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Tales of a Post-Grad Nothing

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

A couple of benefits of living in Virginia include:

* Having amazing fall foliage
* An abundance of ham
* Not living in a place where you might get hit by a taxi AND cursed out at the same time
* Being smack dab in the heart of all things American

For those that haven't and probably won't visit "the big V-A," (as rapper Timbaland calls it), let me tell you this - it is, I believe, the most American place on earth. Besides having some major government buildings, historical monuments, Civil War battle sites, and Jamestown (which you can apparently experience the adventure of online here), Virginia also has a pretty broad cross-section of American cultural-isms, everything from a melting pot of people from around the world to red, white, and blue bumper stickers that say things like "Boycott France." Being located both in the South and just next to the our nation's incredibly diverse capital, Virginia is literally littered with (ear-catching grammatical devices and) symbols of Americanism, no matter what your definition of America may be.

Yesterday the boyfriend and I packed it up, packed it in and headed to Williamsburg, VA, home of the tri-cornered hat, an event called The Scoop on Poop, a World War II children's summer camp in which "Recruits will learn military history and participate in drills and battles. Equipment includes toy rifle, helmet and knapsack," and a good friend who recently moved from Dekalb, Illinois to a place on Patriot Lane in one of the most patriotic places in the country. Tying in with the theme of these colors not running, we decided to take in a greasy American meal at one of the approximately 27,000 pancake houses located in Williamsburg (seriously, I have no idea why there are so many damn pancake houses in this town. It's like one pancake house for every three people.). <--- (I also have no idea which side of the parentheses the period is supposed to go.). <---- (There it is again.).

The only way Mama Steve's House of Pancakes could be more American is if it had been built out of bald eagles and located actually inside of the rotting corpse of George Washington. We were ready to fill our bellies with buttery, syrup-covered goodness. We were not ready to be served by women begrudgingly dressed in colonial garb who looked like they have been living since Jamestown was first founded. Getting served by our pancake wench, eating artery-clogging food with friends, suspiciously eyeing the "plantation platter" of creamed chipped beef being served to the table next to us, and doing it all while listening to what sounded like a Michael Bolton cover of something by The Police was like a rush of all things American all at once. Maybe it was the awkward ambiance. Maybe the even awkwarder (word choice) chalice/mug combos we were given for coffee. Whatever it was, Mama Steve's delicate combination of mediocrity, semi-tackiness, and butter-soaked food was somehow the perfect setting for reconnecting with a person and a place I haven't seen in a very long time. Driving home on wide, open roads past lush greenery and an SUV with a pair of plastic testicles hanging off the back of it, all I could think was "God bless you Mama Steve's House of Pancakes and God bless the U.S. A."


At 8:44 PM, Blogger Orange said...

A resounding Huzzah! for your copious asides in this post. Truly a Jeffersonian bit of wordplay.


At 11:25 AM, Blogger Tyler said...

I love Colonial Williamsburg!*

*Until I go there and realize, yet again, that I HATE Colonial Williamsburg.

At 2:25 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...


At 3:35 PM, Blogger Chris said...

Thanks anonymous.


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