluctant return to Moorhead (the land of Plains, Trains & Assholes-I’d-Like-To-Kick-In-The-Shins highlighted in an earlier post) to attend a Scandinavian cultural festival. After aimlessly wandering around booths of handmade scrap wood; nasty-ass, anise-laced baked goods; and plastic viking helmets, what I learned is that if I want to be true to my Nordic heritage, I should probably learn to scowl more and forge an appreciation for accordion music. Since I don’t see either of those happening any time soon, I may have to suppress my Finnish genetics and pretend I’m from a country with better dispositions and less polka. Nashville, perhaps.

Me, checking out the business end of Pete the Pelican.

Smells like poutine spirit.

Speaking of heritage, we also went to Detroit Lakes, Minnesota for a day of sunning on the beach and eating unholy amounts of poutine. Although “the DL” (I swear to Odin, that’s what the locals call it) is a popular, up-north resort area for summer escapees of the twin cities, it also happens to be near where the Karvinen side of my family landed in America when they left Finland (presumably on big rafts of accordions grouted together with anise cookie dough) back in the 1800’s. I didn’t bump into any of Klan Karvinen, but I felt a very special bond with the aforementioned poutine, and we’re considering adoption. 

Me posing next to Teddy, which is far better than me posing in a teddy.

Buffalo-bombed.

Namaste