Another drive yesterday, this time from Chicago back to Grinnell. I always seem to take longer on drives than others. Unless I really apply myself to the goal of making good time, I tend to make frequent stops, and dawdle.

And one of the best places to do that is the (new and improved!) DeKalb Oasis. I love how, for basically anyone from the Midwest old enough to drive, and quite a few people from other regions of the country, all you have to do is say “DeKalb Oasis” and they will know exactly what you’re talking about.

And at said oasis this time, in the bathroom, I heard a strange scratching sound coming from the stall immediately to my right. It did not sound unlike male masturbation, if the member of the male in question were covered with corrugated metal or some rough fabric, and he was wearing similarly abrasive gloves. My curiosity finally got the best of me and I strained to look at the floor of the adjacent stall, where I saw a couple of discarded lottery games of the “scratch ‘n win” variety. My bathroom neighbor was evidently scratching the silvery coating off the relevant fields of his game pieces, and discarding his unwinning pieces on the floor. When he finished his business and exited the stall, he left the pieces on the floor.

The drive from Chicago to pretty much anywhere always takes longer than one expects. Or at least, I manage to make it take longer. I’m a sucker for frequent stops. To wit, the above stop at the DkO, and another in Rock Falls for a cheeseburger and milkshake from Culver’s.

During my drive, I listened to the following PodCasts: The Al Franken Show (16 December 2005); Diggnation (27 December 2005); The Ricky Gervais Show (3 January 2005, and the only Podcast I didn’t terminate before its end).

Coming into Grinnell from the east always dictates for me a choice between taking Exit 182 directly from the Interstate onto Hwy 146, and the more scenic but slightly slower Exit 191 to Hwy 63 through Malcolm (and past the Pour House) to Hwy 6. Even though the drive had taken much longer than it needed to, and I was tired, and the fog made visibility low and nighttime driving stressful, I opted for the longer, less direct route. By now I was listening to Pixel Revolt and grateful that John Vanderslice’s voice is so easy to sing along with.

And the town’s empty post-holiday loneliness was alleviated with great effect by Neil’s presence. We went to the Pub with Ashlee, determined to convince her—and, let’s be honest, ourselves—that fun could be had on a weeknight in a small-town bar with attendance in the single digits. We were right, however. We even spoke to a couple old friends whose trajectories beyond, say, 1994 I hadn’t really ever stopped to consider. We drank fancy and expensive beer out of actual glass pint glasses and served to us in pitchers, part of the Pub’s slow climb to reassert itself, I presume, as the best bar in Grinnell for our demographic.

I should mention that being both a Writer and a Drinker and doing both in more or less equal measure means that I will think of and take notes on a great number of items and ideas throughout a night of imbibing which seem like Good Ideas At The Time. Looking over these notes the next day, it’s staggering and humorous and a little sad what precious little percentage of these GIATTs are still GIs, what even smaller percentage are actually translated into sober, coherent prose, and what even more infinitesimal perentage are presented here. It’s kind of amazing I ever get anything accomplished.

Walking home suitably drunk, I kept letting Neil and Ashlee get a few yards ahead of me so I could take pictures of them. It was a strangely quiet but satisfying evening in Grinnell, and wholly unexpected.