Hogan Here

I drove south for seven hours through the long, long state of Illinois on Hwy 51 on this day of raw “wintry mix” — wet and gray and so gusty to where you get a cramp from holding the wheel against the bluster — and the car jerks right and left when you go under an overpass where the wind can’t cut you for a sec.  

No one seems to be home anywhere, christmas lights are all taken down, old McDonald’s bags and road kill both are soaked and flattened in the gutters, tree branches are enamel black from the rain and ice, all the cows look cold — and in every single slow-down town there’s the exact same black-hoodied fourteen year-old furiously riding a too-small bike away from a Family Dollar while drinking a huge plastic bottle of Mountain Dew.  But I guess stereotypes gotta come from somewhere.

I don’t know how they keep from catching those goth pants in the chain.

I saw a lot of what I consider to be gorgeous stuff too.  And I don’t mean to imply that all the stuff I just talked about is ugly.  But I arrived at my Motel 6 tonight with my stomach tight.   It just looked like everything today had that gray tight face of trying not to puke.  

Like, if we can just make it to springtime without puking, it’ll be alright.  

Until the sun shines.