Snowbound and Irate

So, I had a date last night, and rather happily, it went better than expected. Which is saying something, when I honestly expected it to go pretty well. Next time, definitely cooking myself, even if we have to go to her place. Hopefully her husband won't mind. (Husband -- that's a whole other ball of interesting wax, but as its her story to tell, I'm not spilling any beans here.)

For all you gossipmongers: move along! I don't kiss and tell, however much I do or do not kiss. I'll just say that it was an absolutely lovely evening, and I hope I see it's like frequently. And that, as they say, is that.

No, the rest of this is about my trip to Boston. Birthplace of the revolution's biggest cup of tea, beloved of the Irish Mob, so full of higher education it's like a pint of cheap beer you poured too fast. We may not have as much history as they do in Europe (it's more a thin veneer, compared to it being much like a line great Peter O'Toole once said: "Knee deep in seminal fluid." Evocative, isn't it?), but there's a whole hell of a lot of it up here. You could argue there should be more down where I'm from, but let's be honest: the swamps and the hurricanes are too quick about eating away at all that Spanish Conquistador crap as quickly as it can manage. Up here, you've got to build to survive the winters, and that means sturdy and strong.

Plus, if I'm right about the ages of some of the people sharing the bus with me, some of those Daughters of the Revolution are literally their daughters. Vampires always were paticularly attached to the trappings of home.

I wonder sometimes if it's growing pains. You'd think this country would be past them, as we ramble our way toward the two and a half century mark, but I don't think so. Or maybe it's a midlife crisis. Even here, where you can't spit without hitting a historical landmark, no one seems to give a damn that our precious republic is going down the fucking toilet. You'd think we'd retroactively installed lead pipes for our water supply, passed out the pewter cups, and were just waiting for our lovely Hun neighbors to come around for a Saturday afternoon barbeque. You can't tell me that it's not just a matter of time before Survivor starts taking its name seriously, and the people voted off the island get thrown to the sharks. Bread and circuses, ladies and gentlemen, and we're just getting shorted on bread because that would be a 'handout for those no-good welfare junkies.'

I don't know if I have any hope for a change in power to fix things, either, but I suppose we'll find out in a few weeks after the midterms. It's pretty damn fascinating just how much the party in power is self-destructing, though. If we manage to dig up enough independents and Democrats with balls, get them all into the House, and then -- just maybe -- start talking about impeachment hearings? I promise that I'm gonna break out the rainbow wig and the John 3:16 sign and go hang out in the congressional galleries. At the very least, I'll rent a pickup so I can host a few tailgate parties.

I will give Boston this: I like the subway. Of course, you've got to have something like that in a climate like this. I've heard that Toronto has whole malls underground, so you don't have to go out into the weather in winter. Frankly? I'd be scared to death to visit a place like that. What, do you freeze to death if your coat isn't properly closed and you have to run aboveground between tunnels for thirty seconds? Brrr. Gimme white sands and bikinis as far as the eye can see anyday.

In final good news, I was able to find just what I needed for my costume. Let's hope I can get into it properly come Tuesday, but for now I think I'm as ready as I can be. Whatever happens, this is looking to be one heck of a dance.

Don't let the title fool you; I'm still on the train. I have yet to set foot off it, in fact. One thing I will give good old Amtrak: the sleeper cars are actually pretty comfortable, with the rumble of the rails rocking you off to slumber. Of course, give me a bottle of that glow-in-the-dark spray stuff they use on CSI and five minutes alone in my room, and I'm sure I'd have the heebie jeebies about just how much bodily fluid was sprayed all over the place like the scene of a bad slasher flick.

Just this morning, we rolled our way past New York. The city that never sleeps, that's so nice they named it twice, that microcosm of the melting pot that the United States used to be. If you're from anywhere at all, you can find a place to fit in there. Okay, maybe not if you're Amish, but even they would find parts of Central Park comforting, I'm sure. Especially the parts where it's harder to see all those huge skyscrapers towering around them. It's hard to find any other place where anyone at all can come and experience what it is to be truly American: choking on car exhaust, drowning in advertisements, and the victim of a hate crime from someone who just happened to get their foot off the boat a day before you did.

After a few hours short of enough sleep, I staggered my way down to the meal car in search of breakfast. Surprisingly, what they're serving isn't absolutely vile, though that may be because I'm sticking to the continental breakfast model of muffins and fruit. I think they need to see if the conductor pissed off one of the cooks, though, since this coffee tastes like someone filtered it through their jock before pouring it for us poor unsuspecting fellow travelers. At least the cheap half-and-half cuts the aftertaste.

As we've gotten further north, our progress has strangely slowed. If I were feeling poetic, I'd try to explain it in terms of the train's reluctance to leave warm weather climes as Autumn starts staking its claim on the days. Or maybe I'd suggest that, as we move up into the sprawl of the earliest areas settled by the White Man on this land across the Atlantic, the train simply has to stop and take in the sheer wonder that this experiment in exile (self-imposed or otherwise) and convict rehabilitation still manages to work, at least for one more day.

But I'm too pragmatic for that before I've had real coffee, and I know it's just that the cities are closer together up here, so the train has to stop more often. Yet we've managed never to quite hit that critical point where progress has stopped entirely, and the feeling in the pit of my stomach has blossomed into full-blown dread. Three hours, and only that much because the commuter trains take precedence, and we'll be at my stop.

Gods, I need another muffin. More tonight, if I'm not eaten alive by the natives first.