Kate and I and a few zillion other motorists hit I-94 this weekend, and I-94 is hitting back. If we’re going to spend any time at our lake cottage this summer — and I foresee a drastically reduced visitation schedule, for reasons I’ll get to in a minute — we’re going to have to develop some alternate routes. Construction and various improvements have this vital thoroughfare a snarly mess, and a mess it will remain for months, I fear. There’s a stretch west of Ann Arbor where the eastbound lanes have been taken down to bare dirt; they’re rebuilding the road from the ground up, it seems, which does not portend smooth sailing by the Fourth of July.
Anyway, the road is still carrying plenty of traffic, some of it of the winged and insectile variety. The carrion-eaters must have ordered venison this spring, because it seemed there was a dead deer every three miles between the Detroit Metro airport and I-69, where the carnage continues. If there’s a dead-animal pickup crew, they’re either running behind or have thrown up their hands. Since I’ve watched a little “CSI,” I found myself less grossed out than curious at the full range of decomposition on display. One unfortunate doe looked untouched, but appeared to have been snacked upon, anus-first. Ewww. (“That’s where the tender meat is!” chirps Mr. Crow. Ewww.)
Why were we on I-94? Opening the cottage, sweeping away cobwebs, scrubbing the winter off the place. Why just me and Kate? Because Alan was on a road trip of his own. Where to? Southern Indiana. Why? To look at a sailboat.
Yes, a hole in the water you throw money into! He’s not coming home with this one — he and the seller are still $1,200 apart — but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before we dock something at our city marina on Lake St. Clair and start spending our weekends tearing up $100 bills in a cold shower, so to speak.
The boat is like this. We’ll see if he gets that one, or something like it.
Much good bloggage this weekend. Too much. I’ll leave you with but one, a delightful NYT piece about the still-standing drag-ball underground. (If you saw “Paris is Burning,” you know. I dragged Alan to that movie early in our courtship. He dug it, proof that marrying him was the right choice.)
Oh, and Lance has a useful explanation of a sometimes-confusing point of theology, vis-a-vis that Santorum profile in the NYT yesterday.