Sleepers, wake!
J.S. Bach
Sunbeams blast joyfully through the second-story windowpane of Sioux City's own Ramada Inn: the time has come to lift heavy things once more. With lightness in our steps and a tune in our hearts, John and I make full use of the fitness room facilities. Enthusiastic squats propel a few good-natured grunts from my lips.
Post-sweat and shower, we seek sustenance and atmosphere. I select some garb.
It is a good day for isopods.
Within immediate proximity is an excellent variety of chain restaurants. The traditional breakfast options are IHOP and Perkins. We veer towards the latter, mostly because I forget what the difference is.
We discuss the aesthetics of consumerism over Dixie Crystallized tea.
Greasy sausage and a pair of over-easy eggs provide an ideal backdrop to an exploration of classifying electronic music. We share a pair of earbuds across the table as my caffeine dosage approaches hyperdrive.
Perkins turns out to be a surprisingly hostile environment for two youngsters hoping to sit and sip and groove. Our waiter ditches straightaway after the food arrives, and we encounter difficulties attracting attention for water refills. Eventually we feel ousted enough to wander the nearby Business District.
You may have stopped the bottomless bean juice, Iowa, but you can't stop the beat.
Preparations for Ragbrai are scheduled for later tonight, but currently the most intriguing institution is this "International Market." Disappointingly, it ends up being fairly threadbare on the inside.
John scores a tamarind Jarritos by promising to feature in their upcoming advertising campaign, aimed at the 13-17 year old female market.
"Heartthrob. Seedpod. Jarritos."
Iowa's effective anti-thievery public displays.
Can YOU remember more than five words of any Creed song?
Wooby.
After a significant stroll, The Daily Grind presents a second chance at overclocking my system. Mom gives a ring announcing her imminent approach whilst I savor an icy McBitter.
M&D have been tipped off to a local haunt known as Miles Inn, where one may savor the much-sought-after loose meat sandwiches the area is known for.
It also serves up "the Coldest Beer in Siouxland," which I suppose could theoretically be an objective measure; the bigger attraction might be the attractively oversized fishbowl glasses.
John pronounces the slapdash concoction "pretty terrible," but M&D scarf them and order a second pair, proving once and for all that there's simply no accounting for taste.
Dad: "In ten minutes? Uhhh... maybe five. If I were really hungry."
Meanwhile, Johnny learns a valuable life lesson regarding phonics.
And every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth shall be an abomination; it shall not be eaten.
Leviticus 11:41
The afternoon interim between meals gets slightly out of hand.
After perusing the trusty Internet, we decide on Green Gables for suppertime. The much-lauded broasted chicken sounds particularly scrummy.
We begin the feast with matzo madness.
The broasted chicken turns out to be coated in whatnot and thus not as photogenic as this artiste might have preferred. The chicken juice is, however, quite serious.
Our waitress notes us wrapping up the poultry slaughterfest and proffers dessert. We make hemming/hawing noises, then she drops the "hot fudge sundae" bomb.
John: "Done."
No regrets.
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