Not Another Griswold Vacation
by Scott F. Hearst

I: Boston to Cleveland
The usual alarm sounds, however this time it's not a struggle to wake up. It is 4:30 in the morning, an hour earlier then my Spartus Dual Alarm normally pisses me off. The first time in awhile that the second series of annoying beeps isn't followed by two or three fights with the snooze button. I'm going home today. A twelve hour drive followed by nine days of drinking and destruction. This is my first vacation since I joined the full time ranks. So with this my first real vacation, I plan to do some serious damage to my creditability as an adult.

Driving westbound on the Massachusetts Turnpike I raise up my middle figure to the city I've called home for the last year. "Fuck you Boston I'm going back to Ohio!" The sun begins to rise on I-90 as I begin to pass through the Berkshire Mountains. The colors of New England slowly reveal themselves as the fog evaporates from the valleys. Shadows of clouds along with shades of reds and oranges too brilliant for Crayola to describe blend seamlessly through out the landscape. It's the possibility of this exact moment that made me fall in love with New England two years ago. But driving through it today does nothing to make me want to stay. My focus is on the rockin' about to take place.

I cross over the Hudson River and into New York. Somewhere between the arching blue over passes of Albany, and the vineyards leading to Syracuse is where I realized I had to piss. So I stopped at one of those rest areas where you can get an I HEART NY t-shirt, three different kinds of fast food, and take a piss all in the same place. These places, fuckin' rock! All the conveniences of modern civilization in one place, LOCATION: The middle of no where New York. I'm convinced that the reason these places are built is so that the people who live in the area can find themselves on a map. When visiting an oasis such as this, be sure to pick up the crappy tourism pamphlets on Pioneer Town and some gas for your ride. You'll need both of these items to get you to the next rest stop. The gas will get you where you're going and the pamphlet will prove to your delusional road weary mind that the last stop wasn't a hallucination.

This place is no fantasy at all, though it probably should be. The finest collection of belt buckles, cowboy boots, hats, and matching windbreakers I've ever laid eyes on. I've found the place where the mullet first met the hessian; where they both fell in love and gave birth to the rock t-shirt and high top tennis shoes. This is right before they speed off in the hessian's firebird to get married by the almighty Ozzy, stopping only to put on their sweet ass Oakley's. Yes, the Camelot of culture's gone wrong. The testament to the Death Metal in all of us! I could people watch for hours if I didn't have to be someplace.

On my way out of this white trash paradise I pass this rave-dog hippie girl with the dirtiest clump of dreads I've ever seen. As soon as I made eye contact with this girl I knew exactly what was about to happen. The fuckin' squatter asks me for change. She gives me some lame ass excuse about how she's on her way to Chicago and ran out of gas. "What the weakness is this?" I thought as I looked at her hundred-plus dollar DC shoes, which have never seen the proper side of grip tape in their life. Leave it to a hippie to ruin a hessian hangout. Reluctantly I reached into my pocket and gave her my change. Shit, I was going to pay some tolls with those two Connecticut quarters, now I'm going to have to break a dollar. I waited uneasily for her to ask me for a ride because I knew the hippie had no car. As she began to open her mouth I decided that a case of head lice wasn't worth it and walked away before she could get the thought out.

My CD's began to get old at just about the same time that New York did. So I decided that it was time for the great radio station search to commence. I skipped over the country and christian radio stations until I found a local rock station. Yes, I knew I'd get some AC/DC up in this piece! Wouldn't you know it's a whole block of my boy Angus Young's greatest guitar licks screaming down the air-waves. Fuck yeah! My energy returns with Back in Black, and I'm doing my best imitation of Brian Johnson straining my vocal cords at 95 miles an hour. Next it's Highway to Hell, and this time it's me and Bon Scott at a 110 until I realized the irony of the song I was singing and my speed. I slowed down to sing You Shook Me All Night Long, to the people in their cars as they passed me by. There is nothing like a little Aussie rock to kick the boredom of the road.

I arrive in Cleveland, say hello to the parents and quickly make my way through the back yards of the old neighborhood to my friend Jim's house. The drinking begins with a can of Busch. His Dad's beer no less, which only makes it right considering we used to snake them all the time in high school. It's comforting to know that your best friend's dad hasn't changed his drinking habits. We sit at the kitchen table drinking beer and catching up as our friend Ben sets fire to the oven with his soft belly burritos. Always remember, when the smoke alarms go off it's time to eat! We spend the rest of the night is making trips to the store for beer and cigarettes, smoking in his parent's garage and listening to Iron Maiden. As the night progresses I find out who's going to jail, who's about to graduate from college, and whose little sister is going to Vegas to try out for the World Wrestling Federation's Tough Enough. Man I love Cleveland, especially when my friends call me at 5:00 A.M. to come pick their drunken asses up. "Welcome back to Cleveland, we're drunk!"