I’ve been spending the past several days in Ohio covering the primary, or “Super Tuesday 3” as some pundits and, I would imagine, Don King are playing it up.
Long-time Scaiaholics know that I grew up in Ohio. In fact, I’m pretty sure my network sent me because they knew I’d stay at my mom’s house and save them money on a hotel. Normally, a trip to Ohio would mean several days of Yuengling-fueled mayhem with associates from high school, but this was not a social visit.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t have some free time, though, to visit with some friends and write a blog while I wait for John Kasich’s election night watch party to start in Berea. Keep in mind, though, that I still had work to do. For instance, I had to thoroughly research how to pronounce “buh-REE-uh.” Come on, Northeast Ohio, let’s get some easier names! Back in the Dayton area, we have Versailles, which isn’t what you expect. We say it like it’s spelled.
The excitement started, as it often does, at DFW Airport. After I boarded my flight to Columbus, the flight attendant got on the intercom and welcomed us all on board.
She then offered a greeting from “Captain [whatever his name was] and First Officer Larry King.”
I looked around excitedly, but no one else was reacting. I figured the first officer would get on the intercom every ten minutes and read us one of King’s Things.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve turned on the ‘fasten seat belt’ sign and expect to hit severe turbulence,” he’d say. “And you know what? I eat blueberries every day, and I’m better off for it.”
I spent a lot of time on the road this week. I think Interstate 71 and I are now engaged. One of my first trips was to Cincinnati to cover a Donald Trump rally. He voiced his support for Pete Rose in the Hall of Fame.
That gave me a soft spot for Trump. Not like I favor him over anyone else to become president, but like he’d be a good drinking buddy to go to Fricker’s with the next time you’re in Ohio. You know, everyone has that pompous guy in their social group who gets drunk and pontificates about Pete Rose.
At one point, I picked up some Skyline Chili for the family on my way to my mom’s house. In Ohio, that’s how you greet people.
This sign threw me for a loop. I’d heard of three-ways, four-ways and five-ways, but what, I scoffed, is a “Green Way!?” Is there a shamrock involved?
The lady at the window explained that they’ll dye your spaghetti green for St. Patrick’s Day. That seemed like a pretty lame marketing ploy. Now that I realize it, though, I’m talking about it in a public forum right now.
As I enjoyed a cheese coney, I considered the anger that’s been shown in some of the debates.
“Man,” I thought to myself. “If these guys would hold their debates here, they’d get along great. They’d all be winners. As it stands, fellow Skyline patrons, we’re the real winners.”
Picture me sitting across from you at a restaurant table with a mouth still half-full with bits of cheese coney and gesturing with a fork while I say that.
“Chili,” I’d continue. “is a non-partisan issue. Where are the people who are opposed to deliciousness?! Probably at Goldstar.”
