On not sleeping and getting three new tires in Connecticut

I feel like CT might be the weirdest state in America.

It's like a tiny Maine peppered with pockets of gray industry, close enough to one another so that you never feel disconnected to current urban culture. It has so much of no identity that its identity is nothingness. Their most notable sports things are a nearly unbeatable womens basketball team and a defunct pro hockey franchise with a badass logo. It has no real city but plenty of worthy wannabes, a baker's dozen of the poor man's Des Moines, though who's been to Des Moines for that matter.

I've spent time in West Hartford, the largest place on the above list which doesn't warrant the funny "(city)" qualifier. It's a safe, fine, white place. More New England than Tri-State. My wife's college roommate lives there with her husband and two young children.

On the way up to visit this past weekend, we got a bubble in our front right tire. That's bad. Your car can turn into an inferno and you can become part of the pretty highway landscape on, oh IDK, the Merritt Parkway.

On Sunday, when I woke up from a mostly sleepless night (is there a word for waking up when you don't sleep?), one of our back tires was nearly 100% flat.

I wish a car didn't need tires but existed entirely on air and there was no metal and no car and actually we just teleported everywhere.

0 Comments

Post a Comment