America is a beautiful thing…

Before I left, Muskegon yesterday, I bought some pot at Highway Dispo. Large, open retail space with shiny floors, they offer Flower, Pre-Rolls, Vaporizers, Concentrates, Edibles and Tinctures (I learned to smoke Mexican pot in the sixties, I have no idea what half those things are). Andy, my sales associate, mid-twenties, clean cut, knowledgeable about his product, encouraged me to buy the Lemon Bar flower. And when I agreed, he stopped talking about pot and talked about how much he liked my governor (Walz, in case you didn’t know that).

Last night, I stayed at the Star Motel in Milan (Michigan) and had dinner at the Milan Coney Cafe. The sign on the front window declared it “The Best Food In The Galaxy.” The white board above the cash register advertised the special for the evening, “Fried bologna Sand w/ Fries or Soup $9.99.” I had the fried chicken. I’m not sure about the “Best In The Galaxy” claim.

The Star Motel is one of those privately-owned brick motels built in the sixties with tired carpet, frayed towels and a clogged bathroom sink. I checked in at three in the afternoon, the owner was in his seventies and came to the window in his pajamas and gave me a long course in how to work the TV remote including which of the clearly labeled buttons did what. Then he lost my drivers license and argued that he didn’t lose it and then found it in the copier and somehow it was still my fault. The room was $65.00.

Larry was my neighbor at the Star Motel. He was gone when I got up at six. He was born in Alabama and travels the country working on high-voltage power lines. Bald, beer-gut, worn and wrinkled complexion, he smoked a cigarette and leaned on his twenty-year old Tahoe while we talked construction. He said he no longer works at heights, that the high work is “a young man’s game,” that he’s fifty and wants to retire in five years and wander the country on a motorcycle “like you.” There’s a lot of lonely guys living in these old motels.