I don’t like Joe Queenan’s columns much, but “Five States That Work Me Into a State” made me laugh a few times:
Then, in Hernando, Miss., a waitress at an ice-cream joint refused to serve me coffee because she insisted that it was only "a seasonal beverage." I got the impression that this was tied in somehow with the War of Northern Aggression.
Or try this one:
Finally, in West Virginia, at the resort that hosted my nephew's wedding last summer, a shotgun competition involving sheriffs from all over the Mountain State made me too nervous to get a good night's sleep.
Or this:
In Kentucky, while driving all the way across the U.S., eating only at Hooters, I got tailgated for six miles and then pulled over on a deserted stretch of highway late at night by a cop who said that he had received a report of "a suspicious driving pattern matching my vehicle." Was that ever creepy: just him, me, his gun, the deserted ribbon of highway, the blue moon of Kentucky, my New York license plates and my suspicious driving pattern.
I can beat that. I was dumb enough to borrow my mother’s car to go visit Canada with my 10 year-old boy. Late at night. In a driving rain storm (so shoot me, we had limited time).
So there I was trying to back into the U.S., 11 PM on a weeknight, with a 10 year-old with no ID, me with a Utah driver’s license, in a car with New York plates that was registered to someone else. Getting passed through customs that time is proof I look innocent.
